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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020, 2021 by Roshani Chokshi

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration and design by Jim Tierney

  Internal design by Holli Roach/Sourcebooks

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—­except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—­without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-­4410

  (630) 961-­3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 2020 as an audiobook by Audible Originals.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Chokshi, Roshani, author.

  Title: Once more upon a time / Roshani Chokshi.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Casablanca, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021018891 (print) | LCCN 2021018892 (ebook) |

  (hardcover) | (epub)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Fantasy fiction. | Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.H655 O53 2021 (print) | LCC PS3603.H655

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021018891

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021018892

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  Once upon a time, there lived twelve reasonably attractive princesses who, when lined up together, caused such a sight that the world agreed to call them beautiful. And so they were. Every morning when the twelve princesses were roused from sleep, their slippers appeared scuffed and worn to the sole…as if they had spent the evening dancing.

  “But how could this be?” proclaimed the old king. Surely, he would’ve known! Surely, he would’ve heard the music.

  Or not.

  I once unleashed a bottled thunderstorm right beside his head, and he merely waved his hand before his nose and muttered, “Dear me, so sorry. Must tell the cook to leave out the beans.”

  And so the king devised a little plan to find out where his daughters disappeared to each night. He announced to the kingdom: “Whosoever discovers where my twelve daughters go each evening will get to choose one of them for a wife!”

  You know how this part goes.

  All the men showed up. There were princes and paupers, magicians, and even a magpie (the magpie claimed he was actually a prince in disguise, but no one could really confirm this). But it was the gardener’s handsome young assistant who discovered the princesses’ secret. (Thanks to me, of course! I was the one who told him, and only because I was bored and he offered to share some pie with me.) Each night they disappeared into fairyland to dance the night away, and each morning they collapsed into their beds to sleep. As his reward, the gardener’s assistant chose the youngest, most beautiful princess for himself. I suppose he became a king in his own right, although who would ever entrust matters of diplomatic niceties to someone whose sole responsibility had been to spread manure on the flower beds? On second thought, perhaps that’s quite fitting.

  And that is where the story ends.

  But that is not where our story ends.

  You see, there were eleven other princesses.

  And one of them was named Imelda.

  ***

  Here is another once upon a time.

  Once upon a time, there was an old king with three strapping sons. On his deathbed, he could not decide which of the three princes should become his heir, and so he issued a quest. Whosoever could vanquish the three dragons that had been terrorizing the king’s grove of heirloom tomatoes would get the throne. The eldest brother, who was proud and strong, went to the north side of the grove and chopped off the first dragon’s head. The youngest brother, who was charming and handsome, went to the south side, only to discover that the second dragon was in fact a lovely princess cursed to become a beast after she’d mocked a witch’s handbag. He didn’t wish to chop off her head, so instead he kissed her and won her hand.

  The middle brother, who was quiet and clever, went west.

  He found the last dragon and demanded to know what in the world it was doing in his father’s tomato garden.

  “If you must know, the tomatoes on this side of the grove have been grown from the poisoned waters of a nearby pool. I’ve been incinerating them so they wouldn’t affect the population and local flora and fauna.”

  The middle brother couldn’t argue with that.

  He gave the dragon an official medal so that at least these incinerations would be sanctioned by the kingdom, and went back home.

  The king declared the eldest brother his heir even though it didn’t seem very vanquish-­y to cut off the head of a particular creature who was just doing his ecological and civic duty. But that is how some things are. And so the eldest brother became a king, and although it pains me to say it, he hasn’t done a half-­bad job of ruling.

  The youngest brother was quite content to lose out on the kingdom because now he had a fair princess, and she had her own kingdom that was conveniently lacking male heirs, and off he went.

  That is where the story ends.

  But that is not where our story ends.

  You see, the middle brother’s fate was quite undecided.

  His name was Ambrose.

  ***

  Nearly there, I promise.

  The king from the first tale invited neighboring kingdoms from far and wide to celebrate the marriage of his daughter to the former gardener’s assistant. You might recall that this daughter was one of the twelve dancing princesses. The event was host to much pomp and gossip, and althoug
h the decor was a touch gaudy and the wine was noticeably watered down, the guests thoroughly enjoyed themselves, and the whole family was equally disappointed, which is the best that can be hoped for when it comes to weddings.

