The Fairytale Trilogy: Fairytale, The Emperor's Realm, and The Three Crowns

By Valerie Gribben

Welcome to the wonder-filled world of The Fairytale Trilogy, where magic is far more than smoke and mirrors . . . The three novels in this book—Fairytale, The Emperor's Realm, and The Three Crowns—chronicle the adventures of Marianne and her brother Robin as they come of age in an enchanted land where frogs talk, fantastical creatures prowl, and danger doesn't stop at the edge of a dark forest. Though steeped in the tradition of classic fairy tales, The Fairytale Trilogy presents an engagingly fresh story with a modern sensibility.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NewSouth Books
• Release date: Jan 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781603060677

Valerie Gribben

NewSouth Books published VALERIE GRIBBEN’s first novel, Fairytale, in 2003, when she was seventeen. She majored in English at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, where she was a USA Today First Team Academic All-American. As an undergraduate, Valerie founded Healing Words, a volunteer group of students who read to hospital patients and nursing-home residents. She is currently enrolled in the University of Alabama's medical program, where she created a group for students to share writings about their experiences as medical students and read works by physician-authors. Valerie completed two sequels to Fairytale while in college and medical school -- The Emperor’s Realm and The Three Crowns; the three are collected in The Fairytale Trilogy. Bestselling author R. A. Nelson calls The Fairytale Trilogy "fast-paced, imaginative, and delightful, with wonderful characters!" Valerie's op-ed "Practicing Medicine Can Be Grimm Work," about the role fairy tales play in medicine, appeared in The New York Times on June 30, 2011.

Book preview

The Fairytale Trilogy

Fairytale

The Emperor’s Realm

The Three Crowns

Valerie Gribben

Junebug Books

Montgomery | Louisville

Junebug Books

105 S. Court Street

Montgomery, AL 36104

Copyright © 2010 by Valerie Gribben. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Junebug Books, a division of NewSouth, Inc., Montgomery, Alabama.

ISBN: 978-1-58838-251-1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-60306-067-7

LCCN: 2010013305

Visit www.newsouthbooks.com

Dedications

Book One

To my father Alan

who read to me every night

Book Two

To Walter

Book Three

To my mother Irene

who gave me roots and wings

Contents

Book One

Fairytale

Book Two

The Emperor’s Realm

Book Three

The Three Crowns

First Crown

Second Crown

Third Crown

book1partillusgs2.tif

BOOK ONE

Fairytale

Chapter the First

The buzzing of the dragonflies on the hot, humid day seemed intoxicatingly enchanting to Marianne’s idle mind. She had been lying for nearly an hour on her favorite rock, which protruded over her father’s fish pond, simply watching the swarm hover. Each time a dragonfly landed on a grass stalk, the stem bent far over and dipped into the pond, creating ripples that sent the tiny minnows darting off to the other shore. Why can’t I lead the life of a dragonfly? thought Marianne, observing an especially large specimen forcing a smaller one off a lily pad. Flying where I want, doing as I please, living the way I want to live. Her reverie was interrupted by the disappearance of the bully dragonfly into the pond at the end of a very long pink tongue.

Marianne hopped up with a gasp. All the nearby dragonflies flew backwards in apparent surprise. At Marianne’s feet, two sparkling, golden orbs emerged from the water followed by the slippery emerald body of a frog that pulled itself with deliberate effort onto her rock.

And the reason for you spending one twenty-fourth of your day staring at my private ecosystem when you should be inside passing your final hours of freedom doing needlework to make your parents proud would be . . .? His long, wet fingers began drumming on the rock in a jaded manner.

"Because putting in time on needlework would make my parents proud, replied Marianne. And please, Prince, is it too much to ask that you not eat your meals in front of me? Ugh!"

My sincere apologies, Annie, but as of now you are in this particular amphibian’s environment. If I had wanted to have my legs sautéed in butter, I would have gone over to your place.

Sheesh, you retrieve one lousy little ball, and somehow you think that gives you license to mouth off to me. I’m saying my farewells to my old life. Not that moving three miles away is exactly broadening my horizons, but after the wedding tomorrow I’m sure my father won’t let me return with anything short of a royal warrant. Once I’m out, my parents finally can brag that they have compliant children, said Marianne sadly, crouching next to the frog.

