I climbed back into the hole wondering how stupid I would have become if I’d stayed a princess much longer. Maybe that was the problem with everyone in the castle. Their lives were so soft and dull, they never had to think. Maybe under different circumstances Prince Charming would be designing buildings, writing books, speaking sixteen different languages. Maybe even my most vapid lady-in-waiting, Simprianna, was secretly capable of great genius.
That was such a laughable thought that I had extra energy thrusting the shovel back into the wall of the hole. This time I got out four pebbles and a clod of dirt the size of an apple.
At least this was an improvement.
I worked steadily the rest of the night, stopping to rest only once an hour, when I heard the palace clock chime. I told myself my goal that first night was only to make a big enough tunnel to hide the shovel in. But I reached that milestone at three o’clock, and mustered up the will to keep going. Madame Bisset had threatened to keep me in the dungeon until the wedding date, which was now just two weeks away. I was confident of my ability to dig myself out before that. But what if her threat was just a threat? What if they took pity on me and moved me back to my usual room after a few days? That certainly had nicer accommodations, but it was still a prison. And I didn’t know how to escape from there.
As daybreak approached I began to fear that a guard or Madame Bisset might show up to check on me in the early morn. When I heard the five o’clock chiming, I pushed my shovel as far back into my tunnel as it would go and carefully climbed out of the hole for the day. My arms and shoulders ached, and my legs had long ago gone numb. I barely managed to stumble over to the plank bed. I believe I was asleep before the final dong of five.
22
My cell was still dim when Madame Bisset’s voice woke me.
“So, sloth is among the faults we must cure in you,” she jeered. “Are you worth the effort?”
Sleep startled, I was at a loss for dealing with this new, coarsened Madame Bisset. I held my tongue but sat up dizzily. My head ached and, once I began to move, so did every muscle in my body.
“What—what time is it?” I asked.
“High noon,” she all but cackled. “Don’t you see the lovely sunshine coming in the window?”
I refrained from pointing out that whatever lovely sunshine there might be outdoors would never venture into the dungeon—or anywhere else in the castle, for that matter.
“Did you get enough beauty rest?” she continued.
I decided an attempt at dignity would serve me well today. I didn’t have enough energy for defiance.
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
I heard slow, pounding footsteps coming down the hallway behind her. They put me in mind of hideous fairy tale giants, the kind that chant “Fee-fi-fo-fum” and brag about smelling blood. The man who appeared outside my barred window fit the image. He towered over Madame Bisset by at least a foot and a half. His clothes were filthy and torn, his hair and beard were a mass of tangles, and his leer was the most lecherous I’d ever seen. For the first time, I was glad of the heavy door of my cell.
“If I may introduce you to your jailer,” Madame Bisset said, her perfect accent and primness returned. I didn’t miss the point: She considered this brute more worthy of her manners than I was. “Princess Cynthiana Eleanora, this is Quog. Quog, Princess Cynthiana Eleanora.”
Quog drooled.
“Heh,” he rumbled.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, determined to match Madame Bisset in this pretense.
“Quog has been instructed to take very good care of you until the wedding,” Madame Bisset said.
“And after?” I asked boldly.
Madame Bisset raised one eyebrow.
“If there is an after— If you prove to be unreformable and are still here, then— Quog has been told your fate is entirely in his hands. He may do as he wishes.”
I wished I hadn’t asked.
“Heh,” Quog said again. “Heh-heh.”
He panted like a dog begging for a treat.
“I want,” he grunted. “That.” He pointed at me.
“You’re trying to scare me,” I said to Madame Bisset. “It won’t work.” But against my will, an edge of fear crept into my voice.
Madame Bisset only smiled at me.
“Not now,” she told Quog. “For today, just give her her gruel.”
He slid a bowl through a space in the bars. Reluctantly, I stepped forward and tried to take it from him. But as soon as I was in reach, he grabbed my hand. His skin was leathery but strangely moist. I struggled to pull away, but he was too strong for me.
“No,” Madame Bisset said forcefully. “Not today, Quog. You must let go.”
Quog looked from me to her. He moaned like a scolded dog.
“Awww—” But he dropped my hand.
My bowl of gruel turned upside down on the floor.
“Too bad,” Madame Bisset said. “That was your only meal today.”
At the moment I didn’t care. I rubbed my hand where Quog had touched me. I longed to go scrub it, he was that disgusting.
“Quog, you are dismissed,” Madame Bisset said.
When he had lurched away, she leaned close and said, “Quog doesn’t have a key to your cell. Yet.”
I made myself stop rubbing my hand.
“Maybe—” I gulped. “Maybe it’s just his appearance that’s revolting. Maybe he’s truly a very good person.”
Madame Bisset laughed as if I’d told the world’s funniest joke.
“No,” she said cheerfully. “He’s revolting through and through. Now, I must be going. Will you return with me?”
“Return to what?” I asked cautiously.
“Your rightful place,” she said. “I believe the dressmaker would like you to try on your wedding gown again.”
