Rosamonde: The Real Story of Sleeping Beauty (5 page)

Henri.

His face was white with shock. And anger.

But then the room tilted more, as unsteady as a lily pad in a pond. Slippery, fragile, ready to flip me over into the future. A future that was bent on drowning me.

The last thing I heard before I fell asleep was Celeste’s worried voice.
“
Vite, vit
e
! Catch her before she falls!”

But I’d already fallen.

And then I was asleep. It was a fitting end to a very trying day.

***

“Wake up. I know you’re faking it. I know you are.” There was a pause, and then the voice repeated, sounding somewhat irritated. “Wake up!”

I opened one eye cautiously. I hadn’t exactly been faking it. I had been in that pleasant state between sleep and waking. That drowsy, comfortable place where everything is serene and peaceful and nothing bad existed, such as poison ivy or endless state dinners or engagements.

Engagements!

I opened both eyes and sat up in bed. I almost screamed out loud. I had fallen asleep looking at Henri’s face, and now I was waking up looking at him. He glared at me from the window.

“That’s quite a disturbing face to wake up to,” I said crossly.

“Oh, save it,” he said rudely, climbing in over the sill. A greying, balding head popped up into view after him.

“Uncle Milo,” I said, somewhat surprised. “What are you doing?”

“Climbing the ivy,” he said. “I find it strenuous and full of spiders.”

“We couldn’t use the door,” explained Henri. “There are Delmanians everywhere. Nobles, servants, soldiers. I counted no less than twelve trumpeters marching around in the back pasture, blaring away and scaring the cows. I wouldn’t be surprised if their entire court was here.”

“What a nuisance,” said Uncle Milo, settling into a chair with a sigh. “Though I must confess a great interest in that hot air balloon of young whatshisname—”

“Fenris!” growled Henri.

“Yes, that’s his name. I wonder if he’d be willing to lend it to me? I’ve never ridden in a hot air balloon before. Absolutely fascinating conveyance. You’re his fiancée, my dear. Would you be willing to—?”

“Don’t remind me!” I wailed. A tear trickled down the end of my nose and dropped onto my silk nightgown. Silk spots very easily. Particularly from saltwater.

“Sir! That’s exactly the reason why we’re here. Don’t you remember what we talked about? We’re going to save her! The idea!”

“Oh, ah, yes. That’s right.” Uncle Milo looked contrite. “The idea.”

“The idea?” I said, trying not to sniffle. “You’re going to save me? What do you mean, the idea? Is it your idea? What’s the idea? Tell me the idea!”

“Yes, yes. The idea,” said Henri rudely. “Stop repeating it like a parrot.”

“A parrot? I’m not the one with a nose like a beak!”

“At least mine isn’t as red as a beet!”

At this point in the conversation, Henri ducked in a cowardly fashion when I threw a small, ornate clock at him that happened to be close at hand on my nightstand. The clock shattered against the wall. Cogs and springs bounced across the floor.

“Children, children,” said Uncle Milo reprovingly. “This is no way to treat such a fine example of Swiss ingenuity. That particular clock was made by the firm of Sprüngli and Jodl of Bern. If I did not make my own clocks, I would be sure to buy them from Sprüngli and Jodl.”

“And speaking of Switzerland,” said Henri, eyeing me warily.

“Yes?” I said. “Speaking of Switzerland? And don’t you dare say anything about parrots!”

We sat down around the table in my sitting room. Uncle Milo prodded Henri encouragingly in the ribs. Henri cleared his throat. I refrained from telling him that he sounded like a strangling duck.

And then he began to explain the idea.

When Henri had finished, he sat back and looked at me with a sort of anxious expression on his face. I stared at him. Uncle Milo’s eyes were closed as if he had fallen asleep.

“You don’t like the idea,” said Henri.

“No, I love the idea!” I said quickly. “It’s brilliant! But how do you. . . how do we. . . ?”

“Ah,” said Uncle Milo, opening his eyes. “The question upon which all else turns. How do we get to Switzerland in time? And not just Switzerland, but the top of the Matterhorn
?
And then back, of course. In less than one week. That is the question. That is the fulcrum upon which all else tilts.”

“We could take the train,” said Henri.

“The night train to Vienna, switch to the Zurich line the following day, and then horse and carriage to Thun. A boat across the lake and then up to the top of the Matterhorn by mule halfway and then boot, rope, and ice axe?” Uncle Milo shook his head. “And then repeat the whole journey, but in reverse. No, it won’t do. Won’t do at all. We’ll miss the wedding by a week.”

“There won’t be any wedding!” I shouted, pounding on the table.

“Be quiet!” Henri glanced nervously at the door.

“If we only had a faster means of travel,” mumbled Uncle Milo.

There was a short moment of silence that, on reflection, should have been much shorter. Then we all started talking at the same time. It made for a very confusing conversation.

“I know what we can. . . !”

“Should’ve thought of it before we. . . !”

“I’m such an idiot to not have. . . !”

“Yes, you truly are an idiot, and. . . !”

“I can’t believe I didn’t. . . !”

“Would you three stop shouting like a collection of lunatics?”

The voice came from the other side of the room. Startled, we all turned. Celeste closed the door behind her and glared at us, her hands on her hips.

“All the way down the hall, I can hear you,” she said, frowning. “Is this the way to conduct a conspiracy? Yelling and—what is the correct word?—ollering!”

“Hollering,” offered Uncle Milo.

“Ollering
,
ou
i
. No, no. You must whisper, huddle close, look suspiciously at other people
,
tu comprend
s
? We French have very much practice with the rebellion, with the conspirac
y.
We do it with style.”

“So you wear berets,” mumbled Henri. “So what
?
Ouch
!
”

He looked as if he was going to expound further on this subject, but he changed his mind after I nudged him firmly in the ribs with my elbow. The time for discussion was over. It was time for action.

