The Girl in the Glass Box Read online

  "All right. Well, hurry back, okay?"

  Her kissed the top of her head. "Of course, my love."

  "Send for Marnie, at once,” Agrippine's urgent command sent a quivering young page out the doors of the Great Hall in a blur.

  A few minutes passed before Marnie toddled in as fast as her stout body could carry her. Her face was flushed red, and she wheezed as she approached the throne. "Ye-Yes, Your Highness. What is it I can do for you? I…I was certain that you were not in need of my service this late in the morning since you are —"

  "Enough!"

  Marnie snapped her mouth shut and kept her eyes focused on the floor, as she bent arthritically in two before the queen.

  "Where is the princess?"

  "She finished her breakfast and her morning lessons in arithmetic and Latin and then went to the stables to tend on her foal."

  Agrippine frowned. "You say she ate her breakfast?"

  "Yes, Your Highness. In the conservatory instead of the dining hall like you requested."

  "Did she eat it all?"

  "Yes, ma'am, every single bite. I wouldn't let her leave until her plate was cleared completely. I think you are right in saying she has become too thin. I will be sure to watch her diet more closely."

  Agrippine's chest tightened, and her gaze narrowed upon the squat woman. The effects of the spell should have been immediate. She bit down on the inside of her cheek so hard that the salt of blood coated her tongue. Pain radiated in her jaw from clenching it so tightly, and instead, she pulled her mouth into a tight line.

  "That'll be all," she said. "Leave me be. I will not entertain audience today. Everybody just go."

  Like cockroaches fleeing from the light, the Great Hall cleared before her command stopped echoing off the walls. Agrippine lowered her head and pinched her fingers around the bridge of her nose. A headache was mounting as her blood pressure continued to climb.

  She lifted her head and exhaled with force.

  "Fine, her protection from magic is perhaps limiting. I must bide my time until she comes of age. In the meantime, I can find other ways to incapacitate her. Just a little ingenuity. She may be protected, but, lucky for me, she's the only one who is."

  7

  "Feet shoulder width apart, back straight, left arm up, foil gripped tightly in the right. Like we've been doing." Oliver struck a pose resembling a dignified knight, not much smaller in stature than those painted in the gallery frames.

  She attempted to mirror his stance. She felt awkward. Fencing lessons always transformed her into a mess of body parts and imbalance. She contorted her body in an uncomfortable position, and the rapier felt heavy in her weak limb. This had been their sixth week, and she still tripped over her own two feet more times than not.

  "Explain again, what exactly is this hand doing?" she said, waving her raised left hand at him playfully, flapping it like a little wing.

  "It isn't doing anything, yet. It is there for balance and poise, your two strongest attributes. Like a delicate flower."

  "Haha, very funny. You better watch it, once I get good at this, you'll be sorry you've been such a jokester."

  "Yeah, I think I have some time before I have to worry about that." He smirked at her, his dimple ever prominent, and she couldn't help but be charmed.

  He clapped his hands, and the sound echoed through the empty corridor of the stable. "Ok now, concentrate. We're going to go back to the basics with your footwork. Listen carefully, you're going to advance starting on your right foot, concentrating on stepping on the heel of your foot and rolling to your toe. Your left foot will follow. Front foot — heel, toe, back foot — step. Again. heel, toe, step. Got that?"

  A tentative nod.

  "Okay, now, try it again," he said. Genevieve's mind reeled as she concentrated on the pattern of the steps, so much so that she allowed her right arm to droop.

  "No, no," he said. "I told you before, you can't lower your sword. Keep it engaged, angled to the ground."

  "It's hard to consider everything at once. I have my stomach sucked in, my shoulders straightened, my sword engaged, my feet prancing about. This is too hard. We've been at this for weeks now, and I'm not getting any better. I don't think this is for me."

  "Genevieve Renault. I will not allow you to quit. True, it's challenging, but you are not a quitter. You're smart, quick. You can get this. You just need to practice. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know." He winked at her. "Let's break it down again."

