∴ A Curse Come Good ∴

“Briar Rose,” the old cook shouts as you streak through the kitchen, snatching an apple on your way.

“That girl will be the death of me,” she grumbles, watching you disappear into the maze of corridors beyond.

You do not pause to apologize – Cook is used to these fleeting visits. They keep her on her toes. Besides, the one-eyed ginger tom is already getting away.

It’s a rough-and-tumble fondness you have for the old mouser – you’ve been chasing him since you were a bairn, and he never fails to lead you somewhere strange. After twelve years, you’d think you’d have seen the castle in its entirity, but somehow there’s always someplace new.

Had it not been for the curse, you might have spent your days docile at your mother’s side, teasing and tatting the flax and learning the dainty motions for spinning thread. But cursed you were, and the spinning wheels were cast from the kingdom – and for lack of ladylike pursuit, you made your own fun.

Chasing the cat was always a favourite, or creeping across the steepled rooftops, watching slate tiles skitter to the guttered edge. Then there was fighting the stable lad. At first you brawled with fists and feet until the horsemaster sent you scurrying. Then you played at knights with sticks, clashing and clattering until they splintered. Once you tried to rescue a real sword from the wall of the great hall. But the Castellan spied you smuggling it up the horse stairs and sent you to bed with an earful.

The old tom takes a left, then shoots up a narrow wooden stair. You don’t recognize the spiderweb-rimed staircase, but you fancy it might lead to the servants’ quarters. You could play a prank on Cook, you think, as you scurry after the beast.

The door at the head of the staircase opens with a creak like a crone’s laughter. Beyond is an empty attic room, all loose floorboards and gnarled beams. And there, in a single shaft of sunlight dancing with motes of dust, is a sword.

It lies quite unassumingly on the ground, as if placed there by someone who went to fetch something then forgot about it. You walk toward it with unfaltering steps, and crouch down to examine it.

It is small and wiry like you, with beautiful braided wire and a black guard shaped like a butterfly. Or like the symbol your father’s alchemists use to mean eternity. The blade is narrow and straight, like a needle. You lift it toward the light, wide-eyed, and do you hear for a second time the creak of crone’s laughter?

“This sword will be the death of me,” you murmur.

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∴ A Fierce Contender ∴

You curse as your finger finds the errant point of a hairpin, then glance about to be sure no one heard. It isn’t decent, apparently, for a lady to use such language. Pressing the pin more firmly into your tightly wound bun, you pluck another from between pursed lips and fix the last curling tendrils in place.

You step back to appraise yourself in the mirror: small, as your opponents do not hesitate to mention. Petite, if you’re being polite. A small, heart-shaped face stark against the severe hairstyle. A high, unadorned neckline, a tightly cinched waist – and a red heart sewn over your left breast. You always were the sort to wear your heart for all to see – your opponents learn all too quickly that this is not a weakness.

You cast a wicked little smile at the prim reflection. The truth is, you will always be underestimated in this game. For your sex, your slightness, or your sentimentality. Somehow, after all these years of duelling and winning, they still refuse to see you coming. And that is your greatest weapon – or one of them, at least.

The other is propped against the wall beside the mirror, always in sight – always in easy reach. Small and neat like her wielder, she is adorned in swelling black bars and simple brown leather; a pattern of five flowers for luck, should you need it. There is something of the magic wand to her nimble elegance – and that is proper, too, as there are certainly those who would call you a witch.

Closing your hand around the familiar leather grip, you part from your image with a last curt nod, and turn toward the door. It’s time to prove another opportunist wrong.

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