Fairytale (2 page)

“Once upon a time,” Sister began, “not so
very long ago, two princesses were born. No ordinary princesses,
though. These babies were special. These babies were fay.”

“And that means fairy, right Sister Mary
Agnes?” Brigit didn’t need to ask. She knew the
Fairytale
by
heart. But her comments and questions had become a part of the
ritual.

“Yes, Brigit. That means fairy.” Sister Mary
Agnes turned the page, and let Brigit take a good long look at the
next picture. This one was of the beautiful fairy princess holding
her twin daughters in her arms. One had raven’s wing curls just
like Brigit’s, and the other had hair as yellow as spun gold.

“Their mother was Princess Maire, the only
daughter of the Fay King Padraig. And their father was Jonathon,
the mortal man who’d come through the invisible curtain to find
her. ‘Twas the hand of Fate that led him there, for the enchanted
realm is invisible to most mortal eyes.”

Despite the thinness of her blanket, Brigit
felt warm when she thought about Maire and John, and the love
they’d had between them. So strong it had crossed worlds to find
fulfillment. Sister Mary Agnes often said Brigit was too young to
think about love the way she did. But Brigit didn’t think so. She
thought nine was plenty old enough to understand matters of the
heart. Sister would think so too, if she knew about Brigit’s dream.
One dream which came to her over and over again. A lovely dream in
which the fairy princess Maire appeared to her and whispered,
“Would you like to see your fate, little one?” And Brigit always
answered yes, and waited as Maire parted some mists with a wave of
her dainty hand, and pointed. When Brigit peered through she saw a
man. A golden-haired man who looked very sad and confused, and she
felt an instinctive urge to try to comfort him. He needed her, that
man with the hurt in his deep blue eyes.

But she couldn’t tell Sister about that
dream. She’d never understand.

Sister had turned the page, and was reading
again. “Their home was the forest of Rush, which lies beyond the
mortal world. And the princess’s daughters were born at a time of
peace. But alas, by the twins’ first birthday there came a period
of great turmoil in Rush. For even in the enchanted realm, evil
exists.”

A little shiver raced up Brigit’s spine. The
vellum made a whispery sound, and Sister’s voice came again, as
raspy and soft as the paper.

“The Prince of the Dark Side was never
content to live in the part of the enchanted realm to which his
family had been consigned. That part beyond Rush, where daylight
never ventured. Always, those dark ones had coveted the fay forest
and kingdom. They’d raised up an army of trolls and goblins and all
manner of dark beings, and together, they laid siege to the castle
of the king.”

Brigit didn’t look at that picture. It was
too scary. A mishmash of nightmarish creatures storming those
pretty castles, wielding swords and maces and looking as fierce as
death itself.

“Princess Maire was killed in the battle, and
poor John was beside himself with grief. Only wise King Padraig
knew what must be done. He ordered John to take the wee princesses
away from Rush. To part the invisible curtain once more, and to
return with his daughters to the mortal world, where they would be
safe from the Dark Prince’s blade.”

Brigit nodded. “And before Jonathon left...”
she prompted.

Mary Agnes smiled and turned another page.
“Before Jonathon left, King Paddy gave him two books, fashioned by
Princess Maire with her own hands. She’d been blessed with the
second sight, Maire had. She’d been able to see into the future.
And she’d crafted the books for the time when her daughters would
have to get by without her.”

“And is this one of them, Sister?”

Sister made her eyes very big, as she always
did when Brigit asked the question. “It might very well be,
Brigit.”

Brigit nodded. It was fun to think her mother
might have been a fairy princess.

“The king told John to see to the children’s
safety. For one day, when they were grown, they would be called to
return, the eldest to take her place on the throne of Rush. And the
younger to assist her in regaining it. As firstborn— though only by
a minute—the eldest had inherited the largest share of her mother’s
magic. And when the time came, she would regain some memories of
the kingdom. The youngest, though, would likely remember none of
it. The accepting of her fate might well be more difficult for
her.”

Mary Agnes flipped to the last page, the page
depicting Princess Maire, with her cascades of red-orange curls and
her glittering gown. Her love-filled, sea-blue eyes seemed to stare
at Brigit from the page.