  It was at this celebration that Imelda and Ambrose fell in love and decided to wed.

  Imelda’s father, delighted that at least one of his daughters would marry a prince (one of Imelda’s sisters was reportedly conversing with that dratted magpie, who may or may not even be a human, for goodness’ sake), agreed to give the young couple a corner of the kingdom known as Love’s Keep. It is an unoriginal yet instructive name because to protect it and for the land to grow and all the denizens within to be hale and happy, the king and queen must always be in love.

  Which is perhaps why no one ever agreed to live there.

  Far too much pressure.

  But Imelda and Ambrose were delighted.

  They wed the day after Imelda’s sister’s wedding breakfast (her father balked at the idea of a whole new set of expenses, and the florals were only a tad droopy) and spent a day and a night as husband and wife. But the afternoon of her own wedding brunch, Imelda fell ill after tasting the famous heirloom tomatoes from Ambrose’s kingdom. The dragon had surely done its best to keep all the tainted fruit out of the crop, but tomatoes are sneaky, and this one found its way to Imelda’s salad plate.

  The young princess was on the brink of death. Everyone was deeply sad and shocked, especially Imelda’s youngest sister, who thought it was a touch rude that someone’s illness was taking attention away from her wedding.

  But fear not, for there was a witch present. The witch, by the way, really did not look her age and had fabulous taste in handbags. She could work a powerful spell to revive the princess, but it required a price.

  “I’ll do anything!” Prince Ambrose declared.

  Privately, the witch thought about how tedious altruism is, but publicly, she informed the prince of the cost:

  “To revive her, you must give up your love for one another.”

  I cannot tell you what the prince’s reaction was to such a decision.

  Did he smile? Did he look at his shoes? Did he frown?

  Who knows.

  All that matters is that he agreed.

  ***

  Once upon a time, there was a king and queen in a land called Love’s Keep who once loved one another, but alas, no more. Without love, they would be ousted from their kingdom at the end of a year and a day.

  “What a witch takes, a witch does not give back!” their friends and family warned.

  They resigned themselves to this loveless fate, knowing that at the end of it all, King Ambrose would be exiled (because that was the fashionable thing to do for ousted kings) and Queen Imelda would return to her father’s kingdom and watch after her sister’s brood of baby birds. (The magpie had lied after all.)

  A year and a day passed.

  This is where their story starts.

  Chapter 2

  IMELDA

  “Careful with those! If memory serves, that particular pair of shoes once belonged to a cannibal witch. They’ve got a taste for flesh. Trust me. I slipped one of them on, and the thing nearly took off my heel.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Imelda waved away the title. “I’m not sure you can even call me that anymore.”

  The servant paled. “I, um, my deepest apologies—­”

  “Don’t worry,” Imelda said gently. “I won’t tell.”

  The servant blanched, then held out the box of shoes a little farther away from his person before trotting to the row of three carriages. Two of the carriages were solely for the transportation of Imelda’s shoes. The other carriage was for her. As for her gowns and whatnot, they’d never really felt like they belonged to Imelda.

  Each day, the magical armoire in the castle of Love’s Keep grew a ball gown or a day dress, depending on her mood. The last month had been depressingly funereal—­black crepe, black satin, black linen. On one occasion, the armoire had even provided a black vulture hat that squawked “ALAS!” if you ruffled its feathers. She knew how the hat felt. Imelda had given up hope almost the day she’d arrived in Love’s Keep, but it was a little rude when even one’s closet recognized that her situation was hopeless.

  Another servant appeared at her shoulder and coughed lightly. “Queen Imelda, I—­”

  “I’m not a queen.”

  “Princess?”

  Imelda muttered, “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Prisoner.’”

  “Your esteemed father sent a note to be read prior to bringing you back home.” The servant consulted a roll of parchment in his hands. “You are hereby required to wear shoes.”

  Imelda glanced at her bare feet. She dug her toes into the mud.

  “No.”

  “But, my lady, you…you have so many…surely one pair might do.” The servant eyed one of the two carriages full of Imelda’s heels.

  “Acquiring shoes is not the same thing as deciding to walk around in them.”

  “But your father—­”

  “My father wants me to come home more than he minds the state of my dress,” Imelda said grimly.

