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noticed she had bitten him. He scrambled away from her, looking in horror at the no-longer-secret monster she was. “But you’re just a little girl!” he shouted. “This can’t be happening!”
People are always underestimating little girls in the woods. He ran back in to pick up the ax, but his steps got slow and heavy as the bite mark throbbed and turned cold.
It was already too late.
Little Dead Riding Hood still loved too.
Back at the castle, Jack had left in such disgrace, the king and queen were in a quandary. A quandary is sort of like a quarry, if instead of rocks you mined problems and troubles. And there was no way out. And it was slowly filling with water. Or, worse, pease porridge.
They had no servants left. Everyone was either in the dungeons thanks to the last princess, or had called in sick and then never come back. (They didn’t have phones, of course, but they had messenger pigeons. The last few notes they had gotten were “too sick,” “really too sick,” and, most puzzling of all, “arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh.”)
The queen sat on her throne. Her hair, normally teased and curled and primped for several hours each morning, hung limply. Her face, normally teased and curled and primped for several hours each morning, also hung limply. She couldn’t figure out how to dress herself. She’d never done it before! She didn’t know how to tie a knot or a bow, so this morning she was wrapped in a golden tablecloth. She couldn’t even move her arms, which were pinned to her sides.
The king was far worse off. He couldn’t stand up. Every time he tried, his velvet pants fell all the way to the floor. And though his underwear was expensive, he still didn’t want everyone to see it. (It had miniature knights riding pink unicorns. He really loved unicorns. It’s the only thing I can agree with him on.)
All this was bad enough. But with no servants, there was no one to take care of the prince. The king and queen both looked with dread toward the door to the tower where they kept him.
“We have to do something,” the queen said.
“We do,” the king agreed.
“Have you heard back from the stepmother I wanted to hire?”
The king sighed. “She was interested, until she found out that you were still alive. Apparently that disqualifies us from needing a stepmother.”
“It’s not my fault I’m still alive!”
The king patted her hand. “I know, my dear. She was being very unreasonable.”
The queen slumped in her chair. She had always considered herself an exclamation mark, but now she knew it was because her corsets had been so tight she had no other choice. Without a corset, she was like a comma. She hated commas! They dragged everything out, linking one thought to the next, making sentences longer, and longer, and longer, until you didn’t even know where the sentence started or why you were still reading it, because the stupid writer kept putting in commas instead of ending the sentence like a sane, normal, pleasant person would, and now she was a comma instead of an exclamation point, the forceful end of a sentence, which made her feel like her life was nothing but a pause, followed by a pause, with no end in
Well. You get what she felt like.
“We need a princess,” the king said.
“There are no princesses!”
“Maybe if we were less picky? I could … handle some singing. A little. Now and then.” He grimaced, looking like a toad. That look was helped by the fact that he was wearing several green cushions glued to his waist instead of a shirt.
“I would take a singing princess, too, but we can’t! The last princess meant it when she said our whole kingdom is grounded. She built a wall of magic vines around everything. No one can get in. And we can’t get out.” The queen was very bitter about this. It was brilliant and mean. She should have thought of it herself as punishment for someone else! Oh, that horrible, wonderful princess. She was going to make the best queen ever someday. (Actually, the princess would assume the title of Supreme Mother Principal Dictator. We were right about her!)
“Forget princesses, then!” the king said. “We just need a wife for him. Any wife.”
“Preferably someone with cleaning skills.” The queen eyed several dust bunnies in the corner that were growing to be more like dust wildebeests.
“How will we choose?”
“Throw a party!” she said. Her stomach growled angrily. “A potluck party.” Even Jack, that horrible idiot who had ruined everything, had left them. Not that she would have eaten anything he cooked, but still. “We should make it a ball. All those long dresses will sweep the floor. And if we invite everyone in the whole kingdom, surely there will be someone willing to marry our son.”
The king made a strangled noise of disapproval. Think of the noise your mom makes when she picks up the socks you’ve been wearing for the last week without washing them. Sort of like that.
The queen bit her lip. Normally her lips were painted red, but she didn’t know how to use her own makeup. Today she had put mascara on them, and her lips did look very full and long! And also black. “You’re right. We can’t have a normal courtship. They’ll figure out the truth. I know! We’ll let him pick. And whoever he picks has to marry him. Immediately.”
“It will work,” the king said, looking nervously at the locked door that led to the tower that led to their son.
“It has to work,” the queen whispered.
Meanwhile, in that same kingdom, it was a dark and stormy night.