“Trials and turmoil await you, little
princesses. But when things seem hopeless, turn to the
Fairytale
to remind you of who you are. And remember, if you
be true to your heart, happiness will greet you at the end of your
journey.”

As always, Sister Mary Agnes left the book
open to that page and laid it in Brigit’s lap.

Brigit traced Maire’s beautiful face with her
fingertips, blinking tiredly. “Do you think she really was my
mother?”

Mary Agnes sighed. “I only know what I know,
child. Father Anthony found you and another tiny girl sleeping at
the altar one morning. And each of you had a book just like this
one. Yours with the name Brigit inside, and the other with the name
of Bridin. And tucked into a little pocket sewn within each cover,
was a pendant for each of you.”

Brigit fingered the necklace she never took
off. A dainty pewter fairy, embracing a long, narrow crystal, with
points at both ends.

“The note Father Anthony found beside you
said simply, ‘My time on this earth is ending. Please
,
take
care of my girls. Jonathon.’”

“And what happened to Bridin?” Brigit knew,
but asked again anyway. Sister’s tales seemed more real when Brigit
made her tell them right to the end.

“Bridin was adopted right away, darling. But
you’d taken ill, and were in no condition to go with her. One day,
though, you’ll find a fairytale all your own. One day you’ll have
your happily-ever-after.”

“Will I really, Sister Mary Agnes?”

For years Brigit had trusted utterly in the
Fairytale.
She’d had to, because she’d had nothing else. And
she adored the woman who told it, knew Sister Mary Agnes would
never deliberately lie. But Brigit wasn’t a baby anymore. And the
longer she remained here at St. Mary’s, the harder it became to
believe in fairies or enchanted kingdoms or...or especially
happily-ever-afters. She closed her eyes as Sister’s crinkled palm
slipped repeatedly over her hair.

“You will, Brigit. I promise you will. No
girl with a gift like yours will be alone for long.”

Brigit frowned, her eyes popping open again.
“I have a gift?”

Sister Mary Agnes lifted her head to stare at
the picture, and Brigit followed her gaze, still unsure what was so
special about it. The rectangle of construction paper hung a little
crookedly above the painted white headboard of the bed. Brigit had
discovered her knack with a paintbrush for the first time today,
when Father Anthony had brought boxes of brushes and paints and
paper for the orphans here. Sister Mary Agnes had seemed to think
she’d witnessed her first miracle. She’d been a little breathless
earlier, when she’d caught Brigit in the act of balancing on a
stack of pillows while trying to Scotch tape her painting to the
wall. To cover that crack in the plaster.

“Yes, child. Make no mistake, you have a
gift.”

“Who from?”

The tears that came into Sister Mary Agnes’s
eyes made Brigit frown. Why did she get so choked up over a
construction-paper lady? It was just a copy of a picture Brigit had
found in an art book. Some lady with two first names. Mona Lucy or
something like that.

“From God, Brigit.”

Ah, well, there was no understanding
grownups. Even Sister Mary Agnes, though the sister was better than
most adults, in Brigit’s estimation. She rolled over, sliding her
storybook under her pillow as she did every night, and pulled the
worn blanket up over her shoulder.

“You’re a blessing, child. You’ve brought an
honest to goodness miracle right here to Maybourne Row. In a
shelter nearly falling down around our ears, beside a church with
chipped paint and folding chairs instead of pews. A miracle,
Brigit.”

But Brigit was tired, and thought Sister Mary
Agnes was overreacting a little. Or maybe she sensed that Brigit’s
belief in the
Fairytale
was getting shaky, and now she was
trying to invent a new one. Give her something else to hang on to.
How could a picture be a miracle, anyway?

“Sleep, love. And tomorrow we’ll show your
painting to Father Anthony. He’ll know what to do.”

She crossed herself before leaving in a
rustle of black fabric.

Only, for Sister Mary Agnes, tomorrow never
came.

***

Bridin

March 21, 1978 Binghamton, NY 9:00 p.m.

