Once Upon A Time (5) Before Midnight Read online

  “Married!” I exclaimed. I put a hand out, as the world

  began to whirl and felt Niccolo’s hand grasp mine.

  “My father is married? When did this happen?”

  “Just last week,” Niccolo said, “Chantal de Saint-Andre is your stepmother’s name. She is a wealthy widow, and a ward of the crown. None may marry her but by the kings command.”

  “And now the king has married her to my father?” I said. I knew I sounded stupid, but I could not seem to get my brain to function. “But why?”

  “That,” Niccolo said succinctly, “is the question to which all the court would like an answer. Your new stepmother and stepsisters most of all.”

  “Stepsisters!” I cried. “I have stepsisters?”

  “Two,” Niccolo answered, “Their names are Amelie and Anastasia.”

  “I think,” I said faintly, “that I would like to sit down,” In fury and desperation, I had wished for a mother and two sisters. And now my father was married, and his wife and two stepdaughters were on their way to my door.

  “ONCE UPON A TIME”

  IS TIMELESS WITH THESE RETOLD TALES:

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

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  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  First Simon Pulse paperback edition March 2007

  copyright © 2007 by Cameron Dokey

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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  of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  The text of this book was set in Adobe Jenson.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  6 8 10 9 7 5

  Library of Congress Control Number 2006928448

  ISBN 978-1-4169-3471-4

  eISBN 978-1-4391-2030-9

  For Delaney

  Before Midnight

  ONE

  What do you know about yourself? What are your stories? The ones you tell yourself, and the ones told by others. All of us begin somewhere. Though I suppose the truth is that we begin more than once; we begin many times. Over and over, we start our own tales, compose our own stories, whether our lives are short or long. Until at last all our beginnings come down to just one end, and the tale of who we are is done.

  This is the first story I ever heard about myself: that I came into this world before my time. And that my coming was so sudden, hot, and swift, it carried everything before it away, including my mother’s life.

  Full of confusion was the day of my birth, of portents, and of omens. Just at daybreak, a flock of white birds flew across the face of the sun. Its rising light stained their wings bloodred. This was an omen of life taking flight.

  At full noon, every single tree in every single orchard on my father’s estate burst into bloom at once, in spite of the fact that it was October. This was an omen of life’s arrival.

  At dusk, a great storm arose, catching everyone by surprise. My mother was in her garden, the one she planted and tended with her own two hands, when two claps of thunder, one from the east and the other from the west, met above her head in a great collision of sound. The earth shook beneath her feet. Crying out, my mother tumbled to the ground. What this portended nobody ever did decide, because it was at precisely this moment that I declared my intention to be born.

  Fortunately for my mother, she was not alone. The healer, Old Mathilde, was with her, as she often was when my father was away from home. Just how old Old Mathilde is, no one really knows. But no matter what her years, she was strong and hale enough to lift my mother up and carry her indoors—through the gate in the garden wall and around the side of the house, up the steps to the front door, and across the great hall. Then, finally, up a wide set of stairs from the great hall to the second floor. By the time Old Mathilde reached my mother’s chamber, it was storming in earnest, and she, herself, was breathing hard. The wind wailed like a banshee. Hailstones clattered against the roof with a sound like military drums.

  Old Mathilde set my mother gently on the bed, paused to catch her breath. Then she summoned Susanne, who worked in the kitchen, instructing her to bring hot water and soft towels. But when Mathilde went to stir up the fire, the wind got there first, screaming down the chimney, putting out the fire. Not content to do this in my mother’s room alone, the wind then extinguished every other fire throughout my father’s great stone house by the sea, until not so much as a candle remained lit. All the servants quaked in fear. The women buried their heads beneath their aprons, and the men behind their arms, for nobody could remember such an event ever occurring before.

  And so it was first in shadow, and then in darkness, that Old Mathilde and my mother strove to bring me into the world. Just before midnight, I arrived. At my coming, the storm ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A great silence filled the great stone house. Into it came the loud voice of the sea, and then my mother’s quiet voice, asking Old Mathilde to place me in her waiting arms. She asked this just as the clocks throughout the house began to strike midnight: the only hour in all the world that begins in one day and ends in another. This was the moment I knew my mother’s touch for the first and only time.

  And this is the story Old Mathilde has told me each and every time I asked her to: that, with my green eyes, I gazed up, and with her green eyes, my mother gazed back down. She ran one hand across my head, her fingers lingering on my bright red hair, for this, too, was the exact same shade as her own. Then she bent her head and pressed a kiss upon my brow. I carry the mark of it to this day, the faintest smudge of rose just at my hairline.

