Page 7 of Rumpelstilzchen

“Explain.” That dark tone prickled down Boy’s spine and elicited a shiver.

Boy’s gaze drifted involuntarily to the spinning wheel in the corner. “My family owns a flour mill in the far east, but the f-famine…” His voice broke on a sob. “We couldn’t pay the t-tithe this harvest. So my f-father…”

Boy’s chin remained trapped in the unyielding grip of the Queen’s Shadow, but he really didn’t want to say the rest. It would be his first time explaining to another the truth of his circumstances, and that carried with it an unexpected weight that stole his breath. Boy thought he’d made a tentative peace with his father’s plan, but he knew that once he spoke the words out loud, it would make it real. That all this—being here in this horribly cold and dark cell where he waited to die—would really be real. And there would be no going back.

His gaze moved from the spinning wheel to the bag of straw, and ultimately back to the man who held him so firmly. He took a deep breath.

“My father sent me in lieu of the tithe, along with a promise to The Qu-Queen that I can spin that sack of straw into g-golden thread. Her Majesty generously gave me until s-sunrise, and then…” Boy’s confidence wavered as his breath ran out.

The Queen’s Shadow leaned down until his lips almost brushed Boy’s earlobe and his hot breath left goosebumps in its wake. “Tell me.”

The intimacy of the whispered words had Boy’s heart pounding in his chest, both from fear and something else. He swallowed thickly, once again feeling utterly inferior. “I can’t spin the straw into gold, and for my father’s lie… the Queen will kill me in the morning.”

The geist released his hold on Boy and took a sudden step back, his shadows swirling around him in agitation.

Boy was both simultaneously relieved and saddened with the distance between them. The man’s fingers, decked in black leather gloves, twitched with unease where they hung by his sides.

“Then you are not afraid of death…” The geist’s voice was so quiet that Boy almost missed his words. “But of having lived a meaningless life.”

Boy had never thought about it like that, but he supposed that was true. It felt right, in any case. He didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t. Instead, he sat silently and waited for whatever the Queen’s Shadow might do next.

five

Rumple

Rumple’s current form felt too large for the confined space, and he debated rearranging the damp bricks in the outer wall of the undercroft to accommodate his fractious mood, but when he recalled his shadows, they refused his command. Instead, they lingered close by where the boy remained huddled in the corner, reluctant to part.

For as long as Rumple could remember, he and his shadows had acted as one. They had only ever obeyed him. Until now. Until this boy’s tears had burned him in a way no weapon ever had. Until the boy had screamed for them to stop—and they’d acquiesced.

Rumple looked back over his shoulder. Tear-stained cheeks dusted with cinnamon freckles were framed by honeyed waves that lightened to blond at their tips, and neither hid the faint blush that extended under the wide neck of his simple cotton tunic. Rumple was a master of concealing his thoughts and emotions, whereas this human displayed them over his skin like ink over parchment. What was it about this human that his shadows were so drawn to?

Rumple narrowed his eyes and examined the boy more closely. He was younger than the usual prisoners—twenty winters at most—and although he hadn’t quite finished growing into himself, he already possessed a lithe frame that spoke of years of manual labour. A mill, he had said. His family owned a flour mill in the far east of Falchovari, and Rumple could almost picture him there, the golden rays of the sun reflecting from his messy locks as he walked gracefully between bales of straw.

Such a visage was sorely out of place here. Rumple used his magick to install a small table upon which he conjured a bottle of his favourite cider brandy and a cut-glass tumbler. The whole while he poured the drink, his eyes never left the intriguing boy.

The opposite of everything Rumple ordinarily encountered, it was blatantly obvious that this boy was neither a thief nor a liar, and he hadn’t any idea what to make of that. He clenched his back teeth.

A human who could command his shadows was the last thing he had expected to find in the palace cells.

He sipped slowly and savoured the flavours on his tongue while weightless shadows continued their exploration of the boy. He fascinated Rumple in a way no one else ever had, and his shadows seemed equally enchanted. They scratched through his thick hair onto his scalp, they tasted the sweat from the back of his neck, and they sank inside that wide collar and under his tunic. They caressed the smooth expanse of his chest and came to a fevered stop right over his pounding heart.

Rumple stilled with the glass resting against his lips—it couldn’t be!

Would fate be so cruel as to offer this spark of hope in an otherwise bleak existence, only to threaten its extinction in the next breath?

Rumple took a large draught, the potent smell of apples and alcohol gladly combatting the stench of stale urine and sharpening his senses.

Could the Heart he had spent his entire existence searching for really be the same one that beat fast and strong inside this boy’s chest? The frantic pace at which his shadows spread across the fragile human’s body would suggest so.

Another mouthful of cider brandy washed over his taste buds just as the boy’s eyes found his. Almost instantly the boy looked down again, and Rumple was surprised to discover that he missed that warm, chestnut gaze. He wanted those eyes on him. Rumple took another sip.

Never had he expected his Heart to be a human—or inside one. If he had, he would have given up chasing after magickal artefacts aeons ago. But how was this to work? He knew he needed to claim his Heart, but that had been a far simpler prospect when it had related to a trinket. Nothing he had ever read had informed him of how to claim a human.

Rumple’s shadows conjured a chair and a small stool beside the table. He sank into one, and raised his legs onto the other, crossing his ankles upon it. They were far from done here. He needed to devise a plan—and quickly—or by sunrise his one true shot at freedom would be dead. The hand not holding his drink tightened into a fist upon his thigh.

He could simply carve the Heart out of the boy’s chest. After all, it was his.

In response to that menacing thought, his shadows thickened around the boy like a living blanket of pure power. Interesting. But they had made their stance clear—if Rumple wanted to claim his Heart that way, then he would have to go through the shadows first.