Page 8 of Rumpelstilzchen

With his suspicion about the boy’s importance strengthened, Rumple drained the last of the brandy and ruminated on the unique torture that was finding his Heart in the palace cells.

If his shadows prevented him from physically extracting his Heart, maybe it was the fact that it carried a beat all its own that gave it importance. Which meant the boy had to stay alive, despite the Queen’s threat, and he had to find a way out of their predicament.

His clenched fist uncurled, and his gloved fingers impatiently tapped at the speed with which half-formed plans arose before being discarded. Any combination of ideas he had all led down the same path—deceiving Queen Schön. Not an undertaking to be embarked upon lightly.

First, then, he had to be certain that this boy was his Heart. This boy, who had his face pressed tightly into his knees and was sitting on the wet and cold stone floor. This boy, who wouldn’t maintain eye contact with Rumple unless he held him by his chin. To ascertain if this boy was his Heart, he needed to coax him out of his shell. But how?

As if on cue, the boy’s stomach rumbled loudly, and crimson flushed his cheeks. A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of Rumple’s mouth. What was that saying? The way to a human’s heart was through his stomach.

If Rumple couldn’t go to his Heart, then maybe he could make his Heart come to him.

Right there, on the small table beside him, Rumple conjured a wooden board with a selection of fruits, cheeses, and unleavened breads. Simple, yet surely appealing to the too slender boy who, like most of the citizens of Falchovari, had endured the famine for many seasons now.

“You said your family owned a flour mill. What crops did you handle?” Rumple asked, mindful of his tone as he silently commanded the footstool away. He wanted no barrier between them.

The boy mumbled something from between his knees that Rumple couldn’t decipher.

Selecting a piece of bread from the table, he snapped it in half.

“This is made from rye. Did you know that rye only grows in the north and the west of Falchovari, so the Queen has it carted in especially to be made into these small breads?” Rumple didn’t need to eat at all—he wasn’t even human—but he could eat. So he took a loud bite and chewed with an open mouth. “She says that rye produces the best cracking bread of all the grains, and often pairs it with soft curds made from sheep’s milk. Like this one.”

He commanded his shadows into an ornate silver knife, which he used to spread a thick layer of curd, and then set it to the side. He didn’t care for sheep’s curds.

“But I surely don’t need to be telling you this. As a miller, you must already know which crops produce the best unleavened breads.”

A small victory came Rumple’s way when that mop of tumbling curls nodded in presumed agreement. He acknowledged it with a throaty hum, filed the knowledge away, and carried on.

“However, I also know they don’t feed the prisoners here, so maybe you’d like to sample Her Majesty’s preferred combination?”

Slowly, finger width by finger width, the boy raised his head from the sanctuary of his knees and stared. First at Rumple, then at the food. Rumple could see perfectly well in the dark, but the weak oil lamp in the corner allowed the boy to see him in return, and something about that sent a thrill through him the likes of which he hadn’t felt for a very, very long time.

Only when the boy’s gaze stuck on the food, when his body loosened a fraction from it’s tight huddle in the corner, did Rumple push for more. He selected a grape from the vine and popped it in his mouth. By far it was too sweet for his palette, but he didn’t let his preference show in his expression. Instead, he kept his black eyes fixed firmly on the boy, while his shadows squeezed themselves between the wall and the young man’s spine, shrouding him as if they were a blanket.

Under their weight, the boy’s knees lowered from his chin. When was the last time a human had found comfort in their embrace? Was the boy even aware he had submitted to the shadows? Was Rumple to take this as another sign of the boy’s unique importance? Questions for another time. But the compliance was promising, and all Rumple needed. For now.

The boy’s gaze hadn’t moved from the small wooden board laden with food, conveniently positioned at exactly eye level. He was hungry. Rumple gently slid the already prepared bread and curds from the table into his palm, and held it out.

Hesitant fingers twitched with want, but were stayed by a healthy dose of caution. “What do you w-want?”

A question Rumple had heard countless times, yet asked here and like that, he found himself unsettled. Shifting position to bring the food closer, he shook his head. “For you to eat. It’s been a while since I shared the company of someone whom I haven’t been sent to kill.”

The boy tilted his head and an errant lock of hair fell across his forehead. “You aren’t here to k-kill me?”

A soft smile tugged at the corner of Rumple’s mouth in spite of himself. He pushed the bread into the boy’s hand in the hope of distracting his attention away from such a rare display of emotion.

Scrambling to keep the curds on the cracker, the boy hurriedly shoved the entire offering into his mouth before any could fall on the floor, and Rumple used the brief opportunity to recover himself. The boy closed his eyes as he crunched the thin bread and angled his face upward in pleasure.

“No, you said it yourself. The Queen will do that in the morning. No reason for me to concern myself in her matters.”

When Rumple’s words registered, eyes the exact colour of chestnuts snapped open. The boy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed, then he winced as what must have been painful shards of half-masticated bread raked down his throat. A fresh wall of tears built behind clumped lashes.

Without instruction, Rumple’s shadows soothed the boy, stroking away the curl that was stuck to his forehead, and he felt an uncharacteristic urge to make it up to the boy.

Purposefully, he touched each of the remaining foods on the platter in turn—the grapes, the blue cheese, the cornbread, the strawberries—and the boy’s pupils dilated. Rumple selected one from the small pile and brought it into the palm of his hand. The red contrasted against the black leather so perfectly. The boy watched it keenly.

This was a replica of the new cultivars the Queen had insisted be brought in from the neighbouring Kingdom of Hallin. They had grown much bigger and juicier fruit with a longer harvesting season than the wild strawberries that grew native to Falchovari, and Queen Schön was not one to be outdone. These particular strawberries were now embedded in the palace’s kitchen garden, and Rumple was certain the boy had never seen a fruit quite so big, nor quite so red.

He bounced it in his hand for good measure. Mesmerised, the boy’s warm brown eyes tracked the strawberry like a hawk would track a mouse through a field of barley.