The Fairytale Trilogy. Valerie Gribben

      “Excuse me, miss.” A high voice to her left solicited her attention. One of Brantford’s attendants had made his way to her. “You’ll be glad to know that Lord Brantford will recover. It’s not your fault. You see, he has a deadly allergy to certain flowers. Do you know where he might have accidentally come in contact with any roses?”

      Chapter the Fourth

      Marianne’s room was very still; the breeze from the morning had long ago been murdered by an oppressive humidity enveloping the manor. So this must be what you feel like before you die, thought Marianne. She was lying on her bed, trying to read to keep her mind off the impending parental confrontation. After flipping several pages of Jasmine’s Journal of Jewelry Jinxes, which she had nearly memorized, she discovered that the book was upside down and discarded it. Her parents knew the wait would make her suffer, and she was a victim of their strategy.

      Staring up at the ceiling, Marianne felt every dull ache and sharp pain that her morning venture into manor attire had inflicted on her. Rolling onto her side in a plain linen dress, she examined the imprisoned dragonfly. Its fathomless eyes seemed to draw her inside the sphere. Don’t be stupid. It’s dead, she told herself, forcing her eyes to move toward a ribboned shoe, lying dejectedly on its side, which she had slipped off after the woozy Brantford departed.

      Marianne could sense her parents making their way up to her room. Her breathing quickened, and her palms began to sweat. She tried to concentrate on something, anything that would lessen her feeling of doom. It was a futile attempt, because all the while she heard the measured, methodical footsteps clunking up the stone stairs. Rocking on the bed, Marianne turned her frenzied sight to the bedside stand. There the dragonfly met her eyes, and serenity washed over her.

      The footsteps ceased marching, and Marianne calmly watched as the widening door exposed her mother finishing a sentence, “. . . needs a good tanning for her impudent nature.” Though obviously winded from the long climb, Beatrice drew in a sip of air and held it in her lungs. She looked intensely at Marianne. Her father exhibited his anger more openly; his face was mottled, and his right hand was practically deforming the mate to Marianne’s shoe, which he then hurled with great force toward his daughter. Marianne ducked reflexively and the shoe zipped harmlessly over her head, making an indentation at the top of her bed before dropping beside her, the heel missing.

      “Huh,” said Marianne, observing the reunited shoe, “Just like Cinderella.”

      “Brantford wanted to bring it up to you,” snarled her father, nodding to Beatrice to close the door, “but I didn’t want you making another attempt upon his life.” He gave a vicious smile. “Before you’re married, that is.”

      “That won’t be a problem, because there won’t be a marriage,” said Marianne, rising from her bed.

      “Brantford, the fool, still wants to wed you,” said her father, following Marianne.

      “It takes two people saying ‘I do,’” rejoined Marianne, angling away from her father.

      “Do you have some sort of objection to being titled, wealthy, and well-cared for?” sputtered Beatrice.

      “No,” said Marianne, trying to keep her composure, “I merely have an objection to marrying a man for whom I have at best no feelings!”

      “You ought to consider yourself fortunate, for you have neither the charm of Edward nor the beauty of Cassandra!” shrieked her mother, her words lashing Marianne’s heart. “If we had not taken you and Robin in, you both would have died!” At this statement, she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. “Oh, Neville, I’m . . . I’m . . . sorry.”

      “Shut up!” he snapped at Beatrice.

      “What do you mean, ‘take us in?’” Marianne interjected. “Tell me, please tell me.”

      “None of your business. You will be married tonight. That is all,” Neville said, shoving Beatrice towards the door.

      Marianne sensed that she was near to finding out why she had never quite fit in at Kingbriton Manor. “If you tell me, I give my word that, after tonight, you will never see me again,” she offered.

      Neville paused and turned a despising glare on Marianne. “Never?”

      Marianne considered for a second the prospect of missing Cassandra, but thought better of it as she remembered that her father’s “’ittle princess” could do no wrong. Prince was safe; her father never walked the gardens and therefore would scarcely feel impelled to drain the pond. Finally she thought of her other brother, Robin. Her thoughts rarely settled on him because it had been years since she’d glimpsed him. Neville and Beatrice had sent him away to another province to train in fighting when she was still quite young. Marianne strongly suspected that she herself would have been long gone if neighboring estates took in girls. The last time Robin had visited Kingbriton, Marianne was confined to her room with a furious fever. Peeking out the window, she had seen the top of Robin’s head before he put on his helmet; his hair was black as the night. Though three years older than Marianne, Robin, in Beatrice’s judgment, was just as “uncivilized,” so Robin could presumably take care of himself.

      “Never,” said Marianne with finality.

      “Fine,” said Neville, making sure the door was shut, “To begin with, we aren’t your parents, thank the heavens.”

      Marianne let this sink in. Thank the heavens truly, she thought.

      “Your father was a commander in my regiment during the war. Your mother and he were sent on a very dangerous mission to eliminate a powerful wizard. Fearing for your safety, they left you and your brother with us for what they pledged would be a short period of time.” Neville bared his impatience that this burden had extended to fifteen years. “I suppose they must have died, because they never returned for you. Or maybe they were just glad to be rid of you. Either way, it doesn’t matter because as of tonight you’ll be out of our hair.” Neville had delivered this news without even a trace of sympathy. He started to leave.

      “Wait,” said Marianne. “Did my parents—well, is the dragonfly ball from them?”

      Neville and Beatrice were halfway out the door. “Yes, they forced a vow from us that we’d deliver that little knickknack to you if you were ever to leave us. And we couldn’t give it to you fast enough. I’ll be glad if this is our last sight of you,” declared Neville with a grunt, closing the door.

      “You won’t be the only one,” Marianne said as the brass lock fell into place.

      Chapter the Fifth

      The soft, breezy wings of dusk whirred across the stifled landscape. Marianne had been sitting, immobile, on her bed, contemplating the future and the past. She’d heard the cicadas begin their twilight concert, the carriages arriving for the wedding, and the clanking of dishes below her. Half an hour ago, one of the serving girls had brought up Marianne’s wedding dress and wished her “much bliss.” Marianne had scarcely turned her head to acknowledge the gesture before deciding that this was rude behavior and giving the girl half a crown for her trouble of lugging the monstrosity up the stairs. Marianne had tentatively lifted one gigantic, puffy, beaded sleeve before letting it fall and returning to her reflective state. So my parents are dead, she thought, picking up the dragonfly ball. Robin’s my real brother. I have one family member and all I’ve seen is his hair. Maybe he’ll come tonight.

      Marianne looked at the sphere in her hand and lifted it to stare into the insect’s infinite eyes. Her vision blurred. She saw her wedding, with burning candles and ladies mincing about in restrictive gowns. She foresaw castle life, with heated arguments and frigid loneliness. She crumpled on her bed. “I can’t do this to either of us,” she lamented. Marianne’s window was open, and a waft of air rustled the perfumed roses. Marianne got up from the bed and allowed the evening to tickle her eyelashes. “I’ll run away,” she declared, and a calm smile crept to her lips.

      Quieting the chorus of objections aroused