“Where are the princes?” demanded Isolde. “And the rowboats?”
“I got rid of most of them.”
“But why?”
“Well, there were too many of them to begin with. And some of them talked too much – good lord, Esther, your prince never stopped talking about himself, hadn’t you ever noticed? And a couple of them sulked when I declined to waltz. Now there’s just the one left, for the odd time that I care to dance.”
“Where is he now?” asked Hasnaa, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“Probably in the castle library. He’s good at chess, too.”
Anya looked puzzled. “So how do we cross the lake?”
“Let me show you.” I stepped down onto golden sand, placed two fingers in my mouth, and whistled. After a moment, a sleek, dark form appeared at the water’s edge.
Fatima’s mouth fell open. “A dolphin?”
“Porpoise, actually.” I bent to address it. “Pierrot, could you call some friends? My sisters are with me.”
The plump creature vanished and, in a few minutes, an assortment of swimming animals began to assemble in the shallows: a seal, a giant tortoise, a walrus, the dolphin Fatima had been hoping for, an orca, a great white whale, a trio of penguins, and even a polar bear. Once mounted—the bear and the whales were able to carry several between them—my sisters and I traversed the lake, giggling and flicking water at each other. Only Anya lagged behind, her tortoise paddling valiantly.
When she came ashore, I caught her eye. “All well?”
She nodded just as Hasnaa and Genevieve caught me between them. “What is there to do in your castle?”
I showed them the starry-skied courtyard where musicians played all night. A library, containing every book ever written and every puzzle ever posed. (The prince in the library could be entreated to dance, of course, and he was always graceful and courteous.) A salon for conversation and friendly disputation, populated by gentlefolk who never, ever interrupted each other. There was even a garden for badminton and archery, and a trapeze suspended over a pool.
It was only when Damla screamed that I remembered to introduce the tigress, Noor, who enjoyed the freedom of the castle grounds. Between Noor and Ejò, Genevieve insisted that we return to the courtyard and there commanded the musicians to play our favorite dancing music.
We didn’t trouble the prince to leave his chessboard. Instead, we partnered each other, just as we had done in our long-ago dancing lessons, laughing and chaffing each other and playing at being girls again. It was only when I heard a distant clock begin to chime that I remembered our duty.
I stopped in the middle of the courtyard, my sisters whirling all about me. Anya, my dancing partner, gave me a single nod. The clock began to toll the hour. One.
“My sisters,” I said, and the musicians fell silent.
Two.
Breathless, merry, they stopped dancing, drew near.
Three.
I held out my hands.
Four.
They clasped hands and we formed a circle.
Five.
“We are twelve here tonight,” I said. “As we used to be.”
Six.
“Twelve sisters,” corrected Anya. “With an uninvited guest.”
Seven.
My sisters looked at each other with alarm.
Eight.
“He trod on the hem of my gown,” said Anya.
Nine.
“The weight of his body slowed the passage of my tortoise,” she continued.
Ten.
“I smelled the reek of his breath as he danced close behind me.”
Eleven.
I took from my bodice the hedge-witch’s gift. “But now he is revealed,” said Anya, and I opened the two halves of the walnut shell.
On the twelfth stroke there was a whistling sound, as of strong wind through a crevice. It flayed the cloak of invisibility from the soldier’s back and restored it, with a snap of fabric, to its home in the walnut shell.
He stood in the middle of our circle, composing his face to a sneer. “And what will you do with me now, my foolish princesses?” He spun towards Anya and she flinched. “Will you dance, my lady?”
“Not with you.” Her voice trembled but her handclasp was steady.
“And if I ask one of your sisters?”
“The answer will be the same from each of us,” I replied.
He laughed. “And when I am king? Will you refuse me then, on pain of death?”
“Soldier,” said Anya, and now her voice rang out strong. “Never will you be king.”
I opened the walnut shell again. On one side, Anya held my elbow tight. Keiko anchored the other. And the ravening wind shrieked and tore and lashed and sucked the soldier, bit by bit, into the walnut shell, where he might forever wear the shroud of invisibility that had lain for so long against his skin. The walnut shell closed itself with a snick.
There was a substantial silence.
“Sisters?” asked Johanna, for once tentative. “Do we now have a succession crisis?”
“No,” replied Anya. Despite the missing teeth, her words were crisp and authoritative. “Under the laws of primogeniture, I will inherit the crown, and my eldest daughter after me.” We beamed at her, yet her expression remained solemn. She touched her belly briefly. “If my daughter becomes queen before she is of age, I name Princess Ling as her regent.”
Another pause.
Finally, Johanna said, “Ling is an excellent choice.” She cleared her throat. “The hour is late.”
“Yes,” agreed Anya. “It is.”
We were still arrayed in our circle of enchantment. Our dresses were creased, our coiffures quite destroyed by the wind. And our slippers were nearly worn through. What would people say this time? Would there be another scandal? And what might the King attempt from his deathbed? We all looked up, towards the threshold, the water, the trapdoor. Towards our families, our duties, our futures.
“It is late,” repeated Anya, and she held out her hand for the walnut shell. When I gave it to her, she rolled it swiftly into a corner of the courtyard, a shadowy place where no foot ever touched down. Then she beamed at us: a wide, bold, mirthful smile, the gaps in her teeth like battle scars. “But dawn is hours away. Beloved sisters, shall we?”
We danced on.
About Y.S. Lee
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm’s fairy tale, “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”, features a protagonist who wins absolute power (and narrative approval) when he triumphs over a group of shallow-minded princesses. The soldier’s sadism, in particular, stands out to me and that’s why I’ve made it a focal point of this story, my first attempt at writing fantasy.
My debut novel, The Agency: A Spy in the House, is about a mixed-race girl detective in Victorian London. It won the Canadian Children’s Book Centre’s inaugural John Spray Mystery Award in 2011. The Agency tetralogy continues with The Body at the Tower, The Traitor and the Tunnel, and Rivals in the City (Candlewick Press/Walker Books). For more about my work, including excerpts from each of the Agency novels, please visit www.yslee.com. Or sign up for my (very) occasional newsletter at https://tinyletter.com/yslee. Thank you for reading!
PENHALLOW AMID PASSING THINGS
IONA DATT SHARMA