  "Can I use a lighter sword perhaps? This one is too weighted, it's hard for me to hold."

  "No. You need to practice with one a bit heavier, to strengthen those puny arms of yours." He playfully squeezed her bicep, which was even more dwarfed by the size of his hand. "It's difficult now, but in time you will grow accustomed to its weight, and it will begin to feel lighter. Now, let’s start again. Stand up straight. Left arm up, right arm out. And advance at me slowly. Heel, toe, back foot step. Heel, toe, step."

  As she moved toward him, her feet responded to his command. Heel, toe, step. Heel, toe, step. Almost involuntarily.

  "Yes. Good, Snow, keep going."

  She continued to advance toward him, step by step. She felt as light as air and almost forgot about the weighted rapier in her hand. She kept her eyes focused on his. They drew her nearer. She moved like a magnet being pulled toward a force she did not understand, but she didn't fight it. She forgot about her ordinarily awkward limbs and the difficulty of the steps. Her body parts were, for once, in sync, and she moved lithely through the corridor. When he smiled at her, her breath hitched in her chest and swelled until she was sure she was floating.

  A clatter down at the end of the corridor shattered her concentration. The trance was broken, and Genevieve, in a panic, threw the foil into an empty stall and shoved Oliver in there with it.

  Just as she was closing the stall door she heard the clunky footsteps of Marshal Pommière clacking closer.

  "Your Highness, what are you doing down here at this time?" he said. "It's almost dark, and it is not safe for you to be here unattended." A tight belt cinched his fat belly, causing it to jiggle when he spoke. He fixed his hands on his hips and secured his face in a scowl of disapproval.

  "I was just finishing up with Belle, Monsieur, and was then set to head inside for my evening bath."

  "Excellent, I will walk you back then."

  "No!" She blurted. "I mean, no thank you. It won't be necessary. I will be along shortly."

  He stiffened and straightened his shoulders. "Your Highness, I must insist. It is too dark for me to allow you to traverse alone. Come along now." Her posture shrank when she knew she had no argument left. She glanced back at the stall and thought of Oliver hiding all alone in the dark.

  A few days later, Genevieve found herself exhausted from a long day of studies. She hadn't even had a chance to visit with Belle or see Oliver. Agrippine had requested her presence at dinner — quite a rare invitation. Therefore, Genevieve dressed and mentally prepared herself for a painfully awkward evening.

  Tension lingered in the air like acrid smoke, but she did her best to not fidget. She sat with the queen at a long banquet table and awaited the dinner service.

  "Any word on Father's return?" Genevieve asked as she pulled a roll from a basket and broke it into small pieces upon her plate.

  "No. Seems he'll be detained for quite a bit longer." Agrippine kept her hands folded upon the table and her face taut like she had eaten something sour.

  "Oh…" Genevieve toyed with the breadcrumbs on her plate and pushed them around to create a little pile.

  The bustle of the kitchen staff and the servants kept her attention in the silence. Their jangling and jostling seemed louder than ever in the large room. She wanted dinner to be over quickly, as she did every time she had to dine alone with her stepmother. Genevieve's stomach grumbled, and she placed her hands upon it in hopes of quieting the sound. She realized she hadn't really eaten much all day. Her stomach growled a
gain, this time at the smell of thick gravy and sumptuous meats. The thick scent of root vegetables and rosemary all simmering in a pot of stew made her mouth water. She snatched her spoon, even before the crock was placed at her setting.

  She nodded at a familiar servant. "This smells incredible. Merci." Before she could even tuck her napkin onto her lap, Genevieve drove the spoon into the stew and stuffed it into her mouth. "Hah…hah...hot!" The heat did nothing to slow her down. After a few more mouthfuls, she exclaimed, "Thish ish delischioush," sending a small chunk of meat soaring out of her open mouth.

  "Genevieve!" Agrippine said. "You know better than to speak with your mouth full. It is disgusting and unladylike. Act like a princess, would you? François, clean that up. Cleanliness! Cleanliness!" Agrippine swiped at her own hands with her napkin, even though she hadn't touched one bite of her dinner.

