Once More Upon a Time Read online

  No, the cloak does not count.

  Which brings us to the inn where they were obliged to stop.

  Chapter 6

  IMELDA

  Imelda gathered up the last of the tired road in her arms.

  By now, it had shrunk to the size of a voluminous skein of golden silk. At her touch, the road shivered and yawned. All at once, it zoomed back upon itself, coiling up sharp and tight so that it appeared as a palm-­size spool of thread. Imelda smiled, pocketing it.

  Her stomach gave a growl of hunger, but it wasn’t food that she wanted… It was another bite of the witch’s apple. Even now, she could taste the remnants of what it offered. That succulent, golden bite of freedom. Of choice. And all they had to do was bring the witch her potion.

  And yet, there was something else the witch had said that troubled Imelda.

  All this time, she’d thought the love lost between herself and Ambrose was gone forever, dissolved in a trade for magic. If they got it back, they could return to Love’s Keep, the place that had become more of a home to her in a year and a day than all the years spent in her father’s kingdom.

  But she didn’t want to be tied to someone.

  And she couldn’t imagine having ever been in love, much less falling in love again, with someone as stiff and pompous as Ambrose. She could tell he felt the same. She remembered the way he’d looked at her when the witch revealed the possibility of regaining what they’d lost, as if the very thought of loving her horrified him.

  “This place is horrific,” Ambrose said grimly.

  Ambrose, she was learning, said everything grimly. He was the kind of man who seemed repeatedly offended by anything remotely disorderly. Which almost certainly included this entire village.

  The end of the enchanted road had brought them to a small traveler’s square hemmed in on all sides by dark, imposing trees. The dusky light only barely illuminated a jagged row of mountains behind it. In the main square stood three squat buildings. There was a farmers’ market that was closed for the evening. Then a butcher’s shop with the windows shuttered. And finally, a large inn filled with bright lanterns in every window and a bright-­red door, where a traveling musician strummed his lute and sang to the dark.

  Ambrose’s dark-­gray eyes swept over the village. His mouth flattened to a thin line.

  “This place is certainly—­”

  “Amazing!” Imelda said cheerily. “I’ve never seen an inn! Or mountains! Or—­”

  The sound of a troubadour playing outside the inn caught her attention.

  “Ah, could it be a lonesome musician?” asked Ambrose. “What a rare, exotic species.”

  Imelda rolled her eyes. “Believe it or not, I’ve never heard a traveling minstrel. My father was horrendously strict, especially about music. No fast songs, or else we’d dance. Or slow songs that would make us prone to daydreams.”

  Ambrose stared at her, and Imelda felt her face flush a little. She didn’t mean to talk about home. But the world felt impossibly large at the moment, and she thought she could feel the cold light of stars brushing against her skin. It was glorious.

  “You’re smiling,” noted Ambrose.

  Imelda scowled at him.

  “Is that a problem?”

  He looked stunned. “Not at all. I’ve just…never seen it.”

  “You’ve never spent more than an hour in my company.”

  “If I’d known you were counting the minutes in my company, I might have spared more time.”

  There was a teasing to his voice that unnerved her. She looked at him, at his sullen mouth and arched eyebrow, the broad line of his shoulders and the imposing set to his jaw.

  Imelda replied firmly, “I am glad you never bothered, for I’m certain you would’ve won no smiles from me.”

  “Careful, princess, I like challenges.”

  Imelda tossed her hair over her shoulder and walked to the troubadour. Her excitement quickly faded the closer they got, for the troubadour was belting out a tragic love story.

  And not just any tragic love story.

  Their love story.

  “And the fair prince with his golden hair doth give their love away!

  Then his lady love came back to life, and he took her for his wife!

  But their love was gone forevermore, for nothing’s here to staaaay!”

  When the troubadour finished, he turned to them and grinned expectantly.

  “A penny for your thoughts, me lord and lady?”

  Imelda had to remember to close her mouth. She hated that this was her legacy. A terrible love song? Plus, this seemed like the kind of thing Ambrose would start a duel over because of his bizarre sense of propriety. She looked over at him…but Ambrose only looked amused.

  “You got the part about the golden hair wrong,” he said coolly.

  Imelda’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. Ambrose turned to her, his gray eyes assessing.

  “Any other commentary you wish to add, my lady?”

  For a moment, Imelda could only stare at him. And then she came to herself and turned toward the troubadour.

  “I’ll give you a golden shoe if you never sing that song again.”

  Imelda heard Ambrose’s cloak rustling loudly before asking: Does she really have a golden shoe? Imelda grinned a little.

  Ambrose looked at her, as if to say Well? Do you?

  Obviously, thought Imelda. The witch hadn’t just given them a magic road to follow. She’d also included some trinkets—­a plump walnut held two pairs out of Imelda’s massive shoe collection, which she insisted would come in handy at some point; three dresses; and a handful of granola, in case they became very hungry.

  Imelda reached into her pocket, pulled out the walnut, snapped it open, and retrieved a golden pair of shoes, which she then handed to the slack-­jawed troubadour.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  The troubadour gaped at the shoes, then tucked them into his jacket. He swung his lute over his shoulder and sighed.

