“Good, because we don’t have much time.” Her smile is enchanting. “Please tell me, what does the dirt feel like?”
I find her question odd. Everyone knows what the darn dirt is like. “How can you not know?”
“I’ve never touched it.”
Wait. What?
“Does your mama never let you outside to play?”
She leans out the window again. This time, she crosses her arms on the ledge and almost wistfully lays her chin on them. “I daresay I have never left this tower.”
Shocked, I take a moment to comprehend her confession. I want to ask if she’s a prisoner, but the question gets stuck in my throat. Instead, I crouch and snatch a handful of grass and dirt. I let it filter through my fingers in damp clumps. “After last night’s rain, the air is hot and sticky. The dirt is still damp. It’s warm and heavy in my hand.” I break apart what’s left and crumble the chunks. “When it’s dry, it reminds me of dust. The grass is soft but firm, like…” I struggle to think of a way to describe it, but I don’t know what she does or doesn’t have in the tower. “Straw, I guess. Do you understand?”
“The same as what fills my bed?”
“Yes,” I confirm.
“What’s your name?”
The joy vanishes from her face. She steps back, the scrape of metal against stone faint with her movements. “I… I can’t.” She shakes her head. “You need to go now, before she returns.”
“Okay, I’ll leave.” I hold up my dirty hands in surrender and walk backward, away from the tower. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared of you.” She glances beyond me. At what lies behind me. “I’m scaredforyou.”
My stomach coils in a knot. “Is thisshethe witch who cursed Blithe?”
A hesitant nod is her only answer.
I knew it.
I shouldn’t have come this far south.
But if I hadn’t, I’d have never found this tower.
I would not have met this lovely girl.
“I’m not afraid of witches.” I pick up my stick and puff out my chest. “My name is Wren. Wren Kincaid. Our friendship is now a certainty, and as your friend, I promise you, I’ll come back as often as possible. I won’t leave you to stay here alone with the witch.”
Her weak smile is an arrow shot straight into my heart. “Rapunzel.” Her sweet voice drifts to me from the window. “My name is Rapunzel.”
The novelty of the name rivals the mystery of the girl. “I’ll see you soon, Rapunzel.”
2
WREN
Thirteen Years Old
“Ihate when you sit like that.”
“Like what, this?” Rapunzel, perched on the window’s ledge, dangles one leg out of the tower. She swings it back and forth, with her bare foot scraping against the outer stone wall.
After a brutal winter, nature gifted Rygard with an early spring. Rapunzel has the pane thrown wide open, with the white curtain drawn aside. She is, as always, a vision, with her hair in a thick plait. And here I am, a grubby mess. But at least I scrubbed my face clean and dug out the dirt under my nails lest she think me a heathen. Nothing I can do to rectify the sad state of my clothes, though. My friends and I were sparring, and I took a tumble in the mud. She didn’t mind that I came here filthy and even laughed when I told her how Peter, the blacksmith’s son, got the better of me—again.
My stomach flip-flops at her precarious position. Darn her. I can’t catch her if she falls. I may be strong, but she’s too high. She’ll splat on the ground. “Why must you scare me?”
“Because it’s funny.” The infernal girl keeps rocking her leg back and forth because apparently, she wants to age me before my time.