“Then I’ll stay right here,” I said.
“I hope you enjoy Quog’s company,” she said lightly, and turned and left.
Her departure must have been Quog’s cue. The rest of the day he lingered outside my cell, alternating “heh’s” and “I want’s.” Once, I decided to test my theory.
“Quog,” I asked. “Did you have a happy childhood?”
“No,” he said. “Wanted women. Couldn’t get them. Now big. Get what want. Heh.”
I lay down on my plank and closed my eyes, deciding to ignore him.
The next few days I did my best to sleep all day, to have energy to work all night. Each shovelful of dirt I removed and dropped down the crap hole carried Quog’s face on it for me. I worked like a madwoman, without breaks. I tried to calculate how many more “heh-heh’s” I’d have to endure. I tried to figure out what I’d do once I escaped. But my mind was too hazy from lack of food to think at all. The spilled gruel scene was repeated each day, along with Madame Bisset’s fake, “Too bad.” I feared I might soon consent to Madame Bisset’s, “Would you like to return with me?” only out of starvation delirium. I thought I had been hungry before, but I’d never gone entirely without food.
On the third day, as soon as Madame Bisset was gone, I rushed to lick the floor where the gruel had fallen. I believe I managed to lap up only three flakes of meal and two weevils. But the sight of me on my knees sent Quog into howls of excitement.
“If you want me alive for the next two weeks,” I said crossly, “you’ll bring me more gruel.”
Quog only howled louder.
Digging that night, I had to pause between each shovel load. I tried to remember if any of my father’s books had contained information about how long someone could live without food. Surely it was many days. Surely Madame Bisset would not truly let me starve.
“Princess?”
With renewed energy, I scrambled out of the hole.
“Mary?”
“I brought you some food,” she whispered. “I thought, with all that digging . . .”
Tears of relief blurred my eyes.
“You have saved my life,” I blubbered. “
I can’t thank you enough. I can’t—” I couldn’t talk anymore, for cramming bread and cheese into my mouth.
“Don’t they feed you?” Mary asked.
“No,” I said.
She was silent, as if attempting to grasp their strategy.
“They think you’ll cave soon,” she said finally.
I didn’t care about anything but the food in my mouth.
“Is there more?” I asked.
She laughed.
“Cook’s off tonight. I can get lots. Have you dug enough of the hole that you can hide a big bundle?”
“Oh, yes!”
She brought what looked like a treasure trove of plums and pears and apples, an entire wheel of cheese, and three loaves of bread. I was crying with joy as she handed each food through my bars.
“Don’t go on like that, please,” she begged. “It’s only plain stuff. I thought the fancy things might be missed.”
“You don’t understand. Weevils were starting to taste good to me. And then there’s Quog—”
“Is he here?” Mary asked. Her voice trembled.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s my jailer. Lovely gentleman, isn’t he?”
“Then you should dig fast.”
I couldn’t get her to explain more.
“I don’t want to scare you,” she said.
“But you already have,” I muttered.
“Sorry,” she said. “I should go. I’ll try to come back the next time cook’s off.”
I started to protest, wanting company now that my belly would let me think of something besides food. But her words “You should dig fast” were still echoing in my ears. I went back into the crap hole and dug as much as I’d dug the previous two nights put together.
23
By the end of the fifth night, I was ready to curve my tunnel upward. I estimated it would take me only an hour or two from there, because I’d be helped by gravity bringing the dirt down. Would I dare break through the surface and escape at five in the morning?
Reluctantly, I decided it was too much risk. I wanted to put an entire night’s travel between me and the castle before my disappearance was discovered. I put my shovel down and crawled back to my cell.
That next day was an agony. To be so close to freedom, but not to have it, made Quog’s disgusting leers and taunts even more unendurable. When Madame Bisset showed up for the noon gruel routine, I had to struggle not to laugh in her face. You’ve had five days of torture, I told myself. You can’t act like you have any hope.
“Have you come to your senses yet?” she asked.
“I still have senses about me,” I retorted. “But—can’t you feed me?”
Immediately, I realized my voice was too strong and self-assured.
“Please?” I made myself whimper. “I’m starving.”
I sucked in my cheeks, although I thought the cell was too dark for her to notice that I wasn’t as emaciated as I should be after five days without food.
Madame Bisset looked puzzled.
“Quog hasn’t been bringing you extra food, has he?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.
I pretended to misunderstand.
“Oh, would he do that? That would be so wonderful. It doesn’t have to be much—just a crust of bread. I won’t get too fat, I promise. But I have to eat something. Oh, all I think about is food—”
“Here’s your gruel, then,” Madame Bisset said.
This time Madame Bisset herself passed the bowl through the bars. I made myself grab at it clumsily, feigning an eagerness only a starving person could have for that lukewarm, weevil-studded mess. My acting was too effective: This time I was the one who spilled it all over the floor.
I immediately fell to my knees and pretended to lick it up, right there in front of Madame Bisset.