  “I wanted to be a baker anyway,” he said and strolled off down the steps.

  Ambrose and Imelda watched him go, then turned to one another. In his typical courtier fashion, Ambrose gestured grandly toward the door of the inn where they would have to stay for the night before getting back to the road.

  “Shall we?”

  Normally, the way he said it would have annoyed her to no end.

  But at this moment, it didn’t sound nearly as irritating.

  “Thank you,” she said loftily, and swept past him.

  ***

  The inn was Imelda’s exact idea of “warm and cozy.” There was a roaring fireplace, flanked by a semicircle of rocking chairs, and niches carved into the stone where warm, flickering torches cast pools of golden light across the floor. A sign in bright calligraphy declared:

  HAVE A DELICIOUS STAY!

  Imelda wanted to smile at that, but she couldn’t. The farther Imelda walked, the more she felt…off.

  The hall was warm. The carpet was lush.

  But it was strangely empty.

  “If this is a traveler’s inn, shouldn’t it be filled with people?”

  “They’re sleeping. Just as we should be.”

  Ambrose yawned, scratching at the base of his throat. Even his delusional cloak hung from him limply, as if it had already fallen asleep.

  “But what about all the jousting and drinking and slamming of dragons’ heads on dining tables?”

  Ambrose stared at her, and Imelda frowned.

  “Surely that’s what people do when they travel?”

  “They don’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Imelda looked around her and crossed her arms. “I just don’t think it feels right.”

  “Based on your
extensive travel?”

  Imelda stiffened. Part of her dimly recognized the jest in his voice. She understood he was teasing.

  But he didn’t understand where her mind flew to in that moment…all those days spent in her father’s kingdom. The enchanted little chain tied around each of her sister’s ankles so that even when they wandered the labyrinth of the palace grounds, they could never truly be lost. Imelda had dreamed of seeing the world, but her dreams did not fit with reality.

  If Ambrose had ever taken a moment to understand her, he would have known that.

  Ambrose stopped walking. “Imelda?” he said softly.

  “Perhaps once I’m through with this quest and this sham of a marriage thoroughly dissolves, I’ll have the chance to see the world.”

  Ambrose opened his mouth as if to respond when a door suddenly opened. Imelda whirled around, coming face to face with a red-­cheeked innkeeper wearing a ring of keys from a loop on his belt.

  “Hello! Might you be looking for a room this evening?”

  Imelda and Ambrose responded at the same time: “Two.”

  Imelda looked at the innkeeper closely. What she’d thought were just apples in his cheeks now looked different in the flickering firelight. There was a ruddy sheen to his face. His eyes seemed glossy. Hungry. She recognized that expression. Each night that she had stolen into fairyland with her sisters, she’d seen the look on the faces of the fey. How they would’ve gobbled them up in two bites if they took the wrong step.

  “I have just the one room for you and your wife—­”

  “Well, actually, she—­”

  “She is your wife, is she not?”

  “She—­”

  “She,” Imelda interrupted, “wants a second room with a second bed all to herself. Is that something you can offer?”

  The innkeeper stared at her, a slow smile breaking across his pudgy face.

  “Unfortunately not, my lady. But the room I have planned will be perfect for you both.”

  He turned to Ambrose and winked. “Trust me, I know just how peevish one can get when one travels with a lady love! It’s all about whetting one’s appetite. That’ll fix you both right up.”

  Imelda frowned. What did that mean? She turned to Ambrose, who suddenly looked as if he’d been carved from stone.

  The innkeeper turned away, humming to himself and fiddling with his keys.

  Imelda hissed, “Tell him we’ll find somewhere else!”

  “Where? We’ll just get through it. I’ll sleep on the floor if necessary.”

  Ten minutes later, Imelda and Ambrose found themselves staring at a cramped bedroom with a single window that faced the woods and mountains. The walls were painted red. There were red silk scarves thrown over the three lanterns in the room. And the bed was gargantuan, covered in crimson coverlets. At its very center was a giant heart made from red rose petals. Worse…there was approximately half a foot of available floor space. They were, quite literally, trapped.

  Beside her, Ambrose was busy shrugging off his horse cloak, which kept insisting that it be taken to the stables.

  There’s simply not enough room for a noble stallion!

  Ambrose draped the cloak over a chair, then took one of the bedsheets and threw it on top. Beneath the silk, there was some indignant shuffling, but it died down after a while.

  Ambrose turned to her. Without the cloak, he seemed even more broad-­shouldered than usual. The ivory-­colored shirt had opened a bit at the throat, and he’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing tawny forearms. His gray eyes slid to the bed, then back to her.

  He sighed. “As a maiden, I’m sure you must be concerned about your honor or frightened that—­”

  “Frightened?” Imelda laughed. “Look at this atrocious dump! That’s what’s frightening.”

  “I’m sure the innkeeper worked very hard at putting it all together.”

  Imelda poked the coverlet. “He shouldn’t have bothered.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “Can you smell that? It’s like iron. The whole bed is probably rusted all over.”

  “If you weren’t prepared for unsavory scents, you shouldn’t have come along on this quest.”