Big guys all dressed in black stood around
the lace like sentries guarding a border. One in the hallway
outside her rooms. Two outdoors, below her bedroom window. Bridin
didn’t mind them. They treated her like gold, being that she still
wore her pendant. They didn’t dare do otherwise. If any of those
dark ones tried to hurt her—if they so much as touched her—they’d
suffer. Die maybe. She couldn’t be sure, since none of them had
ever tried. They were afraid of her, those big, dark beings. So the
Dark Prince had needed mortals to care for her. Weak ones, whose
minds he could control.

The nurse, Kate, of course, had no idea who
the guards really were or who they worked for. She simply believed
what she’d been told, that Bridin was sickly, and not quite right,
and needed constant guarding and protection and care. Her kindness
to Bridin didn’t come from fear, the way
theirs
did. Hers
came from her heart. She was good inside. Bridin was surprised the
Dark Prince would tolerate her presence.

But he did, and Kate adored her, was
constantly trying to please her. Always bringing games and toys for
her. Making sure she got to eat the things she liked, and often
sneaking in ice cream for dessert. She even rented film reels and a
projector now and then, and showed Disney movies on the stark,
white wall of her room. But even so, Kate couldn’t see the truth.
Despite all Bridin’s efforts to reach her, her mind remained
clouded by the Dark Prince’s magic.

They’d let her keep her book. They’d had no
choice about that, because it was protected by magic. They couldn’t
touch it anymore than they could touch her. Even though poor,
confused Uncle Matt still believed it was the book that had driven
her insane in the first place.

She wasn’t insane. And she knew that Uncle
Matt was no longer thinking for himself. His mind was just as weak
as Kate’s had been, that was all. It had been easy for the Dark
Prince to take over, so she couldn’t hate her uncle too much. He’d
tried to give her a home after her adopted parents had been killed.
And really, if she’d only been older and wiser, she would have
known better than to make such a fuss when her dreams told her
their car accident had been no accident. That the Dark Prince was
behind all of it. That he was trying to orchestrate things so that
Bridin would never be able to return to Rush. Really dumb of her to
blurt all that. But she’d only been eight then. And the
visions...the memories had come as a terrible surprise.

She was older and wiser now. Nine. And she
knew better than to try to explain her visions to just anyone.
Better she not even admit to them, when she could hide it, since
doing so only reinforced Uncle Matt's belief in her insanity.

So Uncle Matt went about his business, which
took him all over the world, and Bridin rarely saw him. He was
convinced he was providing the best possible care for his poor,
confused little niece. Convinced by the control the Dark Prince
exerted over his mind. As for Bridin, she remained here, a prisoner
in her uncle’s home, held captive by forces her uncle didn’ t even
believe could exist.

She was wiser now. Wise enough to know she
had to bide her time. She’d just stay here until she was old enough
to return to Rush. She’d just pretend to have resigned herself to
life as an inmate in her own bedroom. At least that way, her
enemies would have no reason to take further action. And it wasn’t
as if she could leave here, even if she tried. Oh, the others could
come and go as they pleased. The unaware mortals could cross
through the invisible barrier the Dark Prince had erected around
this place, and not even feel it there. And those men in black, the
prince’s henchmen brought over from the other side, could pass
freely as well. Evil didn’t harm evil. But no fairy could pass. The
force of the negativity would crush her. The house that looked to
mortal eyes like any other house was in truth a pretty cell to
Bridin. But when the time was right, she’d find a way to
escape.

She looked across the table at Raze, who’d
been sitting in quiet contemplation of the Monopoly board for some
time now. Of the handful of mortals in her uncle’s employ, he was
the only one not completely blinded by the Dark Prince’s spell.
She’d reached Raze, enchanted him, and gradually made him see the
truth.

Who’d have believed the formerly homeless
man, the bum who used to sleep in the park across from the
orphanage, would turn out to be the strongest of them all?

“Aren’t you gonna shake the dice? It’s your
move, you know.”

Razor-Face Malone snapped to attention and
ran one hand over his graying stubble. “Sorry.” He scooped up the
dice and tossed them. Then promptly moved the boot, which was her
token, instead of the race car, which was his.