“This tale, like many others, begins with ‘Il était une fois,’ ” Old Madame began in her crackling voice.
She spun the tale of a cursed man and an enchanted mirror in rambling French, so expansive and complicated in parts that Evelyn found it hard to follow along, yet trapped in the spell of the macabre story.
“It began like so: there was a magical kingdom in the Old France, during the long-ago era of true kings and queens and palaces, when lightness and darkness existed in tangible form.
One particular family, carrying the name of riches, reigned for centuries upon centuries, creating a long-lasting dynasty that never faltered. Always a proud lineage, their members possessed beauty beyond reproach, unfailing logic, and acute intellect.
They were kings and queens, ruling from a castle with walls of shining mirrors, and oversaw prosperous times for the subjects of their kingdom. It was a golden era for all concerned.
As is always the case with such families, however, the blood began to weaken. It was the interbreeding, the superiority latching onto their very souls. Soon, the kingdom was forced to contend with unsuitable heirs, those who possessed overwhelming pride and cold logic, yet lacking empathy, caution, and sound judgment.
The culmination was the birth of one such prince, born of the generation who saw the fall of the lineage of power and riches. He was vain and cruel and had no regard for the consequences of actions – so it was said.
There existed none who did not know the heir of the kingdom of the Black Rose. Terrible, he was. A burden and shame on his parents, and on his beatific sister, Rose Darling of the realm. Prideful and unsuitable, a tragedy in the making.
It was during a time of note, when he was of majority and yet not in possession of the throne, that his arrogance and selfishness went too far. The stories vary, for all have their own version and ultimate lesson. One detail never wavers, nevertheless, no matter the tale; a young woman in a desperate situation offered a rose - her only possession - in exchange for aid.
She was cruelly turned away by the Prince Heir, and that marked the beginning of the end. In retribution, the young woman lay waste on his family, and that day saw the deaths of the King and Queen, and the disappearance of their daughter.
This prince, named after an angel, was found guilty of heinous crimes. Subsequent punishment resulted in a curse on him, one affecting the servants of the castle and the innocent subjects of the realm.
Whether the tale is credible, there is another undisputed detail. In this narrative lies not only a powerful and terrible curse, but also a trapped spirit in a mirror.
As the walls of that magnificent palace were in the manner of mirrors, the dark practitioners of magic and enchantment would trap spirits and criminals in those reflective surfaces. During the beginnings of this ruling family, an innocent man made out guilty was the first to be cursed inside those once-magnificent walls, and he vowed retribution one day. Justice and vengeance would be served.
When the prince was punished, along with the castle itself, it is said the walls shattered, and now this spirit flits across the ruined palace, tormenting the prince through each and every mirrored surface.
It is said that to break the punishment of the prince, one must right an old wrong, and venture inside an enchanted mirror to bring justice back to those who were wronged. So if you ever see the crumbled ruins of a palace in the middle of an inhabitable forest, and are met with a devilish creature once Crown Prince of a kingdom now gone, find the spirit and free the mirror, and break the curse wreaked on the family of riches and power.”
As the tale ended suddenly, Evelyn gave a small gasp. Despite the still-present language barrier, it was not hard to see that Old Madame was a born bard, and the story had ensnared her like an insect caught by the Venus Fly-trap. Quickly, too fast for the others congregated around the old woman to notice, Evelyn was given a wink by the storyteller. She had been noticed.
Instead of flushing at the scrutiny, Evelyn stood there, enamoured with the tale and burning with questions that needed answers. And yet - she was needed at Désespoir, and it would not do to linger. Perhaps in another life she could have done so, but things were different now.
The dull haze of tiredness returned, and she forced herself to turn away.
“I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,” Evelyn started, repeating a poem aloud to pass the time and give her courage while she trudged toward the cottage. By the time she had recited the poem by Emily Dickinson three times, the door of Désespoir was in sight.
Pushing away all thoughts of mirrors, enchanted or not, and cursed arrogant princes, aside, she did up her hair with her new ribbon, and returned to her duties.
Never in a thousand years had I thought I would be happy and grateful for frayed ribbons to keep my hair up while I scrub the floor, Evelyn thought dryly, with no little bitterness.
At least I have not become so bitter as to lose who I am, unlike Darcia, she nevertheless reminded herself.
Since thinking about her sister was much too painful, she turned to other poems by the English female writer, and thus spent the rest of the day doing chores to the often thought-provoking and morbid words of Miss Emily. It helped to anchor her, to pass the time and keep herself company.
The sun went down much too soon, and she was forced to light gas lamps with the scarce oil available. Their old home had been wired with electricity, a privilege they were not afforded here. It was live by the light of day and suffer with the dim, flickering candle and lamp by night.