  After finishing every last bite, Genevieve sat back. That must have been a record. She'd never eaten so fast in her life. Maybe she was just that famished. Maybe it was just so delicious. Or maybe it was because she just wanted to be dismissed from Agrippine's uncomfortable company.

  Genevieve rested her hands upon her bloated stomach. She felt satisfied and a little tired, now that the stew was beginning to settle.

  "It seems you enjoyed that," said Agrippine, her bowl still completely untouched.

  "Yes, Your Majesty. It was wonderful. You should try a bite. I'm certain you'd enjoy it."

  "I don't want you spending time with that foal anymore, understand?"

  "Wait… what?"

  "That stupid foal you've been messing with. No more of it, you hear? It's filthy and not a job for a princess. How am I to marry you off if you spend your days in the stables like a peasant? Your future marriage is my greatest concern, as it is the greatest opportunity to benefit from your obnoxious existence." She sneered as she spoke, as if she was watching a weevil skitter across the table.

  "But—" Genevieve started.

  "But nothing. There is no argument to be made against my order since I've eliminated the temptation for you."

  "Eliminated the temptation? What…what do you mean?"

  "She made for a tasty meal, now didn't she? Apparently so, you've licked your bowl clean." Agrippine took her spoon in her hand and, without taking her eyes from Genevieve, she consumed her first bite. "Eat up, there's plenty."

  Genevieve gagged and her eyes brimmed with tears. Could Agrippine really be so wicked? Was this just a cruel joke? Without waiting to be dismissed, Genevieve jumped up from the table, knocking her chair backward onto the floor, and took off in the direction of the stables. She had to see for herself.

  The pounding of her feet on the cement breezeway was like cannon fire booming through the stables. When she rounded the corner, she gasped at seeing Belle's stall door open. She approached with apprehension, as if slowing would make the nightmare reverse. Vomit threatened to creep up her throat from her stomach, but she fought to hold it down. She peered in and found an empty stall. Nothing but hay and an unfilled feed bucket. Genevieve dropped to her knees, dizzy with the idea of what Agrippine had done. She curled into a ball on the floor of hay and cried.

  8

  Oliver and Genevieve sat behind the garden wall, hidden by the rampart and tucked within the shadows out of sight, lost in a world of their own. They'd grown inseparable over the months since Belle's death, spending as many hours together as they could without being noticed. The air smelled of lavender and mint, honeyed and temperate as it lingered in the springtime breeze. Genevieve's head rested upon Oliver's lap, his knees bent up pointing skyward. Her flowing black hair swept over his thighs. He played with the wisps of her locks with one hand while the other held a tattered book. She closed her eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of their moment together in the descending dusk and listened to his thick voice articulate each word.

  He read aloud, the way he did every night, a tale about a young boy who dreamed of knighthood and bravery. However, having come from the lowest class, the boy would never be eligible to face off in a joust for a position at the king's round table. Though he worked every day on his combat skills, the boy knew his status would never allow him to fulfill his dream. Therefore, he ventured off through the Forrest of Ambition to find the Proprietor of Destiny in order to beg for his fate to be rewritten. On his journey, he faced off with dragons and giants and all fearsome things, until he finally made it to the lair of the Proprietor of Destiny.

  Upon arrival, the boy begged for the Proprietor to change his stars and rewrite the ending that had already been written in the Great Spirit Book of Divine Rite. However, the Proprietor professed that his request was impossible, for no one but the boy could change Destiny. The Proprietor carefully explained, "Even though one may desire a certain outcome in life, certain dreams, certain ambitions, a certain destiny, you must understand you may have already achieved it without your knowing. Perception, my boy, holds infinite wisdom, victories and defeats, joys and despairs. Seek what you are looking for and you may find that you already have it."

  But the wise words imparted by the Proprietor only discouraged the boy, who returned home and abandoned his dream, never realizing he already possessed the characteristics of bravery and fortitude all along. Even his very arduous journey to seek out the Proprietor had strengthened in him the skills needed for a life of knighthood.

