How to Break an Evil Curse Read online

  However, now that Lillian was standing in the very dungeon itself not even she could pretend it didn’t exist.

  In shaking slippers, she descended the rest of the stairs. She took one deep breath. Two deep breaths. Three. She was, as you’ll have noticed, not that bright, but she was remarkably kind and good, and could be quite brave when confronted with something that went against her sense of what was right. “What is all this?” she squeaked.

  “This is the dungeon, Your Majesty,” Jim waved his arm about vaguely, since to him it seemed the answer was so obvious that the question was utterly unnecessary. What had she expected when she’d come down here? Dames, who could figure them out? “These are the prisoners,” he added helpfully, pointing around to a few men, most of them looking just as confused as he was by their fancy visitor, but nodding or waving a hand as Jim pointed them out.

  “What are their crimes?” she asked. “Surely, they must be murderers, or...” her sheltered existence failed her; she could think of no other really horrible crimes, the kinds that might come close to justifying the dungeon. Again, she asked, “What are their crimes?”

  “Oh, this and that...” Jim shrugged, while at the same time feeling he should have a better answer available for the boss’s wife. Yet another reason he should be more up on the paperwork.

  She looked at him, appalled, and then transferred her gaze to the scrawny fellow hanging by his wrists from the wall. “Why are you here?”

  He looked downright scared to be addressed personally by the Queen, but after a glance at Jim (who nodded that he should respond) he said, “I stole a loaf of bread.”

  She gasped.

  “For my children.” Really, he had no children, but he did have the good sense to milk this situation for all it was worth.

  Her hand flew to her mouth and she swayed just a little on her slippered feet.

  “Who have no mother.” Of course they had no mother. They didn’t exist.

  “The poor darlings! And their father imprisoned for trying to feed them! How long have they been alone? How long have you been down here?”

  “Six months. Little Gretel’s birthday was two weeks ago,” he added piteously.

  Lillian held back a sob and looked around the chamber again through tear-filled eyes. She almost asked the prisoner on the rack what his crime had been but bit her question back before it left her mouth, sure she couldn’t bear another story as painful as the last. (The prisoner on the rack actually was a murderer. If she’d known that she might not have done what she did next, but who knows?)

  “This is ghastly. Ghastly!” She paused and rifled through her brain for something she’d learned from her royalty tutor during her betrothal period. She’d only been married three months, so the info was all still fresh enough in her head for her to say with some authority, “By my authority as the Queen of the Land of Fritillary, I pronounce these men free—to be released this very day!”

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  Especially one of the big creepy pins they used down there in the dungeon.

  “Can she do that?” asked the murderer on the rack, whose thoughts flew to the man who’d turned him in and the revenge he might at last be able to dole out.

  “Yeah, can she?” asked the guy chained to the wall, whose thoughts flew to his kids, who were, as previously discussed, not real, but could be some day if he was released! If he could just get out of there, he’d make some real changes in his life! Renounce his lazy ways, find himself a nice girl (one who’d make his mama proud for a change!)! He’d marry that nice girl and they’d have nice babies who he’d provide with the best of everything! Little Gretel’s lavish dowry would land her a nice young man and then he (the prisoner) would have a brood of nice grandkids who he’d bounce on his knee on summer afternoons, regaling them with endearingly exaggerated tales of his ruffian past and subsequent reformation due to the kindness of the Queen herself. His dear wife would stand arm in arm with Gretel and they’d gaze with fond smiles at him as, in the background, his son-in-law would chop wood for the fire that would cook their nutritious and substantial dinner that he had provided them all. Ah, bliss.

  “Yeah, can she do that?” asked a guard, whose thoughts flew to his job security.

  All eyes were on Jim, whose own gaze darted around nervously. What was going on here? Release all the prisoners? Was this some sort of on-the-job training to test his handling of the situation? Covertly, he glanced up the stairs to see if there was someone in the shadows holding a scroll, checking boxes and marking down his every word.

