Once More Upon a Time Read online

  Ulrich swished about in his new cloak. “Do you like my new cloak? Dragon scales repel flames. Very handy.”

  “Are you afraid someone will try to set you on fire?” asked Ambrose.

  “Well, no, but as a king, one can’t be too cautious. I had another one made for dearest Octavius.”

  Octavius, the youngest brother, was somewhere in the southern isles, drinking out of crystal goblets and making eyes at his lovely wife. Ambrose wasn’t so sure that she would appreciate her husband’s cloak, considering that she’d once been a dragon herself. Albeit quite briefly.

  “I would’ve had one made for you, but we all knew this would only last a year and a day, and these cloaks take a good six months to make.”

  “Your words of comfort are, as always, a balm for the soul.”

  “I did bring you something for your exile, though. Kings in exile must have protection from the elements as they”—­Ulrich waved a hand, searching for the right phrase—­“do whatever it is they do while wandering through the woods.”

  Languish and slowly wither into obscurity, thought Ambrose darkly.

  Ulrich withdrew a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and handed it to his brother.

  “I must be off now, but perhaps we’ll run into each other someday in the forest. I do like hunting.” Ulrich clapped him on the shoulder. “I wish you well, brother.”

  Alone, Ambrose stood in the empty stables and opened the parcel. It was a rough-­looking, brown pilgrim’s cloak. Unfortunately, he hadn’t thought about a cloak, so he realized he might as well take it with him. He threw it around his shoulders and frowned.

  “Dear God, what prickly creature was this thing made from anyway?”

  He was about to shrug off the immensely itchy garment when the cloak tightened around his neck.

  I am a horse! Observe! came a cheerful voice.

  It made an attempt at neighing. But all it succeeded in doing was losing a couple of its hairs and shaking out some dust.

  “You were a horse.”

  The enchanted cloak loosened around his shoulders.

  I am quite certain I am a horse still, it said.

  “Well, the world is certainly brimming with delusions today.”

  Delusions? Is that a kind of sweet?

  “Why in the world would Ulrich give you to me?” Ambrose grumbled.

  I believe I am to keep you from going mad.

  “Splendid.”

  As you wander through the woods, you will always have me, your trusty steed, to talk to!

  “I would rather not.”

  Or I can talk. I like talking.

  Ambrose trudged out from the stables, watching his brother’s carriage take off down a road paved with gold, enchanted to speed up travel. Too bad that the road would only answer to Ulrich. If Ambrose tried to step on it, it would vanish into dust. Still, Ambrose stared after that blinding, golden light. Why couldn’t he just go to one of his brothers’ palaces? Be an adviser? Scheme from the sidelines?

  Why did Imelda get to go home?

  Imelda. Ambrose couldn’t think about her without feeling a painful twinge of guilt. She was a stranger to him, a slender shadow glimpsed from the vantage point of their shared balconies or staircases. Nothing more.

  He wondered if she hated him. She must have been lonely and bored this past year. Perhaps she spent all her time mourning and missing her sisters, wishing for a husband she could love who would love her in return.

  Ambrose glanced at the three carriages sent by Imelda’s father. No doubt they held her jewels, dresses, trinkets, and such.

  Ambrose drew himself up. Failed marriage or not, he would act like a king. And a king would bid her farewell.

  He marched up the steep, grassy incline from the stables to the waiting carriages. A breeze ruffled the silken curtains of the window, and he imagined he could see her.

  And then, from deep within the carriage, came a strangled cry—­

  Ambrose reached for the hilt of his knife.

  Something sailed out of the window at an alarming speed, smacking him right in the face.

  “Ow!”

  The carriage door swung open, and Imelda stepped out, brandishing a shoe and yelling:

  “You can TELL my father that if he tries to put a shoe on my foot, he’ll swiftly find one right up his—­”

  Imelda paused, seeing Ambrose.

  “What are you doing here?” she said imperiously. “Shouldn’t you be galloping through the woods on a horse?”

  Ambrose stared at her, bewildered.

  She asked you a question, said the cloak peevishly. Ambrose shook himself, then said:

  “I don’t have a horse.”

  False! I’m a horse! said the cloak.

  Chapter 3

  IMELDA

  Imelda lowered her shoe, staring at Ambrose.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him. A month? Two months ago? She wanted him to look ridiculous in his pilgrim outfit. But even in exile, Ambrose looked like a king.

  Technically, he was a prince again, but he’d never struck her as one. Imelda had seen her share of princes. They’d all come to her father’s court, hoping to marry one of the famous twelve dancing princesses. They all had this vaguely golden look about them—­hair as bright as coins, eyes saucer-­wide with innocence, shoulders as narrow as the worlds they’d grown up in.

  Not Ambrose. He was tall and spare except for his shoulders, which looked like they ached for a heavy cape instead of that ridiculous brown cloak that believed it was a horse. If the other men’s skin was as golden as syrup, his had hardened to dark amber. Golden ringlets didn’t curl about his ears. Instead, he had a thick sheaf of charcoal hair held in place by a slim diadem. His eyes—­the color of rocks after a rainfall—­regarded her warily. There was something about his face that looked severe—­a cruel set to his mouth, dark eyebrows, a sharp nose, and a sharper jaw. He would not be called handsome in the way of princes.