"Don’t be so harsh. They are your parents."

Marianne’s comely face took on a thoughtful expression. Do you think Brantford would let you transfer ponds to be with me?

Do you truly suppose your husband would want to have your attentions shared with a creature of a different species?

Point taken, Marianne said with a sigh. In that case, then, good-bye.

What? asked the frog. No kiss for the handsome Prince?

It didn’t work before, so I doubt that a second kiss would change your situation, said Marianne as she straightened up. All you gained from that experience was your name. And all I got besides disappointment were extremely slimy lips.

Second time’s the charm, said Prince, puckering up. And, he continued, widening one eye, may I add that you have also received a lifetime guarantee of laughter and friendship whenever you need an aquatic ear to listen. Now, if that doesn’t merit another try, this Prince is clueless as to what does.

Marianne leaned down and dropped a quick kiss on his moist forehead.

Good-bye, sweet Prince, Marianne whispered huskily as she gave him a parting glance.

’Til we meet again, my love, he said wistfully.

Marianne turned away so he wouldn’t see her tears.

Inside Kingbriton Manor, Marianne dried her eyes, lest she be seen by the household. Keep up appearances, even if no one here cares whether I live or cry. Marianne’s parents had seen to it that she would be isolated until she was ready to behave like every other respectable maiden, but Marianne had an innate streak of independence that even reprimands and punishments failed to diminish.

Why should girls be confined to embroidery? She’d lived her childhood frolicking in the forest trying to catch rabbits and pixies and plunging and swimming in the nearby waters with Prince and some local boys. Marianne had even asked Pip the stable hand to teach her how to use a sword. Although her fencing, as Pip put it, ought not to be depended upon if you want to live, Marianne relished her awkward attempts.

But since her fifteenth birthday, Marianne had found her world shrinking. She alone still ran through the forests and jumped into the streams; all the boys had been apprenticed or were in training for knighthood, and the girls of the town were either forbidden to speak with such an uncouth child or had already married.

Marianne wondered vaguely whether Brantford would approve of a wife who probably had read more than he. Despite the locks placed upon her family’s library doors, duplicate keys had allowed Marianne, late at night, to sneak along the corridors in search of unread material. Does he even have a library? Marianne wondered.

Oof! Hey! Watch where you’re going, said a well-dressed youth whom Marianne had accidentally bumped while lost in thought.

Oh. Hello, Edward! greeted Marianne, looking around her older brother; it wasn’t very often she could talk to him away from his usual crowd of simpering admirers.

Uhm. Hello, uh . . . umm . . .

You haven’t the foggiest idea who I am, do you? asked Marianne.

No, no, I do. I really do remember you . . . uh . . . Alice? he guessed.

Marianne turned around.

No! Elizabeth? Katherine? No, she’s in Wyncliff. I’ve got it! Elinor! he declared with obvious triumph.

Edward, I’m Marianne! she exclaimed, rounding on him. He reacted with a blank look. Your sister!

Ahh, my dear little Marianne. Of course, he said, a beatific smile spreading across his chiseled face, displaying two neat rows of even, white teeth. What can I do for you today, Marianne? he added with a roguish wink that seemed to indicate it was their little joke that he had forgotten she existed.

Marianne also mustered a dazzling smile. Good-bye, Edward. I’ll certainly miss . . . well, whatever we shared.

As Marianne retreated, Edward motioned a waiting servant to his side. See what the kitchen can do for supper.

Chapter the Second

So this is what it feels like the night before you get married. Marianne studied the view outside her high, open windows. Storm clouds roiled in the wind’s gusts, and thunder claps vibrated her hand on the windowsill. An abrupt knock at the door elicited a jerk of her head and returned her thoughts to the manor. Before she had time to reply, the door was pushed rudely open, and a coldness descended upon the room.

