2. Fairy Godmother
Fairy Godmother
Scarlet
L ooking around me to ensure that no one is watching, I enter a small back alley in a residential area and make my way to a small garden of a middle-class stone home. A barking dog sounds in the distance, but I can’t hear any footsteps or sounds of anyone nearby, so I make my way to the back door.
Three quick knocks followed by two slow ones, and I wait for what feels like forever but must have only been a few moments before a tall skinny man opens it. I offer a slight nod, which he returns as he opens the door wider to let me in. I’ve come to report my failure. I can taste the bile in my throat as I enter.
Fairy Godmother turns to face me in the kitchen, her pale face like porcelain in the fading light. She has round cheeks with tiny dimples, like two pockmarks filled with powdered sugar, and heavy doe-like eyes that flicker with irises like black mercury on the sea. Her silver hair piled high on her head, a few strands escaping the perfected style revealing that today has not gone smoothly for others besides just me. An unassuming woman who if you really know her history, would both terrify and enthrall you. Even the name of her thieves guild is enchanted so you can’t say it to anyone outside of the order. Not that you could say it easily anyways.
“Scarlet,” she says, her voice as soft as dandelion fluff. “You’ve returned.”
I nod, unable to speak. I want to tell her what has happened, but the words catch in my throat. I failed. I’m a failure. I don’t fail missions. That’s why she gave me the job to begin with.
Fairy Godmother steps closer and places a gentle hand on my arm. “What is it?” she asks. Her gaze is kind, yet probing.
I shake my head, feeling tears prick at my eyes. “I didn’t get it,” I whisper.
Fairy Godmother looks at me expectantly. “What happened?”
“I had it. It was in my fingers, but then he showed up.”
“Who?”
“He was large,” I say. “Covered from head to toe in gold tattoos.” I shake my head. “I panicked and ran.”
Fairy Godmother nods, her expression unreadable. “Was it a guard?”
“No. It was...” I pause, my voice catching. The entire way back, I have played the scene in my head over and over again. He had told me who he was, hadn’t he? He said the place was his. The crown…his. “It was King Remme.”
Fairy Godmother’s expression turns hard. “Ah. I see. Did he see you?”
Fidgeting with my fingers I nod yes.
She pauses for a moment, her gaze distant. After a few moments, she looks back at me. “You need to lay low for now,” she says. “We will watch for a better opportunity to sneak in and get the crown.”
I nod, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
Fairy Godmother smiles and pats my arm. “We’ve got time. If it’s too difficult, I can always ask another to take the job.”
“No!” the word escapes me before I remember who I’m talking to. Clearing my throat I begin again. “I mean, you don’t need to do that. I can do it. It was only a small mistake. Please. You know I need the money.”
Fairy Godmother nods her smile still in place. “I know, dear. I believe in you. But you don’t know what you are dealing with. King Remme is a dangerous man.”
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of her words. “I understand.”
“Good. Now go rest. You’ve had a long day.” Fairy Godmother walks me to her door and opens it, her silver hair glimmering in the light. I can see the tiredness in her eyes. With a small smile I wave goodbye and leave.
As I walk home alone, I can't stop thinking about King Remme. When he emerged from the shadows, so imposing and yet...beautiful, with those shimmering gold tattoos adorning his body, it stirred something in me. But no, I mustn't think that way. He is the enemy, a dangerous man drunk on power. I cannot forget why I was there.
And yet...the way he looked at me, with such intensity in his eyes. As if he could see into my soul, uncovering secrets that even I don't fully understand yet. What is it about him that lingers in my mind?
Shaking my head, I quicken my pace through the dark streets. This is no time for distraction or weakness. I need to figure out a plan to get that crown before my chance is gone.
Upon arriving home, I collapse wearily onto my bed, seeking rest. But as I close my eyes, visions of golden tattoos dance through my mind.
***
I jolt awake as the first rays of dawn creep into my cramped attic bedroom. Shivering, I pull the threadbare blanket tighter around my shoulders. The chill morning air seeps through cracks in the walls, cutting straight to my bones. This place was never meant to be lived in.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I peer around at the sloping walls and exposed beams, so different from the well-appointed rooms below. My gaze falls on a few faded floral scraps I had pasted up, the only decoration I could manage. It will have to do for my makeshift refuge.
Swinging my legs over the side, I wince as my feet hit the icy floorboards. Last night’s activities took their toll, leaving my limbs heavy and sore. Thoughts of the failed heist still haunt me. But dwelling on it now won't help.
I force myself to stand, stiffly making my way to the rickety wardrobe. My fingers tremble as I tie on an apron over my dress. The trembling has nothing to do with the morning chill. I know what awaits downstairs - the disdainful glances, the mocking laughter. My courage threatens to falter, but I straighten my back. I must be strong.
Taking a deep breath, I turn the brass knob of my door. I want to cling to the safety of this room, but it's time. I descend the narrow stairs on silent feet, mentally bracing myself. Let them deride me all they want. Their words cannot touch my spirit.
My stepmother has been badgering me for months to marry off and "contribute" to this decaying family. As if I owe her anything. She and my vain stepsisters have bled our estate dry ever since my father died, leaving me scrambling to pay the bills before the house crumbles around our ears.
Not that they care if we lose the roof over our heads. As long as they have silks and ribbons to flounce about in, the future means nothing to them. Nevermind my father wanted me to inherit. As long as that hag lives, this remains her domain to destroy.
That's why I work for the Guild, driven by desperation. Every coin I manage to secure postpones the collapse a little longer. But it's never enough with their ceaseless frivolous spending.