  “If you weren’t prepared to act a smidge less than noble, we wouldn’t have to be stuck in here.”

  “I’ll take the floor.”

  “There is no floor, and I might end up stepping on you when I wake up. You made your bed. Now you have to sleep in it.”

  Ambrose leaned against the wall. “Sleep in it? With…you?”

  “No. With the innkeeper. Of course me!”

  “We’re not married,” he said.

  “Debatable.”

  “I wouldn’t call a day and a night a real marriage. I don’t even know if we ever…”

  “We could have,” Imelda mused. She paused. “We just may not remember.”

  They fell silent. It was a thought that had crossed Imelda’s mind more than once. Surely, they must’ve…at some point…right? They’d been married for a day and a night before that cursed tomato had gotten to her and everything had changed.

  Imelda stared at the bed, some nameless feeling snaking through her. She hadn’t shared a bed in a year and a day, and she’d gotten used to sprawling out on the silks. The sound of her own breath. It was perfectly fine. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t imagined different scenarios.

  At night, when her thoughts grew untamed, she wrapped her arms about herself and pretended they belonged to someone else. She wondered what it would be like to spend the night in a bed and never once sleep.

  Her eyes darted to Ambrose. He was watching her intently. A moment later, he tore his eyes away, shaking his head.

  “I’ll go talk to the innkeeper,” he said gruffly.

  Imelda grabbed his arm. “I think not. I don’t trust that creepy man.”

  “He’s not creepy.”

  Imelda leveled him with a look.

  “Okay, he’s a little creepy. But I really think—­”

  Imelda pushed his chest, and he fell back on the bed. He sat there for a long moment, propped up on his elbows, his eyes wide. It looked more than a little strange to see him sprawled out like that. His legs were long and kicked out in front of him. His hair—­usually held back by a circlet—­had fallen over his forehead. An almost amused smile touched his lips. He looked at Imelda, storm-­gray eyes pinning hers, before he raised an eyebrow.

  The sight of him unnerved her, and so she spoke quickly:

  “See? It hasn’t killed you.”

  “And yet—­”

  But Imelda never heard the end of the sentence. Just then, the bed rattled to life. The coverlets arced upward in a crimson wave, trapping Ambrose against the mattress. The four iron posts snapped above him, caging him within. And suddenly, the idea of sharing a bed together struck Imelda as very deadly indeed.

  Chapter 7

  AMBROSE

  And this, thought Ambrose, was why one mustn’t share a bed with a woman one was not exactly married to.

  One moment you could be looking at her, on the verge of an excellent witticism…

  The next you would find yourself attacked by a feral mattress.

  Too late, he saw the signs that must have been apparent to Imelda. The lack of strangers in the inn. The sign that suggested HAVE A DELICIOUS STAY. Ambrose couldn’t decide what he hated more: that a bed was about to kill him or that Imelda was right.

  “Get! The! Hell! Off ! Me!” Ambrose shouted.

  Ambrose saw that the red sheets had tangled their way around his leg, and now his torso. A pillow kept batting at his face. In his right pant leg, there was a small knife. Ambrose tried to inch his way toward the blade—­

  The bed tensed.

  It knew.

  The mattress folded sharply inward, and Amb
rose gasped for air. This was it. He was going to die. Trapped in a bed that was quite possibly trying to eat him and without having done anything remotely exciting within it.

  Heat flashed over his face. He squinted against the sudden brightness slicing through the red fabric. The bed gave off a metallic shriek, its iron hinges squealing suddenly as the silks drew back from his chest. Not enough room to see, but enough room to frantically gulp down air.

  Finally, he could reach down his pant leg, pulling at the small knife tucked around his calf.

  One cut, then two—­

  The silk sheets gave way to…fire.

  Flames rippled across his sight, and he startled backward. The fire jerked away from his face, and now Ambrose could see that it belonged to a torch held aloft in Imelda’s hand.

  “It was the only thing I could think of !” Imelda yelled. “Get out!”

  The bed squealed and howled. Imelda lowered the flame to the pillow.

  “That’s for being gaudy!”

  Ambrose threw off the last of the coverlets, then rolled onto the floor, where he ran smack dab into the wall. He flung his hand upward, grasping the latch of a small window that overlooked a ten-­foot jump to the ground. From the staircase came the sound of heavy footfalls and the delighted chortling of the innkeeper, followed by the hushed mutterings of a small crowd.

  “What if the bed hasn’t ate ’em up yet?” someone said.

  Imelda inched toward the door, holding the torch aloft.

  Ambrose shook his head vigorously as he reached to unclasp the latch of the window. Imelda ignored him.

  Now the innkeeper spoke. “Nah, the bed always finishes them off right quick—­”

  Ambrose shuddered at that, sneaking a glance at the giant crimson bed. Now it cowered toward one end of the room, as if trying to keep a wide berth from Imelda and her flaming torch. With a jiggle and a jerk, Ambrose got the window to swing open noiselessly.

  He reached for his sword belt and the horse cloak. The cloak snorted awake.

  “I need you to be a rope!”

  But I’m a horse.

  “I need you to be a horse rope.”

  I don’t think that is a thing.