CHAPTER 20

The mansion was new.

Sometimes the landscape would shift to confuse weary travelers and those who should not wander in the Wood, but the Woodcutter could feel the true paths. He knew this one, and the mansion had not been there before.

It rose five stories, with slender white pillars supporting a darkly gabled roof. Surrounding it was a carefully tamed garden, its pruned bushes and manicured lawn sharply contrasting against the wildness of the Wood, the property line divided betwixt the two by a curled-iron fence.

It must be dealt with. The Woodcutter loosened the Platinum Ax. The Wood did strange things to humans, especially humans who had a distant touch of the fae within. It turned them from ordinary people into mad hermits, cannibals who ate children thinking they were made of gingerbread, and people who swore they had been asleep for one hundred years.

If a person’s blood ran royal blue and his magic was powerful enough, one might survive the Wood. To live, it was either full magic or none at all.

Or none at all…

None at all…

His wife.

His hands rested upon the gate to the mansion, and he could almost feel her plain fingers upon his shoulder.

Her caring, ordinary touch as she brought him his pipe as he sat by the fire at night…as she brought him a steaming cup of coffee in the morning for no other reason than to tell him that she loved him, for no other reason than to express in an ordinary way that she cared…

A cup of steaming coffee…

The steam from the tea he had set before the Princess…

The water in the basin, red with the blood of the Huntsman…

He forced the memory away.

He opened the gate and stepped onto the grounds. A low mist appeared, swirling around his legs as if tasting him. He kicked it away and walked to the imposing house.

He knocked upon the door, and when no answer was forthcoming, he knocked again. The door swung open silently.

He stepped into the entry, tiled in gray-and-white marble. The windows were swathed in heavy black drapes. Odd music trickled down the hall, echoing empty, hollow notes. He walked toward the music and found himself before a large double door that stood ajar.

Inside was a ballroom with lit candles that flickered dim in the gray light of day. The room was filled with snoring bodies of lords and ladies reclining upon mutely colored couches. They were sleeping, yet dressed in evening splendor. Feathered heads and powdered wigs leaned against jewel-bedecked bosoms and tilted shoulders.

But one person was awake—a frighteningly pale gentleman with bloodred lips and dark circles under his eyes. He sat at a piano, playing the drifting tune that called the Woodcutter.

The Gentleman looked up as the Woodcutter picked his way through the room. His words lolled out casually, “Come to sample the dust? Or merely to be a part of such lively company?”

Even relaxed, the Gentleman moved like a panther in the jungle. The Woodcutter’s hand never left the Platinum Ax.

“How did this House come to be in my Wood?” asked the Woodcutter.

The Gentleman banged out a doomful arpeggio in mock horror. “Your Wood? My, I had no idea.”

“How did you come to my Wood?” the Woodcutter asked again.

“Well, it is a funny thing. We went to sleep one night, woke the next morrow, and here we were.” The Gentleman let out a childlike giggle and waved a lace-trimmed hand at the resting bodies. “So, you see, we decided to make the best of things, and may I just say we are having a simply splendid time. Hope you don’t mind, these being your Woods and all…What did you say your name was?”

The Woodcutter felt the tendril of magic quietly try to sneak up on him.

There was power behind it.

“Those that need to know my name, do,” said the Woodcutter.

The Gentleman stopped playing and rested his arms upon the piano. “But I need to know. I absolutely must know your name.” He began a wandering trill. “For how else will I know to whom to engrave the invitation, since it seems you have entered my House uninvited.”

There was a dangerous gleam in the Gentleman’s eye.

The Woodcutter bowed. “I shall take my leave. Please move your home. You are not welcome here.”

The Gentleman leapt to his feet. “No! Stay. What sort of a host do you take me to be? Where are my manners? Of course we’re not welcome in your Wood. I have been acting like an absolute bore. Here, let me introduce you to the rest of the guests. Do help yourself to the dust. We have loads.”

He clapped his hands, and sparkling embers fell from the ceiling.