Even without turning around, Marianne knew who the caller would be. She often wondered why she never felt close to her mother. Children in the marketplace were often seen clinging to their parents, but whenever Marianne had tried even to hug her mother, Beatrice tensed as though trying to weather a blow. Marianne had long ago given up hope for affection from her family or any sense of belonging and fitting in. Her sarcastic father, her distant mother, Edward—only five-year-old Cassandra seemed at ease when Marianne was around. This was not saying much, however, because Cassandra often forgot her own name. Still, Marianne intuited that Beatrice had been satisfied with the match to Brantford. Marianne would be the first of the children to wed, and as her parents often brought up, this would greatly enhance the family’s status.

Why are you not asleep? came the icy, critical voice behind Marianne.

Marianne turned and there stood her mother’s constricted hourglass figure, the lamplight from the hallway bearing witness to her powdered face. Her long, honey-colored hair was wrapped in the current style so tightly that it looked as though she might have difficulty blinking.

I wasn’t tired, Marianne replied. And I do not love him, she heard herself continue, with mild astonishment that her tongue could be so bold.

And whose fault is that? accused Beatrice. She closed the door behind her with force.

I . . . I’ve never even met him, Marianne began, but an overpowering sense of hopelessness consumed her, and she merely sank herself into an overstuffed armchair.

This is for you, Beatrice said through closely pursed lips, thrusting a tight fist toward Marianne.

You want to hit me? asked Marianne, raising a weary eyebrow.

Beatrice stiffened, then opened her palm. In her hand was a small glass ball, and imprisoned inside was a dragonfly, its deep, faceted eyes shining like pools of rainbows. The gossamer wings seemed stalled in mid-flight, ready to begin fighting the air again at its first chance for liberty. Marianne forgot herself, and a flood of questions poured forth.

What is it? How was it made? Where did you find it? Did you get it when the elves came through? Is that a real dragon—

Enough! said Beatrice. I don’t know the answers to these silly questions.

How—

It is not a gift from us, she said, handing it to Marianne. I think it is quite an odd item, myself, said Beatrice, heading for the door.

Marianne tried to speak, but her waning gratitude mixed with her growing anger got stuck in her throat, and all that came out was a raspy cry.

Besides, your match with Brantford is not about love.

Marianne went to her window and closed it. The storm was finally upon Kingbriton Manor, and as the arrows of rain struck against her windows, Marianne watched the lightning reflect on her dragonfly until she fell asleep.

Chapter the Third

Marianne awoke on her wedding day with an aching neck and frozen toes. Pulling the sheets up around her, she took in the room in which she would never awaken again. She winced as her feet met the glacial floor. Is it foolish to say good-bye to inanimate objects? she wondered vaguely as she made her way about her room. The bushel of newly plucked roses she had taken from the twining bushes that scaled her walls seemed to blush with happiness today. Wish I were that excited, she thought. There was a timid knock at the door.

Come in, Marianne said distractedly, staring at the green, gently sloping fields stretching beyond her window.

Begging your pardon, Miss Marianne, but the Lady, er . . . your mother requests that you dress in your finest this morning. She is sending up some other girls to aid you in looking your best, said the servant girl, staring downward so that only her cap was visible to Marianne.

Why does the Lady need me so early? inquired Marianne, fiddling with the window latch.

She says . . . um . . . she says that, the girl struggled to find the correct words before they tumbled out, that your betrothed will be coming to have an audience with you before the wedding.

Marianne opened the window, and the white curtains yielded to a freezing gust as she stood with her hands on the sill. Outside, the sun’s absence created a bleak morning scene, and the damp morning air chilled Marianne’s fingers. Tell her, Marianne cocked her head slightly, that I shall be down as soon as possible.

Yes’m, the girl muttered before rushing mouse-like out the door.

Marianne moved away from the window. She sat down at her vanity table and scrutinized her image in the mirror. I’m going to be married, Marianne said ruefully. What will come after marriage? Will I learn to love him? Will he want children? What a stupid question! Of course, he’ll want a son. But can I be a wife? Maybe it won’t be so horrible. Maybe he’ll be wonderful and let me run through his forests and stay up all night reading. Perhaps I’ll fall in love with him and live happily ever after like all the heroines I’ve read about. Marianne could hear the footsteps of servants making their way to her door. If you smile, nothing is as bad as you think it is, she said out loud. But she observed as she got up that anxiety had faded the roses from her alabaster cheeks and strained her reflection’s smile.