  But he was striking.

  He was also, Imelda recalled, a complete and utter stiff.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Ambrose drew himself up. “I came to see you off.”

  Imelda waved her shoe and turned back to the carriage compartment. “Henceforth, please consider me off—­”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  She turned and saw that he had picked up her shoe.

  “You can’t return to court barefoot.”

  The word struck a nerve. Imelda narrowed her eyes. “Who are you to say what I can and cannot do?”

  “Is a princess returning home without slippers supposed to be some kind of jest?”

  “I am told I’m immensely funny,” she said.

  “It shows a complete lack of decorum. All princesses wear shoes.”

  “Unless such pair of slippers comes equipped with wings that bear me instead of tying me down in the muck, this queen shall remain without shoes.”

  Imelda’s jaw tightened. To her, every slipper was a trap.

  At home, an enchantment had been sewn into each sister’s shoe so that they would do whatever the king commanded. It was to keep them safe, her father would say lovingly. It was also why the sisters slipped into the fairy world and wore out the slippers until they came apart.

  Imelda watched Ambrose’s scowl deepen. This was, perhaps, the longest time he’d spent in her company, and he chose to annoy her? Very well. She could do the same.

  “How husbandly of you to flex your authority and such,” she said coyly. “I hope you didn’t wish to exercise any other husbandly duties. Or perhaps a few minutes is all you need.”

  Spots of color appeared on Ambrose’s cheekbones.

  “Someone might hear you talk like that,” he said.

  “
Oh, do queens not know of such things? Perhaps you can instruct me on the finer points of decorum, though that might be difficult while you’re wandering through the countryside with your…horse.”

  The cloak flipped a bit at the edges, saying, I told you!

  Imelda turned back to the carriage, flopped onto her seat, and slammed the door shut.

  “You’re my wife,” called out Ambrose, frustrated. “People will mock you, and I’m only trying to help.”

  Imelda poked her head through the window.

  “I am not your concern. And as of today, I am not your wife.”

  She was about to knock on the carriage roof to start the horses when a flash of light burst across her eyes.

  Imelda blinked, stunned to see that the door of her carriage had been thrown back and a willowy witch stood right before her.

  “As usual, I have impeccable timing.”

  Chapter 4

  AMBROSE

  If it hadn’t been for the sudden appearance of the witch, Ambrose would have delivered an excellent farewell speech.

  Or maybe not.

  He realized with growing horror that he had no idea who he’d married. He had thought he’d wed a fair princess. But if it wasn’t for that gown and tiara, she looked a bit like something that had crawled out of a forest.

  And not in a bad way.

  Like one of those forest nymphs, he supposed. Wild, dark hair that looked as if it were meant for catching on tree branches. Skin the color of afternoon light hitting a gold tree. Hazel eyes that made him think of a lioness.

  Particularly, a lioness that looked ready to kill him.

  She was pretty, but positively wild. Who would return home without shoes? Just the thought of all those courtier’s eyes, full of ridicule, was enough to turn his stomach. He’d known those sorts of glances all his life. “There goes Ambrose… Why can’t he be more like his brothers?”

  But then the witch appeared.

  He recognized her immediately. She had been at Imelda’s sister’s wedding. She was the one who had stolen their love and any chance he’d had of staying king of Love’s Keep. Though, given Imelda’s half-­wild nature, he couldn’t imagine how much longer they would have lasted.

  The witch was tall and slim, with a tuft of braided dandelion fluff for hair. There were apples in her cheeks and crinkles in her smile, and from the hinge of her elbow swung a ginormous satchel that looked as if it had been crafted from pink feathers.

  The witch dangled her purse. “Like it?”

  The hem of Ambrose’s cloak swayed a bit, as if trying to catch a better look at the purse.

  I’ve never seen a pink horse.

  “It’s a flamingo,” said the witch.

  The cloak flapped at the purse. Hello? The purse made no response. What an exceptionally rude horse, said the cloak disdainfully.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Imelda demanded. “And doesn’t anyone else seem to notice—­”

  The carriage driver was frozen mid-­sprint—­hand clamped on his hat, one foot kicked out before the other.

  “Oh, they noticed all right,” the witch said cheerily. “So I bought us some time. Two minutes should do the trick nicely.”

  “Trick?”

  Imelda hopped down from her carriage. Excitement glowed in her eyes. It made her seem younger. Almost happy.

  The witch smiled with all her teeth. “I have something to show you, something that I think might interest you. You see, I can give you that which you want most.”

  Ambrose went still.

  The witch gestured at the pearlescent towers of Love’s Keep. “If you do this errand for me, you might even get your palace back.”

  “Impossible,” Imelda said. “We’d have to be in love.”

  “Who’s stopping you?” asked the witch.

  Ambrose and Imelda looked at one another, confused.

  “You did,” Ambrose told the witch.

  “I did no such thing. Love lost doesn’t have to stay that way. I can’t give it back, of course, but these things have a way of growing on their own if cultivated properly. But that might not be what you wish.”