  “Mathilde,” my mother said then, and with the sounding of her own name, Old Mathilde understood what my coming into the world before my time would cost. For she recognized the sound my mother’s voice made—a sound that was both less and more than it had ever been before.

  No one is better at understanding the world than Old Mathilde, at being able to see things for what they truly are. This is what makes her such a good healer, I suppose. For how can you mend a thing, any thing, if you cannot truly see what is wrong? Some things, of course, cannot be healed, no matter how much you want them to be, no matter how hard you try. Old Mathilde was not a magician. She was simply very
good at helping wishes come true.

  “Will you hear a wish?” my mother asked now.

  Just for an instant, Old Mathilde closed her eyes, as if summoning the strength to hear what would come. For my mother was asking to bestow the most powerful wish there is, one that is a birth and death wish, all at the same time. Then Old Mathilde opened her eyes and gave the only answer she could, also the one that was in her heart.

  “I will grant whatever you wish that lies within my power, Constanze, my child.”

  Constanze d’Este. That was my mother’s name.

  “I wish for you to be my daughter’s godmother,” Constanze d’Este replied. “Love her for me, care for her when I am gone, for I fear her father will do neither one. When he looks at her, he will not find joy in the color of her hair and eyes. He will not see the way that I live on. Instead, he will see only that she came too soon, and that her arrival carried me out of this life.

  “Besides, he is a man and a great lord. He wished for his first child to be a boy.”

  “What you wish for is easily granted,” Old Mathilde said. “For I have loved this child with all my heart since she was no more than a dream in yours. As for Etienne . . .” Etienne de Brabant. That is my father’s name. “I suppose a man may be a great lord and a great fool all at once. What shall I call her, while I’m loving her so much?”

  At this point in the story, Old Mathilde always does the same thing: She smiles. Not because the circumstances she’s relating are particularly happy, but because smiling is what my mother did.

  “Call her by whatever name you think best,” she replied. “For you will raise her, not I.”

  “Then I will give her your name,” Old Mathilde said. “For she should have more of her mother than just the color of her hair and eyes, and a memory she is too young to know how to hold.”

  And so I was named Constanze, after my mother. And no sooner had this been decided, than my mother died. Old Mathilde sat beside the bed, her eyes seeing the two of us together even in the dark, until my mother’s lips turned pale, her arms grew cold, and the clouds outside the window parted to reveal A spangle of high night stars. Not once in all that time, so Old Mathilde has always claimed, did I so much as stir or cry.

  When the slim and curving sickle of the moon had reached the top of the window, then begun its slide back down the sky, Old Mathilde got up from her chair and lifted me gently from my mother’s arms. She carried me downstairs to the great open fireplace in the kitchen. Holding me in the crook of one arm, she took the longest poker she could find and stirred up the coals.

  Not even such a storm as had descended upon us that night could altogether put out the kitchen fire—the fire that is the heart of any house. Once the coals were glowing as they should, Old Mathilde wrapped me in a towel of red flannel, took the largest of our soup kettles down from its peg, tucked me inside it, and nestled the pot among the embers so that I might grow warm once more.

  As she did, I began to cry for the very first time. And at this, as if the sound of my voice startled them back into existence, all the other fires throughout the great stone house came back to life. Flurries of sparks shot straight up every chimney, scattering into the air like red-hot fireflies.

  In this way, I earned a second name that night, the one that people use and remember, in spite of the fact that the name Constanze is a perfectly fine one. Nobody has ever called me that, not even Old Mathilde. Instead, she calls me by the name I was given for the coals that kept me warm, for the fires I brought back to life with the sound of my own voice.

  Child of cinders. Cendrillon.

  TWO

  Two weeks to the day after I was born, my father came home, thundering into the courtyard on a great bay horse ridden so long and hard its coat was white with lather as if covered in sea foam. Where he had been on the night of my birth, where since, are tales that, for many years, would remain untold. But he was often sent far and wide on business for the king, so Old Mathilde sent word of what had happened out from the great stone house knowing that, sooner or later, the news would find my father and bring him home.

  Just at the counterpoint to the hour of my birth he came, full noon, when the sun was like an orange in the sky. Around his neck, beneath his cloak, he wore a sling of cloth, and in this sling there was a baby boy. My father pulled the horse up short, tossed the reins to a waiting groom, threw his leg over his horse’s neck, and slid to the ground. Even at his journeys end, my father’s desire to reach my mother burned so hot and bright that the heels of his boots struck sparks from the courtyard cobblestones. He tossed off his cloak, pulled the sling from around his neck, and thrust it and the burden it carried into Old Mathilde’s arms.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “In her garden,” Old Mathilde replied.