  But before he could speak, Lillian said imperiously, “Why are you asking him? I am the Queen. Does his word carry more weight in this land, or does mine?”

  All present had the sense to recognize this question as rhetorical.

  “But—but—” Jim said into the silence, quaking in his bloodstained boots. If there was a way to smoothly navigate this rocky workplace situation then he did not have the appropriate skillset. “But if we could perhaps, just ask your husband?”

  The Women’s Rights movement had not taken a firm hold in the Land of Fritillary at this point in its history, since anyone who tried to start up such unnatural nonsense was promptly burned as a witch, but with the jailer’s last sentence, the cause of feminism gained a recruit too powerful to be silenced.

  Chapter Four

  About a half-hour later, down an alley in the shadow of the castle, Daisy was woken from a dead sleep by a very official-sounding pounding on her front door. She stumbled to the door and found she had been correct in her appraisal, for there stood a small troop of official-looking soldiers, one of whom demanded in an official-sounding tone of voice that she come with him, pronto.

  That’s how Daisy found herself, head spinning with all sorts of wild, horrible thoughts, stumbling through the midnight streets of the city on her way to the castle. She knew this was something bad because, as the Royal Interior Decorator, she had been escorted to the castle many times but always in the light of day with one friendly escort, not in the middle of the night with two surly soldiers in front of her and two surly soldiers behind her, boxing her in as though expecting her to try and escape.

  Was the Queen unhappy with the new flower arrangements in the main hall? There had been some trouble with one of the new chairs for the banquet table, but she had thought the squeaking had been repaired. And, seriously, could troubles with the decor really get her in as much trouble as she felt sure she must be in? She had not held her position at the castle for very long, so she didn’t know yet how things were handled when something went wrong, but this simply had to be excessive.

  The guards were no help. They either hadn’t been informed of the reason she was being summoned to the castle, or they knew and weren’t telling. All they said was that the Queen had insisted it was urgent.

  Daisy’s anxiety increased when she arrived at the castle and was brought not through the main gates, but down a path around the side of the massive building and past the stables to a small, unadorned, heavily guarded back door. Then a short walk down a dark passage, and through another door, and then down, down, down an endless stone staircase worn with age and countless footsteps of the condemned. The longer she walked, the more convinced she became that there was only one place she could possibly be headed.

  The dungeon.

  And she was familiar enough with the rumors to know that people rarely left the dungeon.

  What could she possibly have done to anger the Queen this much? Would she be given a chance to offer some sort of defense for whatever her crimes were supposed to have been? The Queen had seemed so kind and down-to-earth—there had to have been some ghastly sort of misunderstanding. Daisy wished she had at least been able to bid her family farewell. She hoped someone would inform them where she was so they wouldn’t have to wonder, but that was unlikely considering the air of mystery surroundi
ng the dungeon. How long would it take for people to notice she was gone? Would anyone think to water her houseplants and feed her bird?

  Finally, legs shaking and on the verge of tears, she reached the bottom of the stairs and found herself standing in the high-ceilinged, huge main torture chamber. Appropriately gothic torches lit the perimeter and a slimy drop of condensation plinked down from the ceiling and onto the bridge of her nose. But, aside from the torches and the gross condensation, nothing about the dungeon was as she might have expected.

  In fact, the scene before her eyes was confusing enough to jar her out of her despair and fear. There was an army of maids scouring the walls and floors, while a group of guards stood in one corner around an evil-looking device, scratching their heads. Daisy overheard one of them mumble, “Are we sure this thing can be disassembled?”

  Another answered, “Well, it sure wasn’t carried down all those stairs in its current state. There must be a way to get it apart. Look, I think we need an Allen wrench right there—”

  A few more guards were removing some chains from the walls and dropping them into an open crate labeled, “STORAGE. Chains—Dungeon.”

  And there didn’t appear to be any prisoners anywhere.