Faerie dust.

The Woodcutter held his breath and covered his head with his jacket, but the dust was too thick. He felt it on his skin, seeping into his bloodstream. It felt like slipping into a warm spring and waking in a dream.

There was a flash and the room was at once alive, awash in reds and golds and filled with joyous revelers. It was dark outside, but the party was bright beneath the blazing candelabras.

The Woodcutter spun, unsteady on his feet and caught in the middle of the dance floor as lords and ladies glided by. The violins played. Laughter swept by.

He did not know where he was or how he had gotten there.

The Woodcutter looked over at the musicians’ stage and at a Gentleman performing upon the piano.

The Gentleman gave the Woodcutter a wink.

The Woodcutter thought he might have met the Gentleman before. He took a step toward the dais, but the world seemed to tilt. The Woodcutter staggered and was caught as a tightly laced bodice pressed up against his side.

“Are you feeling quite well?”

He nodded his head and gratefully patted the arm that held him. His tongue was thick and could not move properly. The lady helped him regain his balance and then said, “I do not believe we have been properly introduced.”

The lady wore scarlet brocade and held out a gloved hand. Her hair was so black it was blue, and her skin was painted white. She smelled of spice and forbidden thoughts. Her pulse beat its rhythm in the delicate dip between her throat and her collarbone. A small beauty patch shaped like a flower sat upon her cheek.

He could not keep his eyes off the beauty patch.

She placed her hand in his. “Monsieur…?”

She stared at him expectantly.

But he said nothing, for he could not remember.

Her dark eyes flashed as she clapped her hands. “A game, is it? Let me see if I can guess…”

He pushed past, his mind upon the beauty patch.

A flower.

Something…

Something about flowers…

The woman’s hand rested once again upon his arm. “Sir…”

He turned.

She leaned against him.

“Who are you?” she whispered. Her lips were so close to his ear. She held her finger to her red mouth playfully. “Our secret. I shall not tell another soul. Just tell me your name.”

The Woodcutter peeled himself away, asking, “How does a person leave this place?”

She pointed to a door across the ballroom. “That way, but you should not leave now,” she pouted.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you will miss all the fun.”

He walked toward the door, uncertain of anything except that he should not be at this ball.

“Prince baiting,” the woman in red called.

He stopped and turned. “What?”

She walked slowly toward him, her eyes never leaving his. “Prince baiting. We seem to have caught one mid-quest. If he wins, he goes free. Of course, they never win.”

She leaned against the Woodcutter and pointed at a servant standing near a pillar. He was a tall man with a strong chin. He glowered at the crowd as he held the tray of snuffboxes.

“Mr. Charming was quite a fighter,” she said.

“Are there others?” asked the Woodcutter. He did not know why the question was important, but something inside told him it was so.

The woman waved her fingers at the other servants. The Woodcutter counted six men in all.

“Here the royalty wait upon us,” she purred, stepping away. “Oh, dear”—she smiled at him like a cat with a bird in its mouth—“I forgot to mention it before. I am afraid the prince we shall be baiting tonight is you.”

The Woodcutter turned.

The revelers had surrounded him, their merriment transformed to menace. The Woodcutter felt strong hands upon his arms, holding him tightly from behind. He struggled to pull away, but the grips only strengthened.

The Gentleman entered the ring, tucking a handkerchief back into his sleeve. He held his hand out to the woman in red. “My Queen.”

She drew close and placed a lingering kiss upon his cheek.

As she stepped into the crowd, the guests parted and dropped low on bent knee before her.

“Well,” said the Gentleman to the Woodcutter, “I suppose you will want to know the rules. Win, you go free. Lose, you stay here and serve me. At your ready.”

The Woodcutter was silent and then shook his head.

The Gentleman laughed. “Oh, my dear prince, I’m afraid you don’t get a say in this.” Then he looked at the Woodcutter from the corner of his eye and tutted. “Isn’t it unfair…?”