And now she wants me married off, like breeding stock to be bartered away. She knows full well no decent man would take a penniless bride, one that cannot offer a decent dowry. This is just her latest scheme to be rid of me, content if I'm swept away in ruin.
Over my dead body. I'll see them on the streets first. This house is my legacy, and I won't surrender it to their poisonous hands. So let my stepmother harass and mock as she pleases. When the time comes, justice will be served.
I leave my room and step into the hallway, dreading the sounds that will come from the kitchen. But instead, all is silent. I allow myself a moment's relief before I descend the stairs.
Entering the kitchen, I make a mental note of everything I need to do. The embers in the fireplace emit a feeble glow, barely denting the cold. Shivering, I load up the grate with fresh logs and kneel to coax a flame. It eventually catches, and warmth slowly returns to my numb fingers.
Rising, I fill the dented kettle from the pump and hang it on the rod above the growing fire. While waiting for it to boil, I take out a loaf of bread. My mouth waters as I slice off three pieces and butter them generously. I pry open a jar of raspberry jam, the summer sweetness transporting me back to brighter days. I lavish the toast with purple syrup before placing the slices on a tray into the brick oven.
The kettle starts whistling just as I retrieve the tea tin. Scooping leaves into the pot, I pour over the bubbling water. As the tea steeps, I inhale the aroma of freshly baked bread perfuming the kitchen. But I don't indulge. Those are for my stepmother and sisters. I merely prepare their breakfast, as I have since my father passed. They are family in name only, discarding me until there are chores to be done. But I cling to my morning rituals - they give me purpose, even if those I serve do not.
My heart pounds in my chest as I finish preparing the tea. Just as I am about to bring the pot to the table, I hear the footsteps of my stepmother and stepsisters coming down the stairs. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the encounter. I place the pot on the table, then hurry back to the stove to fetch the bread.
My stepmother's icy voice strikes my ears before she sweeps into view, her severe raven bun pulled tight enough to smooth the wrinkles from her pinched face. "Good morning, Scarlet."
I paste on a smile as false as her cordial tone, avoiding the steely glint in her narrow eyes. Behind her, my stepsisters saunter in, a study in contrasts. Petunia with her head held high. Her luxurious auburn curls are pinned up in an elaborate style, not a strand out of place. An air of haughtiness surrounds her as she glides across the room in an extravagant emerald gown. The neckline plunges low, adorned with intricate gold embroidery that matches the heavy jewels dangling from her ears. Her gaze sweeps over me disdainfully, as if I'm an annoying insect to be flicked away.
Starla trails behind, rail thin, her sharp elbows poking through lace sleeves. She wears her long raven hair pulled back severely, amplifying the sharp angles of her hollow cheeks and pointed chin. Her pale skin is nearly translucent, giving her an almost ghostly countenance. It amazes me what the rich, and those attempting to be rich, find to be desirable and beautiful.
They titter softly between themselves, beady gazes fixed on me, alight with cruel mirth at my discomfort.
"It's about time you started contributing to this family," my stepmother remarks, her claw-like nails examining the chipped varnish.
I clench my jaw, smothering the bitter retort on my tongue. The same passive-aggressive jab punctuates our mornings. It’s best if I stay silent and let her finish whatever suggestion she has this time for how I could better contribute to the family.
She yawns delicately, puffing out sunken cheeks, before gliding to the table on slippered feet, my sisters trailing in her wake. I release the breath caught in my throat and slip back to the stove, my legs trembling beneath my skirts. At least she remains oblivious to my unease.
When I return balancing the plate, the three have already claimed their cups, sipping daintily while watching me over the rims with judgment in their small, dull eyes. Their haughty expressions make my skin crawl, but I force my lips into a facsimile of a congenial smile.
An agonizing silence drags on, broken only by the clink of porcelain and the crackle of the hearth fire. At last, my stepmother sets down her cup with a soft clatter and levels her gaze at me once more.
"I heard that Lord Gouten was looking for a new bride," she says, standing up. "He makes 50,000 a year so I imagine his bride price would be quite the sum."
So that’s it. We’re back to my least favorite game of what is the worst possible husband we can tie Scarlet to.
"Oh yes," Petunia's giggle holds a wicked tone, "You would be a perfect match for him. I've always thought of you as having an 'old soul'."
Of course, my stepmother would think a man with only one eye and a severe case of gout who was near his deathbed was a good fit. She has blown through all of my family's money after my father's death, so she only sees her own profit from such a marriage.
"How about Lord Greystone. He's quite charming, don't you think?" Starla adds, giggling so hard that her tea spills when she snorts. "He will inherit, and I'm sure could offer a large bride price for someone... even someone as humble in appearance as you."
Lord Greystone is at least much younger. He is also known to spend the majority of his days in the brothels gambling his family's money away. Soon they will be in a worse situation than my own family. When I inherit this home, if he’s my husband it would probably be sold to pay of his debts immediately. Much better to stay single than marry a useless man like that.
It's not like they would ever consider these men as their own marriage options. Only I am lowly enough to be considered a good fit.
"Scarlet, you are quite the bore," my stepmother says.. "Leave my sight and clean the carriage. We will head to the market for lunch. I'm in the mood for some new ribbons."
I nod mutely, my stomach twisting itself into knots. Without another word, I take my leave as their shrill laughter pursues me down the hall.
Blinking back tears, I steel my resolve and continue putting one foot in front of the other. Their cruelty cannot break me, for I have a higher purpose.
Stepping outside into the bracing morning air, I try to calm myself down - no matter how difficult they try to make my days, I will persevere. I must, if I hold any hope of saving this house and legacy. With that truth ringing in my mind, I get to work cleaning the carriage, focused on the task at hand. My future depends on it.