Descending the staircase, Marianne concentrated on feeling cheerful. It was an arduous task because she had spent the last hours in misery in order to make a good first impression. If I’m going to be with him the rest of my life, I might as well have him like me. Against her will her feet were crammed inside pointed, high-heeled shoes. Do I really think that Brantford will find it attractive that I can only limp? The corset pinched her hips and repressed her breathing to small gasps. Marianne found it absurdly impractical to minimize her hips and then layer on tiers of petticoats. It’s like refusing to take a bath, then going swimming. Her brocade gown was so unwieldy that Marianne had remarked that it was like wearing a hippopotamus to a dinner party. The only thing she liked about her appearance was her hair. At her insistence, the servants had wrapped fresh roses into the back of her thick black tresses which wound their way down her back in a single braid.

About time! barked the impatient voice of her father Neville at the bottom of the stairway. I’ve been waiting forever!

Well, prepare yourself to wait a little longer, Marianne announced, making her way down. You and I would both be sad if I broke my neck on my wedding day because of these confounded shoes.

Hmmph. Maybe you would be sad, said her father.

Marianne made a face, and continued down the stairs. At the bottom, her father grabbed her arm. I refuse to let you embarrass us any longer.

As in a horrible nightmare, Marianne was dragged closer and closer to the parlor entrance. It seemed as though the door were speeding in their direction.

Father, please, please don’t make me go in. Please stop! cried Marianne, attempting to squirm away. But her father tightened his hold until Marianne let out a sob of pain, and her smooth shoes slid easily across the slick floor. Being compressed inside courtly fashions, Marianne was defenseless as Neville prepared to sacrifice her to Brantford.

In here, Neville growled as he cracked open the parlor door. And don’t you dare talk back to him!

With that, he swung open the door and pushed Marianne inside, following closely behind. The room was small, with a low ceiling and heavy drapes cascading down the windows. In the dim light, Marianne struggled to locate her fiancé. She finally detected a man in a high-backed chair. Before she could say anything, he moved over to one of the windows and pulled back the curtains, allowing a radiant view of the countryside and of Marianne.

Your portrait did not do your fair countenance justice, my lady, complimented an unknown voice. At this, Marianne’s father gave her a sharp kick in the back of her knee.

Ow! I mean, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Brantford, Marianne stammered with a curtsy. The figure materialized from the shadows and eyed Marianne attentively. Well, he’s not atrocious looking, thought Marianne. In fact, she rather liked his looks. His placid face was set off by sandy brown hair, and his understated smile stirred her emotions.

Turn around. Let him have a good look at you so he knows what he’s getting into, Neville blew in her ear.

There is no need for that, my friend, said the apparently keen-of-hearing Brantford. I can tell from here she is of exquisite beauty. Marianne felt her cheeks grow warm with such rare praise.

Fine, fine, Neville blustered. I’ll leave you two alone, then.

He looked sorely tempted to make another suggestion to Marianne, but Brantford cleared his throat, and Neville thought better of it and quickly removed himself.

Please, have a seat, said Brantford, choosing an uncomfortable chair for himself before awkwardly examining his plumed hat. An empty stillness, longing to be filled, pressed down upon Marianne’s shoulders. But in this claustrophobic climate, all Marianne could hear were her parents’ strict rules of etiquette rattling in her head: Don’t speak unless spoken to! Be seen, not heard! Don’t fidget, don’t talk, and don’t breathe more than you have to! Ladies do not do whatever you’re doing! Finally, Marianne burst out, What do you do? before almost hitting herself on the forehead for such an asinine question. The sound of her voice cutting through the space between them made Brantford twitch on the other side of the room, and Marianne noted with apprehension that his right hand was drawn to the sword at his waist.

I served in the war, with distinction, he added, with a touch of both bitterness and pride, as he stood up and began pacing the room. Marianne knew which war he was talking about. Fifteen years ago, the kingdom had been wrought with turmoil brought on by feuding wizards and fairies. The kingdom’s humans had instinctively sided with the fairies. Beatrice often said that these conflicts must be why Marianne was such a rowdy child. Now my father has me training young men for service until the next war comes along and I resume my commission.