The Woodcutter still had not moved. His gaze was upon the six imprisoned princes who stood voiceless and impassive, carrying the silver trays loaded with dust boxes. Finally he spoke. “I want higher stakes.”

This made the Gentleman stop. “Higher stakes? I do believe this is a first! What fun!” The Gentleman circled like a tiger. “Very well. If I win, you become mine and these Woods become my permanent domain.”

The Woodcutter fingered the shiny Ax that hung at his side. He did not know the woods to which the Gentleman was referring, but he knew he opposed anything the man wanted. He nodded. “If I win, you leave the woods and you free the princes whom you hold prisoner,” said the Woodcutter.

“Good! We have a deal,” said the Gentleman. The crowd clapped appreciatively. “And now to the game.”

A table was brought forward, a table bearing a knife.

There was a darkness to the knife, something about it that burned the Woodcutter’s nose.

“Pick it up,” said the Gentleman.

The Woodcutter found the knife in his hands.

“Here is the game. You will begin cutting yourself.”

The Woodcutter saw the knife move to his arm, moved by his own hand but not by a will of his own.

He fought.

He fought hard.

Yet he felt the jagged-toothed edge cold against his skin.

“You will sit here and cut yourself until you tell me your name. And then I win. Or you don’t tell me your name and you’ll win, but you’ll die.” The Gentleman giggled to the crowd, delighted by his own deviousness. “And I promise, afterward, I shall set you free.”

And then the Woodcutter felt the serrations rip into his flesh.

The pain was blinding as the knife grazed against his bone.

The Gentleman smiled as he sat and took a glass of wine from a passing prince’s tray. “Such a fun game.”

A man shouted across the circle, “I say he doesn’t last ten cuts.”

The Gentleman shouted back, “I have a box of dust that says he only lasts five.”

The Woodcutter felt the knife line up for another cut. He tried to will his hand to still.

The pain was enormous. White light flashed before his eyes. Black replaced it as dots swam before him.

But he remembered.

He remembered his name. He remembered his name and that he must protect himself. He felt his blood gushing out, sticky and warm down his arms and his legs and into his shoes.

The knife still cut on.

“All you have to do to get it all to stop is just whisper your name,” said the Gentleman.

The request rippled through the undulating crowd.

“Your name…”

“Your name…”

And then a faint whisper, “His blood runs red.”

A louder whisper spat, “Silence.”

It took all his energy to not let them see it ran a different color.

“Your name…”

The call taunted him.

“Just say your name…”

So easy, he thought.

Just his name…

He looked up and saw the leering face of the beautiful woman in scarlet. His blood had splattered across her cheek, across her beauty patch. She looked at the Woodcutter and slowly licked a droplet off her upper lip.

The beauty patch.

The flower.

Flowers.

Flowers scattered upon the floor.

A small hand.

Golden curls…

Chestnut hair.

And a plain face with a welcome smile that had greeted him for ten years and ten years more…

His wife.

“Never.”

And the Woodcutter took the dagger and plunged it into his own heart.

Suddenly the room was gone.

The Woodcutter was standing in the gray room with the revelers still fast asleep around him.

The Gentleman downed a quick cordial. “Oh, bother. What a way to end a perfectly good game,” he said.

The Woodcutter said nothing.

“Well, I suppose you will want me to move my house, Prince of the Wood,” the Gentleman laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

But the Woodcutter remained silent. His arms still felt the pain of the phantom cuts; his chest still felt the knife as it entered.

The Gentleman’s face flashed frustration. “You are a terrible sport. Look, no one was hurt. Just a bit of fun. I don’t know why you have to be—”

In two steps, the Woodcutter was at the fop’s side. His closed fist connected with the Gentleman’s jaw and struck him to the ground.

“Get out of my Wood,” he rumbled.

The Gentleman picked himself up, blue blood pouring from his nose. He hissed at the Woodcutter, “Oh, you shall pay. You shall have your princes, but not here. Go find them, dog.”

And with that, the mansion disappeared and the Woodcutter found himself standing alone in the forest.