Donkeyskin - ON HOLD

Of Secret-Keepers

*Of Secret-keepers*

"You're certain?" Queen Annika asked of her niece. The two of them had chosen a walk through the frosty gardens for this particular conversation. Neither of them had wanted to risk being overheard, and, as long as they remained within the garden walls, Annika was not trailed by guards, as she would have been in the outer environs of the palace land, so those near them were few.

They had strolled up and down the gravel path of the rose garden–though every last rose bush was covered and protected from the late winter chill–for a half hour, discussing mundane things, before Belle had broached the subject Annika so longed to hear about.

Belle gave her a sharp glance. "Of course," she said, and Annika thought, for a second, that she was hurt. But no. She was merely indignant. A girl like Belle, with Belle's talents, was not used to people doubting her.

"I'm sorry," Annika said. "It's just that it's been but a week–hardly time enough for you or your agents to follow her path."

Belle shrugged. "I didn't need to follow her when I could find proof right here, though I am ashamed that it took me an entire week to find this." She held something out to the queen.

From a distance, it would have looked merely as though Belle had offered the queen her gloved hand, so small was the object she held. The queen drew near to her, and they bent their heads together. It must have been a comical picture, the queen reflected. One woman, petite and willowy, the younger towering over her, strong and tall. One in an ornate gown, a veil modestly covering her flawless curls, the other in breeches and boots, her hair tied back in a strict braid.

Annika took the offered object–a miniature portrait in an ivory casing. Her fingers, clad in leather gloves, trembled as she pressed the catch. She knew, even without truly knowing, what she would see.

A face stared up at her, all big grey eyes and a laughing smile, dark, winged brows swooping into a look of pure humor. Ebony eyelashes painted splatters of coal in the snow against the ivory of her skin. Full lips like roses and cream curved up with the faintest hint of mockery. A strong nose made her human, rather than too perfect, yet, somehow, this only seemed to make her more beautiful, since it testified that she was real. Raven hair was piled in a mass of curls and waved, revealing a long, graceful neck. A constellation of freckles decorated the bridge of her nose, where a slight wrinkle marred the perfection, and hinted at the absolute delight of the woman depicted.

Annika stumbled back and sank onto a bench that had been conveniently placed there. Before today, she had often cursed the garden's designers who had thought it necessary to line the path with stone benches, lending the whole garden the feel of a public park, rather than a showcase of a collection of the world's rarest roses. Now, she thanked whoever had had the foresight to do so, for she was spared a nasty fall.

Belle sank down beside her. "Queen Elise," she said.

"Yes," Annika said, so quietly that she feared Belle hadn't heard. "I know. We grew up together, she and I. She was my best friend, and my children's godsmother."

Belle was quiet for a minute, long enough for a peal of laughter from a bench a ways away to attract the queen's attention. Two girls sat there, heads bent together. One wore a simple gown of forest-green wool, her black curls pinned in a chignon. The other wore a dress of pale blue, worn and threadbare, her hair covered in a cream-colored cloth in the style of farm workers and the lower classes.

Annika, regarding the girl, felt tears prick her eyes. "Oh, seas!" she exclaimed, clutching the portrait close. The girl, the dancer Lune, shared the same long neck, the same outrageous mass of curls, the same nose, the same eyes. Yet all of these seemed not to fit her face as they had Elise's. Her nose was a downward arrow, her eyes too big for her face, her hair overwhelming, her freckles an invasion of her whole face.