“Hello there, sister,” a voice drawled. Darcia stumbled through the unlocked cottage door.
She had been drinking today, her once-fair features twisted and gaunt and cruel. Evelyn, used to such moods by now, ignored her, and kept at her stitching despite the insults and verbal abuse thrown her way.
She did not even react when Darcia threw a chair around, and knocked over one of their precious lamps, and stepped over it so that shattering glass was the only thing heard. In fact, Evelyn did not even look up until Darcia had climbed to her bedroom and started her nightly wailing. Provocation made these encounters worse.
Evelyn let Darcia have her temper and fits of destruction, for at least that gave her some direction and exercise. Otherwise, she would mope in her room, and haughtily demand to be waited upon, or she would bribe wagon trips to town from the many impressionable Frenchmen.
They all loved her sharp tongue and wild ways, and would often get into acts of terrible destruction and debauchery. Darcia, Evelyn had discovered with horror, was even worse than her brothers.
Instead of wallowing in grief at her changed family, she focused even harder on her task, and several hours passed in that manner.
“My darling daughter,” a voice slurred out in the dark.
Evelyn started from the trouser she was mending, having almost fallen asleep. It was Father, who quickly lit a candle and looked more dynamic than he had for a long, long time.
He waved a letter in his gnarled fist, his voice full of glee and excitement as a young boy. How far Father had fallen, from a proud man who could do nothing in an honest fashion, to a broken, penniless shell, to an innocent schoolboy so happy about meagre news.
It was, in fact, no meagre news that had Father on his feet, alert and talking.
“They found some ships! Oh, Evie, they found some of the ships! Goods will be salvaged! We will have standard and money again!”
Great. Dread, a constant companion, came back in full force. All she could think about was that this information was yet another complication, one that would bring more misfortune. Just what they needed...
So eager with his news, Father waited until every brother was back home after a day of drinking and gambling, and gleefully called Darcia down. Evelyn stayed in her chair, hand still clenching the silver-thin needle, not knowing what to make of this…affectionate father, nor of his information.
“Hear, hear, children! There is hope at last! It will not be like before, but it is a good step in the right direction! I have a letter, from our old solicitor in Whiling, who has written to us to announce wonderful news! Some of the ships thought lost and sunk have arrived, safe and fully loaded with cargo. There will be enough to return us to good society, I tell you!”
Immediately, Darcia leaned forward, an ugly, hungry look on her face. “Whatever happens, Father,” she began, sneering the word, “bring me new silks, some proper jewels, and a lady’s maid, for I am in great need of proper assistance and clothing. Do say yes, Father.”
“Of course, of course!” he replied, face flushing, eyes alight. Evelyn had never seen a stranger sight.
Then all her brothers, save Ed, chimed in with their own demands. Riding boots, bigger allowances, proper fencing swords, dashing waistcoats… The requests continued to pour out.
While Evelyn kept silent, not knowing what to make of this new development, and trying all the while to adapt once more, Ed had murder on his face as he contemplated the rowdy scene.
“And you, my darling daughter Evelyn, what will you have?” Evelyn startled, not even knowing that Father had remembered her name, or thought enough of her to ask what she wanted.
“Oh, nothing, Father, except a speedy return to what we had before,” Evelyn replied, as sweetly as she could. She must have sounded as honey-sweet as the evil witch in Hansel and Gretel, but her nature could not be helped.
She knew, with a deep-held certainty, that she wanted back to Whiling as much as she wanted to contract the Bubonic Plague. She also knew that it was the wrong response. So she kept silent on her misgivings.
Still, she was not asking for any material object. Not only because she did not want fine things, or that she felt they were unnecessary, or that she was undeserving, but after having heard the story earlier today, she was careful about her actions and requests.
“Especially not a rose, Father, no matter how pretty it might look.” Puzzled, but accepting her response, Father speedily stood up and prepared for the trip. Despite her unheard protests, he set off into the night on their only horse, while Darcia had eyes alight with the thought of a return to grace, and her brothers with something else to discuss over the whisky in the cupboard.
Evelyn had forgotten to pour it into the neighbour's pig trough earlier in the week, and now she was paying for that lack of foresight as they all drank and brought their rowdiness to the cottage.
Knowing there was nothing she could do, about anything, she quickly went to her cramped room, and blankly sat on the floor. It seemed that her entire life was spent at the whims of others, left to pick up the pieces and paying for the sins of the father.
More importantly, Evelyn reflected, she was... angry about their supposed reversal in fortune. There was a terrible suspicion of worse to come, of continued tragedy for herself and the rest of her family.
As usual, she would turn out to be right.
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