That sounds very exciting, said Marianne because she could think of nothing else to reply.

You think the last war was exciting? he asked, stopping in mid-gait and turning to her.

Uhm . . . No? Marianne ventured.

It’s not thrilling. It’s never exhilarating to see your human and fairy friends die side by side. The wizards could tell the fairies by their eyes and came after them with impossible cunning. Brantford seemed pained by the memories of the battles and looked out the window before returning his attention to Marianne.

Marianne gripped her chair tighter.

Brantford resumed his orbit of the room. Marianne, what do you enjoy?

I adore reading, enthused Marianne.

"You like to read? said a mystified Brantford. If my father didn’t require me to brush up on military history, I would never touch a book. Regaining his composure, he asked, Do you like to hunt?"

I would never hurt creatures for sport! said Marianne in disgust, thinking of Prince. I just like to roam the forest.

You can’t live in the forest! Father always says that only hags and magicians reside there, uttered Brantford. How old are you again? he inquired bemusedly.

Almost sixteen, said Marianne, with a shade of defiance in her voice. And how ol— Marianne began, but caught her tongue. At this, Brantford’s sublime smile returned.

You’re so much like Eliza, he said.

Who was she? Marianne spoke before remembering that curiosity was a serious breach of etiquette, according to her parents.

She is— she was— Brantford seemed to be wrestling with emotion. She was a girl I loved for many years.

What became of her? queried Marianne, imagining a death by ogres.

Well, nothing, I suppose. She is the baker’s daughter. Father will never accept a commoner for my wife, he said, turning his back on the verdant landscape.

"If you’re still in love with her after all this time, she must not be that common," replied Marianne.

Of course she’s not common; she’s the jewel of my life, he exclaimed passionately. Father doesn’t understand!

Is she still unmarried? Because I could get out of the picture pretty darn quickly, offered Marianne hopefully. Brantford’s expression revealed that he wanted just that, but, with a labored swallow, he replied, I’m sorry, but I’ve sworn to my father that I will marry you if it is at all possible. This is what is done.

But if you love her, you should stand up to your father, Marianne protested, rising from her chair.

It is not about love, said Brantford, moving to her. As for duty, I served as a soldier, though I aspire to paint. In this mad world, I find peace in the smell of oils, the feel of crisp canvases, the beauty of fine brushes. Brantford stopped to appraise a hanging picture of fruit. He frowned. About duty, I assure you that I will uphold my responsibilities as your husband in every aspect of our marriage. Marianne fought a rising urge to run. I’m not ready for this, she wanted to cry, but she held her ground even as his warm hands caressed hers. He kissed them, which sent chills up her spine. As he moved his face slowly toward her, Marianne closed her eyes and hoped the sensation would be superior to that of kissing a frog.

Instead of a kiss, however, Marianne felt his hands draw roughly out of hers. Opening her eyes, she saw her betrothed gasping for air, his hands tearing at his collar. He fell to the floor, his wheezing growing louder and more pronounced. Marianne rushed to the doorway, almost falling when her ribboned shoe caught on a footstool. Throwing the shoe off, Marianne flung open the door. Help! Please help me! He’s dying! Please someone help! she called hoarsely. Brantford’s servants, who had been playing cards nearby, ran into the room.

Neville hurried over. What have you done now? he bellowed. Marianne fell onto him, unable to stop her weeping. I didn’t do anything . . . he was kissing me . . . and then he fell . . . and my shoe . . . She trailed off, her wailing ebbing and increasing in unpredictable fluctuations.

Stop that idiotic sniveling. said Neville, pushing her off him. Tell me exactly what happened.

But all Marianne could do was hiccup, in sobs that racked her body and left her shaking, pressed up against the wall. She curled the ends of her hair between her fingers while wounded rose petals floated to the ground.

Excuse me, miss. A high voice to her left solicited her attention. One of Brantford’s attendants had made his way to her. You’ll be glad to know that Lord Brantford will recover. It’s not your fault. You see, he has a deadly allergy to certain flowers. Do you know where he might have accidentally come in contact with any roses?