  Then, just when Daisy thought things couldn’t get weirder, the Queen herself bustled into sight, waving her arms about at this and that, dictating something to the woman trailing behind her who was scribbling frantically on a scroll of paper. Seeing Daisy, the Queen cried, “Ah! Perfect! You made excellent time!”

  Daisy sank into a curtsy, and it was a good thing she’d recovered from much of her fear, otherwise her legs might not have permitted her to stand again when the Queen told her, “Yes, yes, up you get. We have work to do.”

  By the time Daisy had found her way back to her feet, the Queen was already on the move, so Daisy scampered after her, since she was obviously expected to be following.

  “Of course, you’re the professional here,” the Queen was saying, “but I was thinking lots of rugs. Nice, thick rugs. This stone is just so cold. And tapestries. And paint. What do you think of paint?”

  “Paint?” Daisy repeated through a whirl of confusion.

  “For the walls, dear,” Her Majesty said helpfully.

  “But…what? I don’t—”

  The Queen looked at her for a long, baffled moment and then said, “Oh! Didn’t anyone tell you why you are here?”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  “Oh goodness! You poor dear! You must be rather confused.”

  Try petrified, Daisy thought, but only said, in a meek little voice, “Rather, Your Highness.”

  “You’re here to turn this dungeon into a nursery!” she said with a glowing smile.

  “I’m—Oh!” Daisy felt relief wash over her. She was not going to be imprisoned for a bad choice in decorating after all. “Oh!” she reiterated, this time in surprise—the relief had made her legs go weak all over again. There being no seating, she staggered back a few paces and leaned against the cold stone wall. Daisy took a few deep breaths. She would be all right!

  Lillian watched Daisy’s reaction for a few moments, apparently not understanding what was up with her decorator, then a look of comprehension dawned on the Queen’s face. “Oh, you thought you were going to be imprisoned! Silly me! I’ve been so distracted lately.”

  Daisy gaped at her and then remembered just who it was she was staring at and instead looked at the ground, secretly fuming that she’d had to go through all that trauma just because the Queen was a flake. But Daisy was, as previously stated, the professional here, and she gathered she had a job to do. She tucked away her emotions to deal with later, cleared her throat, stood up tall, and said, “So, I’m here to turn the dungeon into a…nursery.” Odd. Royal folks did have the strangest notions. And she knew the Queen was born a commoner, so inbreeding (the usual reason the commoners used to explain away royal craziness) was not to blame.

  The Queen nodded and began to explain to Daisy all about the curse.

  Elsewhere about the castle, Conroy was just finding out that his wife had set free every prisoner from the dungeon.

  “WHAT?” a red-faced Conroy exploded, flying out of his gigantic, ritzy throne and staring with bugging eyes at one of his advisors whose name he was always forgetting—they were all old and bald and crabby, and forever suggesting he do all sorts of boring stuff when he’d rather be hunting or playing croquet. (He was the King, for goodness sake! Of all people in the kingdom he should be the one who got to do whatever he wanted.)

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” returned the cowering advisor. “I heard a report that a hoard of emaciated and bedraggled men had descended upon the city saying they had been released from the dungeon. Released by, er, the Queen,” he finished in a hesitant whisper. “I personally went down to the dungeon to confirm it, and it is—” gulp—“true.”

  Conroy spluttered and gestured wildly but no words came, so he just gave another roar of rage and then stormed down the steps of the royal dais. He had strode all the way down the vast, marble-pillared, gem-encrusted, gold-leafed throne room and reached the massive carved ebony double doors before the echoes of his yell had even died out. “Seriously, what in blazes is the woman thinking?!” he thundered.

  His rage did not abate one iota as he stormed and stomped and cursed his way down toward the dungeon, sending maids and guards and other palace folks diving for cover. But the further he got down the stone stairs, and the closer he got to an ugly confrontation with his lady love, the more his steps slowed and his face drained of anger. He didn’t like fighting with Lillian—well, he’d never actually fought with her so he didn’t know for sure, but he was nearly one hundred percent sure that he didn’t want to do it.