  Without another word, my father took off at a dead run. Around the side of the house, he sped through the gate in the stone wall, and into the place my mother had loved best in all the world, aside from the shelter of my father’s arms: the garden she had planted with her own two hands. Surrounded by a high stone wall to protect it from the cold sea winds, it was so cunningly made that it could be seen from only one room inside the house: my mother’s own bedchamber, the same room in which I had been born.

  Old Mathilde had buried my mother beneath a tree whose blossoms were pale pink in spring, whose leaves turned yellow in the autumn, and whose boughs carried tiny red apples no bigger than a thumbnail all through the winter months. It was the only one like it on all my father’s lands. My mother had brought it with her as a sapling on her wedding day as a gift to her new husband, a pledge of their new life. Now the mound of earth which marked her grave was a gentle oblong shape beneath its boughs, as if Constanze d’Este had fallen asleep and some thoughtful servant had come along and covered her with a blanket of soft green grass from her head to her toes.

  My father fell to his knees beside my mother’s grave, and now a second storm arose, one that needed no interpretation, for all who saw it understood its meaning at once. This storm was nothing less than my father’s grief let loose upon the world. His rage at losing the woman that he loved. The trees in the orchards tossed their heads in agony; the clear blue sky darkened overhead, though there was not a single cloud. At the base of the cliffs upon which my father’s great stone house sat, the sea hurled itself against the land as if to mirror his torment.

  My father threw his head back, fists raised above his head, his mouth stretched open in a great O of pain. But he did not shed a single tear, nor make a single sound. He threw himself across my mother’s grave, his fists striking the earth once, twice, three times. As his fists landed for the third and final time, A single bolt of jagged lightning speared down from the cloudless sky. It struck the tree which sheltered my mother’s grave, traveled down its trunk, up into all its limbs, killing the tree in an instant, turning the new green grass beneath it as brown as the dust of an August road. At that moment, the storm ceased. And from that day onward, even when every other living thing on my father’s lands prospered, on the grave of my mother, Constanze d’Este, not so much as A single blade of grass would thrive.

  At last my father got to his feet, turned his back upon my mother’s grave, left the garden, and went inside. He climbed the wide stairs, two at a time, until he reached my mother’s bedroom door. He pushed it open, slammed it behind him, turned the key in the lock with a sound that echoed upstairs and down. Then, for many hours, there was silence as he stayed in my mother’s room alone.

  Just as night was falling he emerged, locked the door behind him (from the outside this time), then climbed a thin and winding set of stairs to the very top of the house. There, a stiff sea wind blowing in his face, he threw the key to my mother’s room as hard as he could. It was still flying through the air when he turned away, and made the climb back down. All the way to the kitchen and Old Mathilde.

  “Show me the infant,” my father said, and, in spite of herself, Old Mathild
e shivered, for never had she heard a voice so cold. The kind of cold that comes when the heart gives up on itself and abandons hope, a cold no fire on earth could ever warm. But Old Mathilde had not grown old by frightening easily.

  “You may see both babes for yourself,” she said. “For there they are, together.”

  And sure enough, in a cradle by the fire—for the soup kettle was not big enough for two, and besides I had outgrown it two whole days ago—the baby boy my father had brought with him from who-knew-where and I were lying, side by side. My hair was as bright as a copper basin; his, as dark as cast iron. My eyes, as bright and as green as fresh asparagus; his, a changeable and tumultuous gray, like the sea beneath the sky of a winter storm. For a time Old Mathilde did not even try to measure, my father stood motionless, gazing down at us both.

  “She has the look of her mother,” he finally said, and the pain in his voice was as bright as a sword.

  Old Mathilde nodded. “That she does.”

  Etienne de Brabant exhaled one breath, and then another, as if his own body was struggling with itself

  “I should have been here!” he finally burst out. “If I had been with her, things might have been different.”

  “Some things most certainly would have been,” Old Mathilde replied. And now she inhaled one quiet breath of her own, for she knew my father would not like to hear what must follow. “But your presence would not have changed the outcome. Not even I could do that, Etienne. Some things are beyond my power to heal.”

  My father spun toward her. “Your power!” he exclaimed. “You have none. What good is power if you cannot use it as you wish? You are nothing but a powerless old woman. You let Constance die.”

  “Do you think I would not have saved her, if I could?” Old Mathilde asked. “If so, then you are wrong. And you forget that every kind of power has its own boundaries, Etienne. That is how you know its strength and its form.