Chapter the Fourth

Marianne’s room was very still; the breeze from the morning had long ago been murdered by an oppressive humidity enveloping the manor. So this must be what you feel like before you die, thought Marianne. She was lying on her bed, trying to read to keep her mind off the impending parental confrontation. After flipping several pages of Jasmine’s Journal of Jewelry Jinxes, which she had nearly memorized, she discovered that the book was upside down and discarded it. Her parents knew the wait would make her suffer, and she was a victim of their strategy.

Staring up at the ceiling, Marianne felt every dull ache and sharp pain that her morning venture into manor attire had inflicted on her. Rolling onto her side in a plain linen dress, she examined the imprisoned dragonfly. Its fathomless eyes seemed to draw her inside the sphere. Don’t be stupid. It’s dead, she told herself, forcing her eyes to move toward a ribboned shoe, lying dejectedly on its side, which she had slipped off after the woozy Brantford departed.

Marianne could sense her parents making their way up to her room. Her breathing quickened, and her palms began to sweat. She tried to concentrate on something, anything that would lessen her feeling of doom. It was a futile attempt, because all the while she heard the measured, methodical footsteps clunking up the stone stairs. Rocking on the bed, Marianne turned her frenzied sight to the bedside stand. There the dragonfly met her eyes, and serenity washed over her.

The footsteps ceased marching, and Marianne calmly watched as the widening door exposed her mother finishing a sentence, . . . needs a good tanning for her impudent nature. Though obviously winded from the long climb, Beatrice drew in a sip of air and held it in her lungs. She looked intensely at Marianne. Her father exhibited his anger more openly; his face was mottled, and his right hand was practically deforming the mate to Marianne’s shoe, which he then hurled with great force toward his daughter. Marianne ducked reflexively and the shoe zipped harmlessly over her head, making an indentation at the top of her bed before dropping beside her, the heel missing.

Huh, said Marianne, observing the reunited shoe, Just like Cinderella.

Brantford wanted to bring it up to you, snarled her father, nodding to Beatrice to close the door, but I didn’t want you making another attempt upon his life. He gave a vicious smile. Before you’re married, that is.

That won’t be a problem, because there won’t be a marriage, said Marianne, rising from her bed.

Brantford, the fool, still wants to wed you, said her father, following Marianne.

It takes two people saying ‘I do,’ rejoined Marianne, angling away from her father.

Do you have some sort of objection to being titled, wealthy, and well-cared for? sputtered Beatrice.

No, said Marianne, trying to keep her composure, "I merely have an objection to marrying a man for whom I have at best no feelings!"

You ought to consider yourself fortunate, for you have neither the charm of Edward nor the beauty of Cassandra! shrieked her mother, her words lashing Marianne’s heart. If we had not taken you and Robin in, you both would have died! At this statement, she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Oh, Neville, I’m . . . I’m . . . sorry.

Shut up! he snapped at Beatrice.

What do you mean, ‘take us in?’ Marianne interjected. "Tell me, please tell me."

None of your business. You will be married tonight. That is all, Neville said, shoving Beatrice towards the door.

Marianne sensed that she was near to finding out why she had never quite fit in at Kingbriton Manor. If you tell me, I give my word that, after tonight, you will never see me again, she offered.

Neville paused and turned a despising glare on Marianne. Never?

Marianne considered for a second the prospect of missing Cassandra, but thought better of it as she remembered that her father’s ’ittle princess could do no wrong. Prince was safe; her father never walked the gardens and therefore would scarcely feel impelled to drain the pond. Finally she thought of her other brother, Robin. Her thoughts rarely settled on him because it had been years since she’d glimpsed him. Neville and Beatrice had sent him away to another province to train in fighting when she was still quite young. Marianne strongly suspected that she herself would have been long gone if neighboring estates took in girls. The last time Robin had visited Kingbriton, Marianne was confined to her room with a furious fever. Peeking out the window, she had seen the top of Robin’s head before he put on his helmet; his hair was black as the night. Though three years older than Marianne, Robin, in Beatrice’s judgment, was just as uncivilized, so Robin could presumably take care of himself.

Never, said Marianne with finality.

Fine, said Neville,