  Let me, in my omniscient glory, let you know how a fight would have unfolded: She would have cried, he would have felt guilty, and they’d both just have ended up apologizing and nothing would have gotten accomplished except they’d both have been upset for a while. They were definitely one of those couples who should avoid screaming matches in favor of well-reasoned, respectful conversations, but unfortunately neither of them were really evolved enough to handle that either, so instead, in the future, they ended up bottling stuff up and exploding with passive aggressive comments every now and then.

  “Darling,” Conroy said nonchalantly (though inside he was still slightly fuming) when he finally reached the dungeon and saw Lillian talking to some lady not outfitted in a maid or cook uniform. “What’s going on down here? I got a report that, um, you released all the prisoners? And, why are they cleaning?” He pointed around at the maids, though they had currently abandoned their cleaning to bend in low bows.

  Lillian had been studying a sketch that Daisy had been scribbling on a scroll of paper, but when Daisy realized that she was in the presence of the King, she had collapsed into a bow, too, taking the scroll with her. Lillian gave Conroy a glowing smile and said, “Of course I let them go, darling! We need a place for—oh, but this is not how I would have chosen to tell you! I had been hoping to spring the news over a dinner of baby back ribs, baby carrots, and those darling little tiny corn cob things.”

  Conroy, as usual, looked confused.

  “Dear,” she said, rushing to him and clasping his hands in hers, “Dear darling love, we are going to have a child!”

  Conroy stared at her for a moment, and then broke into a huge, genuine grin.

  There was much laughing, hugging, kissing, and spinning of the queen around the floor of the dungeon. There was, in fact, more happiness condensed into the span of five minutes than had ever occurred in the dungeon before in the entirety of its existence.

  After a time, however, Conroy became subdued as he looked at his surroundings once more and realized why all this bustle in the dungeon was going on. Farland’s curse. His child was going to be stuck down here forever—or until the dratted curse w
as broken. “The dungeon,” he murmured, “Yes, I suppose it does make sense. No sunlight at all.”

  Lillian met his eyes and produced a brave smile. “We’ll make the best of it, Dearest. I have the greatest decorator on the job, so the place will at least look much better. And we must stop thinking of this as a dungeon. We must stop that mindset. Right now.”

  He nodded resolutely. Yes.

  “Daisy is a simply splendid decorator—” she said with a gesture in the direction of where Daisy had been, only to realize that she was still prostrating herself before the King. Lillian hadn’t yet been married to Conroy for very long, and so hadn’t gotten used to one of those most annoying things about being royal: people were forever dropping to the floor at one’s feet, and one had to remember to tell them to rise.

  Conroy was used to it, though. “Ah yes,” he said. “That lady who’s not a maid or a cook.” He peered at the top of Daisy’s head.

  “Oh, do get up,” Lillian said, still vaguely embarrassed by being groveled at. “Everyone,” she added to the rest of the room. Everyone popped up and got back to work. Bustle, bustle; flurry, flurry.

  Daisy brushed off her dress (wishing she hadn’t worn one of her finest, because it was going to be impossible to clean) then walked over to the Royal Couple in response to Conroy’s beckoning finger. As she moved toward him, a man scurried between them chasing a rat, his thickly-gloved hands extended before him.

  “You. Decorator.” Conroy spoke to Daisy.

  “Your Highness?”

  “This place is to be perfect for my child. Perfect. You shall have no budget to concern yourself with. Spend whatever you need, hire whomever you think will perform the job best. Understand?”

  Daisy nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  He turned his back on her without another word, and said to his wife, “Darling, I’m sorry but I must go talk to my advisors. Urgently.” He didn’t add that the reason for this urgency was that he had a gigantic problem on his hands. There were now many violent criminals roaming the city—and lots of innocent people who had been wrongly imprisoned. He didn’t know which group he feared the most, but he did know that he had a situation on his hands. A situation so serious he actually felt the need to address it himself, instead of ignoring it or pushing it off on someone else.