***

The moon that night hid obligingly behind ragged banks of clouds, only peeping out every now and then to spy on the proceedings. Uncle Milo and Henri were dressed in black, from their black hats and scarves tightly wrapped around their faces down to their black boots. I, of course, was not, even though I had argued strenuously that I should be allowed to accompany them. Uncle Milo and Henri had both been firm in their refusal, declaring that my job was the hardest. Stay and man the castle. Or woman the castle, if that made more sense. Keep up the appearance of things, they had said. Deceive them until the hour of their grand return, and all that kind of nonsense. I had agreed to do my part in good humor and without much complaining, other than kicking Henri in the knee.

Between the two of them, they had knapsacks stuffed with everything anyone would want if they were about to embark on an adventure. Extra socks, maps, a spare umbrella, several tins of sardines and just as many bars of chocolate, a collapsible tent that could also double as an inflatable boat, a copy o
f
Baedeker’s Guide to the Best Restaurants of Europ
e
, two sets of cutlery and crockery, an alarm clock, some mysterious-looking equipment from Uncle Milo’s laboratory, and a great deal of money. They also had walking sticks with rapiers concealed inside that Uncle Milo had produced at the last minute. I was exceedingly jealous.

“Now,” whispered Celeste, “we release the pigs. Jean-Luc?”

The youngest member of my retinue of footmen stepped forward. He looked embarrassed. We were crouched behind a hedge on the edge of the great lawn. The moonlight cast deep shadows across the expanse of grass. A deeper, vaster bulk of shadow hulked above the far edge of the lawn: the hot air balloon of His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Fenris of Delmania. The contraption was deflated, of course, but it still was an enormous bulk due to the wooden ribbing inside the rubberized leather globe. Three Delmanian soldiers paced slowly back and forth on guard, rifles on their shoulders.

“Do I have to do this?” complained Jean-Luc. “I despise my talent. Some magic it is. It is mortifying.”

“You must,” I said. “For Bordavia. Besides, it’s a very nice talent. It’s much better than mine.”

“Or mine,” said Henri. His talent was being able to turn tomatoes into zucchini.

“Oh, very well,” mumbled Jean-Luc.

Several of the other footmen opened three wicker baskets. Three pigs emerged. They were on the smaller side, but they seemed energetic and inclined to move quickly, which was perfect for our purposes. Jean-Luc got down on his hands and knees and made an oinking sound. The three pigs looked intrigued. He oinked again. They trotted over to him and began a discussion conducted mostly in oinks, with a few snuffles and grunts thrown in for good measure. After a few more encouraging oinks from Jean-Luc, the three pigs hurried off across the lawn. They made straight for the three Delmanian soldiers. Due to the darkness of the night, the soldiers did not see the pigs until it was too late. Three screams split the air.

“That was well synchronized,” said Uncle Milo admiringly.

“I told them to bite the ankles,” said Jean-Luc, “but not to crunch, like you told me.”

“Not to crunch
,
ou
i
,” said Celeste, nodding. “The lack of crunch i
s
trè
s
important, otherwise we cannot have the running and the chasing. The ankles must still work.”

“Pigs are so quick,” I said.

And they were. The three pigs were practically galloping across the lawn, heading in a southerly direction toward the water garden and the fruit groves just beyond that. The three unfortunate Delmanian soldiers were in hot pursuit. Being bitten on the ankle by a pig in the middle of the night is an upsetting thing—at least, I assumed it was upsetting—and the soldiers obviously wanted to exact justice from the pigs.

“Well done, Jean-Luc,” I said.

“It was nothing, Your Highness,” he said, blushing and bowing.

“Quickly now!” said Henri nervously.

Henri was always nervous. It was one of his better qualities, I suppose. We all hurried across the lawn toward the hulking shape of the balloon. It smelled of leather and wax and cold ash.

“You’re sure you know how to fly this?” said Henri.

“But of course,” said Uncle Milo. “It goes up, it comes down, it floats on the wind. What can be simpler?”

Celeste shot a few sparks from the tip of her finger and the cast iron stove inside the wicker basket soon had a roaring fire inside. Half the basket was stacked with neatly cut lengths of wood. The other half contained some chests, several armchairs, a couch and a mysterious-looking metal cylinder that was attached to the stove with a narrow iron pipe.

“This must be the container filled with the helium gas,” mumbled Uncle Milo. “Aha. It has a valve. I suppose turning it will do something.”

And it did. The pipe sticking up from the wood stove belched out a gout of flame, dirty with smoke. The balloon above the wicker basket creaked and groaned as the leather siding slowly inflated. I stifled an exclamation as the floor shifted beneath my feet.

“Everyone off!” said Henri sharply. “And for the last time, Rosamonde, you aren’t coming. There’s no use hiding behind the couch.”

“Oh, very well,” I said. He was not within kicking reach, nor were there any vases handy, so I contented myself with flouncing out of the wicker basket in an insulting fashion. I tripped as I stepped over the sill, but thankfully it was dark enough for the footmen to pretend that they had not seen my mishap.

The balloon tugged at its ropes, creaking and straining to be free. A sudden wash of moonlight gleamed on the stretching curve of leather. The footmen yanked the ropes free from their anchors, and the balloon shot up into the night. Uncle Milo and Henri waved furiously down at us. Then the moon slid behind a cloud and they were gone.

“Quickly!” hissed Celeste. “Before the soldiers return. We must be gone
.
Vite, vit
e
!”

***

Prince Fenris behaved like a spoiled child when he discovered his balloon was missing the next morning.

“Where is my balloon?” he roared, staring at the spot on the great lawn where it had been tethered. “My balloon! I want my balloon!”