  “Forgive me for asking, my lady, but why possess so many shoes if you have no wish to wear them?”

  Imelda eyed the servant, then lifted one eyebrow. “I forgive you for asking.”

  And then she stalked off toward the carriage.

  “Are you ready to go home, Queen Imelda?” the driver said brightly as he held open her door.

  Imelda glanced at the carriage door, which bore her father’s sigil of a beady-­eyed hawk in mid-­flight. I’m always watching, it said. Home, she thought. Home was supposed to mean a place of peace and rest. But she knew she would find neither of those things in her father’s narrow halls. There would be only the giant room she’d once shared with her sisters, six of whom had found husbands and homes far from their father’s controlling eye. Every step she took would be monitored. Every dress she wore would be decided in advance.

  Home, it seemed, meant the end of freedom.

  Imelda turned to the gate of Love’s Keep. She’d found no love here, but she had found independence. And quiet. No screaming sisters squabbling over dresses, no younger sister sneaking into her bed because of a nightmare. No one calling her by the wrong name because “my goodness, all twelve sisters look so alike!” Enough quiet to be, well, herself. She danced. She painted. She read books. She helped in the village, and although she could tell her people pitied their loveless, doomed queen, they liked her anyway.

  This was goodbye to all of that. Goodbye to her husband too.

  Husband. What a concept.

  She barely knew Ambrose, and he had made it clear early on in their days at Love’s Keep that he was not at all interested in her. It was for the best. She had no wish to share her bed. She loved hoarding pillows, sprawling out sideways, and a husband would get in the way of all that.

  Sometimes, she’d thought of running away, but then what? At least as queen, she answered to no one but herself. If she fled, she would always be on the run, always under the threat of being discovered and dragged back to either her husband or her father.

  Perhaps it was better to know what full freedom felt like…even if it was only for a year and a day.

  “It’s time,” said the driver firmly.

  Imelda said nothing as she eased herself onto the carriage seat. Why did she have to go home when Ambrose could wander out into the woods?

  Imelda curled her hands into fists. “It’s all just so—­”

  ***

  AMBROSE

  “Unfair!” muttered Ambrose.

  Ambrose grimaced, staring out at the dark, shadowed woods that unfurled just beyond a spit of graveled pathway that marked the boundaries of Love’s Keep
. He cast a longing glance at the wrought-­iron gate of the castle, now closed to him forever.

  He waited outside the courtyard as his elder brother, Ulrich, exited his chariot and came out to meet him. No doubt waiting to gloat as the clock struck. At noon, a year and a day would officially be up, and Ambrose would be cast out of the palace.

  Ambrose hadn’t slept all night. Instead, he’d walked the halls; counted the stones in the floor; ran his hand over the carved throne; dragged his finger across the edicts he’d passed, the paintings he had enjoyed pondering in a kingly manner…if even for a short while.

  If there was anything his father had taught him over the years, it was that things could always be taken from you. A throne was different, though. There might be the odd challenger or furious dragon, but for the most part, a kingdom was inseparable from its king.

  Ambrose felt a dull ache behind his ribs. For a year and a day, he’d had a place where he belonged, a place where he could be someone and do something.

  For once, he was not just the lowly prince sandwiched between his kingly brothers, but a ruler in his own right, with people who looked up to him. Now he would be flung out into the wild, and all because a witch had forced him to sacrifice the one thing that would have ensured his rule.

  Perhaps it would have always ended this way. A kingdom sustained on love? He couldn’t remember the feeling, but the very idea struck him as shaky from the start. After all, love could be forever snipped out of one’s heart with just a snap of a witch’s fingers.

  In the courtyard, a gnarled, white skeleton of a tree shot out from the stones, its dead branches twisting high enough to scrape a cloud straight out of the sky. If Love’s Keep were prospering, the tree would bear jeweled fruit.

  Ulrich approached him, delivered a mocking bow, and swept back his iridescent cloak.

  “Little brother,” he said in a poisonously sweet voice.

  “I’m a king.”

  He’d intended to sound regal, but he suspected he’d instead sounded like a child wearing a paper crown.

  Ulrich shrugged. “For what, seven more minutes?”

  Ambrose narrowed his eyes. It was still seven minutes he refused to part with.