  The boy forfeited his greatest ambition because of the restrictions of his class and the limitations he placed upon himself, and worked, instead, as a farrier, following in the footsteps of his father.

  "How terribly sad," Genevieve said. She had heard the tale a hundred times before, all with the same syllabic emphasis, all in the same smooth tone, though over time Oliver's voice had gradually deepened.

  "Why do you read this story so often?" she said. "It is such a sad tale."

  "It isn't sad. It serves as inspiration. I read it to remind myself to never sacrifice my own dreams because of my limited perspective. I am not wise enough to know what is in store for me, nor am I too foolish to realize I could follow in this boy's similar path. I must not be complacent and must appreciate that I may have within me more than I realize. And so do you."

  "Not this again, please. Can we not have this conversation tonight? I am enjoying this moment, being here with you. Let's not ruin it."

  She turned back to face the descending sun. It was amazing they both interpreted the story so differently. She found herself thinking that, despite the fact she could almost recite it by heart, she never realized the story's strange parallel to the two of them.

  She shifted to gaze at Oliver with a changed focus. "Though I understand your interpretation, I deduced a different meaning this evening. I can't help but empathize with how difficult it is to want something so badly, even though it is outside of your reach, outside of your class, and feel like it is always past your grasp." She eyed him intently as she spoke, while her heart thrummed in her chest.

  She inhaled and held it, the air expanding her lungs under her ribs. She continued to stare at him and concentrated on the buzz of emotions burbling through her limbs.

  "It certainly is more difficult than anything I've ever known." He reflected for a moment before continuing. "For as many years as I have been reading and rereading this story, I have never understood it quite as I have tonight. I never want to be the man who gives up on what makes my heart happiest. I know I would rather die fighting for love then squander it, not when I could have fought to keep it alive." Oliver's voice had lowered, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "It isn't fair to want something so badly and to know you cannot have it. I… I feel that way when … when I look at you."

  Genevieve's eyes widened at his confession. She couldn't draw her gaze away from his, taking in his defined jaw line and thick lashes. He peered down at her with a distinct sadness in his eyes, and before she could say another word, he lowered his mouth to hers and pressed his lips against her own. His lips, dry but soft. His kiss, gentl
e but fervent. His breath, warm but fragrant. Nectarous. Inexperienced in physical intimacy, she allowed him to pace the progression of the kiss for the first few moments, until she sat herself up and kissed him back with a longing she didn't think possible or proper.

  An electric pulse of both surprise and pleasure jolted through her, as they lingered in the heat radiating from their bodies and the warm evening air. Oliver instantly seized her waist and pulled her closer, the kiss intensifying with their increasing closeness. Soon, they were breathless, her fingers fumbling through his hair.

  He moved his weight over her, with his hands behind her back, and laid her down, never forfeiting the contact of the kiss. And though her head was spinning and the dusky sky closed in around her, she didn't want the kiss to end. A spectacular whirlwind of color cascaded in the dusk, and she realized, she wanted to stay with him, locked in that embrace for the rest of time, frozen in that perfect moment. All the while, Oliver's respectful hesitation kept her comfortable, yet hungry for more. When she drew her face from his to look into his eyes, a flash of insight zapped in her brain.

  "I wish I wasn't the princess," she said as she drew him close and exhaled the words into his neck.

  He pulled away from her. "Please don't say that, not now. I know it's what you think, but I do wish you wouldn't say it."

  "Well, why not? If I wasn't the princess we could be together. Without limits, without hiding. I'd forfeit it all for a life with you."

  "You know I'm not the only reason you'd leave your life as royalty. You don't want the responsibility."

  She thought about being cross about his accusation, but then realized it was true. She didn't want the responsibility. She'd rather be able to make her own choices, decide her own destiny. "You're right. I'm like the boy in the story except, I know what I have and I know what I'm not. I'm not a strong, spitfire leader like my father. I'm not meant to lead. Can't that just be enough? Can't you love me in spite of that? We all weren't born to lead, you know."