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“And what should we call her?”
“Rapunzel,” said Gothel, walking away from the old woman and the child and descending into the cellar without even looking back.
“Well then,” said Mrs. Tiddlebottom to the baby. “What are we going to do with you? We can’t very well hire some gossipy wet nurse, not when it’s certain you’ve been spirited away from the royal family.”
Gothel had become more reclusive since the odd sisters’ last visit, and since “the situation,” as Mrs. Tiddlebottom had called it. And she became even more so after she brought Rapunzel into their lives. She spent most of her time either down in the cellar or in her library. She would pop out once a day, take the baby into her arms, sing her a little song, and then rush back to whatever she was up to in the cellar.
With the help of her sister, Mrs. Tiddlebottom found a wet nurse for Rapunzel, one they paid handsomely to keep quiet about the baby. Mrs. Tiddlebottom had made up a story about one of Gothel’s sisters having the child out of wedlock and said that was the reason for the secrecy. Mrs. Tiddlebottom thought it was the perfect ruse. She knew her sister wouldn’t be able to keep the secret and would spread it far and wide. Gothel’s sisters were often mentioned by wagging tongues in the village, and Mrs. Tiddlebottom made sure lady Gothel was made out to be some sort of saint for taking on her sister’s burden. By all accounts, everyone in the village thought Gothel was like a fairy godmother to the child. Mrs. Tiddlebottom had made sure they paid Mrs. Pickle, the wet nurse, well, promising her the position of governess once the baby was older. And Mrs. Pickle was a marvel, which was a miracle to Mrs. Tiddlebottom, who needed more help than ever around the house. Mrs. Tiddlebottom often thought Mrs. Pickle had been sent to her from the gods to help her raise the baby. And Mrs. Pickle was happy to have a child and a family to care for, and a place to call home. She took the small room upstairs and shared it with Rapunzel so she would never be too far away from the child. She watched her like a hawk and was ferociously protective of her. She never spoke of it, not even with Mrs. Tiddlebottom, but the old woman knew that the poor Mrs. Pickle had lost her family in some tragic way, and that she was happy to have a means to occupy her time and fill her broken heart.
And so it went for many years while Rapunzel grew and flourished under the care of those doting women. Mrs. Tiddlebottom stuffed her with treats and smothered her with kisses at every opportunity, and Mrs. Pickle saw to her meals, baths, and daily excursions through the wildflower fields—always careful not to venture too far away from
home, else Lady Gothel would become anxious. And every day, like clockwork, Gothel would swoop in on the child once nightly before her bedtime to sing her a song and brush her hair, and then she would go directly back into the cellar, where she would spend her nights.
If it hadn’t been for the child, Mrs. Tiddlebottom likely would have left the household. Her mistress had become so peculiar, and she was so artificial when she spoke to the child, calling herself Mother, singing that same song, and never calling the girl by her name, always calling her “my flower.” It was all too odd for Mrs. Tiddlebottom, all too morbid. She couldn’t help wondering how Rapunzel’s parents had felt, how they must have missed their little girl, but she didn’t dare bring it up to Gothel, who by the year resembled her sisters, Ruby, Martha, and Lucinda, more than ever.
Gothel had taken to wearing her hair in ringlets and painting her face the way she remembered seeing those odd sisters of hers painting theirs on their last visit. It was as if she was trying to conjure them by dressing like them. A form of sympathetic magic. Gothel went on and on about bringing her sisters back when she saw fit to speak with Mrs. Tiddlebottom at all, which brought Mrs. Tiddlebottom nothing but confusion and vexation. But she decided to keep her thoughts to herself and focus her energy on giving little Rapunzel all the love and care she deserved, because she surely wasn’t getting it from her supposed mother.
Mrs. Tiddlebottom felt more than ever that she was an old woman trapped within a fairy tale, and the last thing she wanted was to end up hanging on a rusty hook in the bloody chamber. Or in a cellar.
And the very last thing she wanted was her head to end up in a bell jar.
No, that wouldn’t do, not at all. Not for Mrs. Tiddlebottom.
The years flew by at a manic pace. It seemed like only yesterday that Lady Gothel had brought the baby Rapunzel home, but before they knew it, Mrs. Tiddlebottom and Mrs. Pickle were preparing for Rapunzel’s eighth birthday celebration.
“Can you believe our little girl is turning eight?” asked Mrs. Tiddlebottom.
Mrs. Pickle was busily wrapping Rapunzel’s gifts. “Yes, our flower has blossomed so quickly! I can hardly believe it!” she said, not realizing Gothel had just walked into the kitchen.
“She is my flower, Mrs. P! Mine! And don’t you forget it!”
Mrs. Pickle flinched, refusing to make eye contact with Gothel. “Yes, my lady,” she said, keeping her eyes on her wrapping.
“And where is my little flower?” asked Gothel. She looked no older than when she and Mrs. Tiddlebottom had first met.
“She’s in the wildflower field,” said Mrs. Tiddlebottom as she was decorating Rapunzel’s birthday cake. “I’ve asked her to stay out of the kitchen while we make ready for her party.”
“Well, you might want to add another layer to that cake, Mrs. T. It seems we will be expecting three more guests this evening. And you know how much my sisters like cake!”
Mrs. Tiddlebottom sighed.
“Do you have an objection to my inviting my sisters to celebrate my daughter’s birthday, Mrs. Tiddlebottom?” Gothel asked with a false smile and a singsong cadence to her voice.
“No, Lady Gothel. None whatsoever.”
“Very good,” said Gothel, exiting the room and leaving the ladies awestruck.
“Did you see what she was wearing?” asked Mrs. Pickle after Gothel left the room.
“Oh, I did. It used to break my heart seeing her dressed like those horrible sisters of hers. Now it just angers me. How dare she invite them here after everything they’ve done to her? Here! To this house with that young girl here! She is no kind of mother!”
“Shhh! Don’t say that so loud!” said Mrs. Pickle, looking to see if Gothel was still about.
“I’m not afraid of her!” said Mrs. Tiddlebottom, slamming her hand on the table, causing the flour to billow and get all over her flower-patterned apron.
“Aren’t you? I know I am! And I’m even more afraid of those sisters of hers, if you want to know the truth! From everything you’ve said, they sound like the stuff of nightmares.”
“And so we are!” said someone outside the open window. “We are the stuff of nightmares, and don’t you forget it!”