  Ambrose gaped. Love’s Keep was the place where he had been happiest, but love was too fragile a foundation. He would not subject himself to that. Judging from the repulsed look on Imelda’s face, it was clear she felt the same way.

  “What do you want?” Imelda asked the witch.

  “I’ve run out of my favorite potion, unfortunately.” The witch opened her feathered purse and took out a little gray vial. “Dead useful. Turns people to statues!”

  Ambrose took one step backward.

  Imelda took one step forward.

  “I need you to fetch me a new vial. It’s not a fast job. It will take you at least a week. You see, the potion is kept on the person of a queen in a faraway kingdom. Honestly, it’s not too far from here if you’ve got an enchanted road in your pocket”—­she patted the side of her bright purse—­“which I do! Sadly, this kingdom is throwing a wedding, and I tend not to be very popular at those sorts of celebrations. You see why I need you to go, don’t you? You know how it is. ‘All kings and queens from far and wide are invited to celebrate the nuptials of so and so.’ You could easily gain entrance. Then you just have to figure out how to bring me one of those vials.”

  “We’re no longer king and queen,” Imelda said. “And I’m sure the rest of the world knows that by now.”

  “Let me handle what the rest of the world thinks they know by now, my dear. And in return, I’ll give you what you want most.”

  “Why should we trust you?” Ambrose asked coldly.

  “I figured you would ask that.”

  Once more, she dipped her hand into her purse. Only this time, she drew out an apple with a peel studded all over with rubies. The fruit gave off a curious fragrance, not a smell so much as an emotion. One whiff of its nectar, and Ambrose’s eyes fluttered shut, his whole being filled briefly with a sense of calm. As if he were exactly where he needed to be.

  Imelda gasped. “Is that…is that from—­”

  “That dead tree in your little courtyard? Yes.”

  Ambrose stared at the jeweled fruit. The tree of Love’s Keep supposedly bloomed with the rare fruits only when a couple in love had taken the throne. It was said that the fruits could show you the truth of things. But it hadn’t bloomed in centuries, and so there was no one to verify the tale.

  “Take a bite,” the witch coaxed. “See what I can promise. The fruit always speaks true, you know.”

  The witch pulled a paring knife out of her purse and, with two deft cuts, handed Imelda and Ambrose each one-­half of the apple. Ambrose frowned at it. It could be a trap. It could be poisonous. It could be—­

  There was the sound of someone chomping into an apple.

  Imelda had sunk her teeth into it. Her eyes fluttered shut, and a look of bliss passed over her face.

  Fine, thought Ambrose. Here goes.

  The moment he closed his eyes and bit down, magic swept through him.

  He saw a kingdom of his own, the details blurry, but the feeling precise: belonging. An ache went through him. He felt the carved wood of a throne’s armrest beneath his fingers, a warm certainty in his chest that this would not be taken from him.

  His eyes flew open.

  “I’ll do it,” Ambrose said breathlessly. “I’ll find your potion and bring it to you.”

  With the aid of your trusty, noble steed.

  “I’m coming with you,” Imelda announced.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Absolutely yes.”

  Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Then that will likely require you to wear shoes, which I realize you are incapable of—­”

  The witch cleared her throat. “I have a solution for that.”

&nb
sp; She snapped her fingers, and a stream of purple light erupted from her fingertips, poured to the ground, and snuck under Imelda’s gown. Imelda lifted the hem of her dress, and the light wound its way up her ankle and then disappeared.

  “That should do it, my dear. The spell will keep them clean and dry and impervious to any cuts.”

  “Thank you.” Imelda turned to Ambrose. “Now what do you have to say?”

  The cloak sighed. I don’t know where she’ll find her own horse on such short notice, but I suppose I could always make room.

  “That’s very generous of you,” Imelda said kindly.

  The cloak whickered happily.

  God help me, thought Ambrose.

  Chapter 5

  You want to know what is truly boring?

  Hearing about someone on a road.

  What is there to say, really? There were a couple of birds. The sky changed. The trees darkened.

  Attempts at conversation were mulled over in their skulls and quickly abandoned.

  At a puddle, Ambrose—trained, of course, in courtly manners—paused and pulled off his cloak so that Imelda might step over the offending water.

  Imelda stared at him, stepped around the puddle, and kept moving.

  Ambrose’s cloak, at least, assured him that he had done the right thing.

  At another juncture in the road, there stood a man hawking wish-­granting fruits and love charms, cordials of homemade brambleberry liqueur, and even some toffee apples. Imelda purchased two toffee apples and handed one to Ambrose, who took one bite, spit it out, and glared at her. Imelda was insulted. She did not pause to inspect the piece he’d thrown off to the side of the road, which bore, unfortunately, only half a worm.

  ***

  The enchanted road was not the only thing the witch had given Imelda and Ambrose. There were perhaps a couple other trinkets here and there. And some granola. One can never go amiss in life with some granola. But roads are finicky. Once dusk hits, they start coiling up and languishing across the dirt, and there’s no sense in trying to rile them up again until morning. Imelda and Ambrose were well aware of that fact. Besides, the witch had warned them that the journey would take more than a day, and they had no horse.