It is twenty minutes after Cuthbert and Pleasant stumble from the cottage before Malvolia releases me from the cellar and from her spells. I have twenty minutes, therefore, in which to wonder what shall become of me. Will I be killed viciously, violently, or merely left here until I die of starvation?
For one thing I am grateful that Malvolia intends to deliver me to my father. At least he will know what happened to me, that I did not merely run away with a young man.
Although, in fact, I did do that.
But I cannot resign myself to this fate. I must return to Father to make amends. If I am not to be saved, I must persuade Malvolia to release me of her own free will.
So when I am freed from the spells, I do not complain, as I am inclined to do. Rather, I simply stretch and say, “Thank you, ma’am, for releasing me. After not moving for so long, it feels wonderful to wiggle one’s toes.” I grace her with my sweetest smile.
But the old witch is not charmed by my gratitude. Nay, she merely says, “Relish your movement while you can. You are not long for it. Now, on with your sewing.”
So much for her seeing me as a person, but I do get to sewing with a diligence I never felt for anything resembling work in my former life. I love the feeling of the cold silk between my fingers and, indeed, enjoy seeing it become a dress. Were it not for my situation, I would find it quite satisfying to learn to sew, for I have never done anything so useful before.
This I tell Malvolia, who grunts, “I am not doing it for your entertainment, but enjoy it if you must.”
For the next hours, I sew in silence, the only sound being the steady rhythm of needle in fabric. Finally, the old woman, seeming pleased with the length of my stitches, which I have purposely made minuscule, to take up more time, allows me a small supper of bean soup. I hope that she will not require me to sew any more for the day. I wish to extend the job over as many days as possible.
Over supper, I glance at the departing sun and play with a streamer of silk in my lap. I have stolen it from the leftover scraps for I love its feel. “This is excellent soup,” I say. I eat slowly, one bean at a time.
“Surely not what you are used to at the castle,” she barks.
“Surely not. Mistress Pyrtle, the cook, was no artist with soups. Too salty. But you must remember that?”
No response. I try again.
“I heard you tell the men who came that you used to work at the castle. Is that true?”
Malvolia’s black eyes narrow. “You know ’tis.”
“I know nothing of the sort. I was told nothing.”
“Indeed?” She thinks upon it a bit, staring at the horizon. “No, I am not surprised at that. Why would your father tell you anything other than that I was evil, bent upon your destruction?”
And is that not the truth?
But I say, “Mainly, we discussed what I must avoid—spindles—something I did not do very well. We discussed it…frequently.”
Malvolia laughs. “The spindle-pricking was inevitable. With my spell, I assured it was so. I took great amusement in seeing your father’s pathetic efforts to prevent it.”
To protect me. I wonder why, if it was so inevitable, the old woman bothered to come to the castle herself on the eve of my sixteenth birthday, to present me with the spindle. Was she nervous?
As if hearing my thoughts, Malvolia says, “I brought the spindle myself because I wanted to see that it had been done, so I did it myself.”
Nice. But I say, “I am glad you told me that it was inevitable, for I have been blaming myself, or rather, Father has been blaming me.”
Malvolia laughs. “That does not surprise me. Aye, he was always one to place blame.”
“What did he blame you for that you did not deserve?” I cry out. “You cursed me. You made me sleep three hundred years! And now, when I have been wakened, you are making excuses, saying that the curse was not properly broken, so that you might bring me back.”
I should not have had such an outburst. Now that the scalding words are out, it is impossible to push them back.
“I am speaking of before that, Princess, when I was but a seamstress in the castle, and he was an all-powerful king.”
“What happened?” Can there be a reason for Malvolia’s animosity other than merely not being invited to the party?
“’Tis of no import.” She gestures toward the table. “Clear the dishes, and if you can do so with no more impertinent questions, I will allow you to read to me instead of sewing away the evening. My eyesight is too poor to see the stitches in the waning light, and I do not trust your clumsy hands.”
I suspect her eyesight is perfect. Still, I follow her instructions, then read to her from the only book in the house, the Bible, until the light wanes so that I cannot see, even with a candle.