“Mmm, mmm.” I faked ecstasy at the taste of food. “Isn’t there more? Please?”
“You are disgusting,” Madame Bisset snapped.
But she finally sounded satisfied.
Two hours later I discovered my pretense had worked too well. The prince showed up.
“Oh, Ella,” he declared with what was probably supposed to be a horrified tone, but only came out sounding wooden. “Is this where you’ve been? I didn’t know—Oh, my beloved—”
I decided the supposed Prince of Charm was in desperate need of acting classes. But how in the world was I supposed to respond?
“Prince?” I said tentatively, buying time.
“It’s those advisers of mine,” he said. I think he may have been reading his words off a slip of paper in his hand. “They were angry at you. But I couldn’t think of anything but you. I’ve searched the whole castle for you. I love you. I’ve missed you.”
I stifled the urge to tell him I’d seen children display more genuine emotion over pet fleas they killed five minutes later. It probably wasn’t in my best interest to speak of killing.
“You know, you are the prince. All you had to do was threaten to get rid of your advisers if they wouldn’t tell you where I was,” I said, flirting with insubordination in spite of myself.
The prince blinked. I don’t think that line was in his script.
“I’ve come to rescue you,” he said uncertainly.
Oh no! I couldn’t leave the dungeon now!
“Come with me,” the prince added. He raised a key to my door.
Thinking fast, I threw myself at the prince’s feet—or as near as I could, with the dungeon door between us.
“But Sire,” I wailed. “I wronged you. I deserve to stay here an entire week, to do penance for my sin.”
I think “penance” was too complicated a word for the prince—after all, it does have two syllables. He stood there looking confused.
“Return for me in two days,” I begged him. “Then I can go with you a pure woman, worthy of your love.” I practically choked on the words. But, hey, my acting was no more appalling than the prince’s.
“Well . . . ,” the prince started doubtfully.
Down the hall I heard a growl.
“Who there?” Quog bellowed. “She mine!”
In the flickers of the lamplight, I saw the prince draw his sword.
“Begone!” he warned.
Quog stamped closer.
“Mine!” he repeated.
The prince ran his sword through Quog’s chest.
“Argh!” Quog groaned. He fell heavily to the ground. Then he was silent.
The prince looked back at me, blood on his hands.
“I slew that creature for love of you,” he mumbled.
I shrank back against the wall of my cell, weeping. I had no affection for Quog, of course, but what I had witnessed still horrified me. It was all so cold and heartless and without reason. Did the prince—or, more likely, his advisers—think I would be won over by watching him murder Quog? Did they understand me so poorly? What kind of people had I been living with?
“Darling,” the prince said.
I sobbed harder.
“Now . . .” I could barely speak. “Now . . . I . . . am . . . truly . . . unworthy. Return in . . . three days.”
“Oh, all right,” the prince said, seeming suddenly impatient with the whole charade. “Bye.”
He turned to go, kicking Quog’s body aside without a second glance. I watched the circle of his lamplight recede down the hall with him. Even that dim glow picked up the glints of gold in his hair. I now knew the real Prince Charming to be, at best, an insensitive dullard, or perhaps even a callous monster only barely better than Quog himself. But I still felt a pang for the ideal I’d thought I’d loved, the perfect male I’d made up in my mind with the image of the prince’s face.
I lay down on my plank bed and tried to forget what I’d seen. In three hours I would begin to dig. And then I could leave everything behind.
24
I dozed fitfully, only deep enough in sleep to dream. I saw Quog and the prince’s bloody hands again and again. I think I cried out once or twice, but no one c
ame to comfort me. I dreamed that Quog rose again and came and stood over my bed. Then Quog became the prince, reaching for me. I turned to him, forgetting my revulsion, forgetting everything but that beautiful face and handsome body. But as soon as I touched his hand, he turned into Quog.
I screamed myself awake.
Shaking, I sat up and wondered if I dared scramble over to the tunnel and make my escape. I wasn’t concerned about anyone coming to investigate my screams. But what if someone came back for Quog’s body? I made myself tiptoe over to the door and peek out. Staring into the darkness, I tried to make out a lump on the floor where Quog had fallen, or a trail of blood, but I couldn’t make out anything, either way.
I went back and looked up at the window, trying to evaluate how late it was. I was squinting into more darkness when I heard a blessed sound: the donging of the palace clock. Trembling, I counted carefully, as if everything depended on my accuracy. One, two, three . . . ten, eleven, twelve. I laughed, almost giddy.
It was time.
With a practiced air, I slid down the crap hole for the last time and shimmied into my tunnel. Preferring speed over style, I’d made it barely wide enough, so I had to perform a complicated dance maneuvering around the shovel and the bag of food Mary had brought me. The bag had grown light over the past two days, and I wished I could wait and restock it. I also hated the thought of leaving without saying good-bye and thanking Mary. But nothing could make me stay a minute longer in the castle than I had to.
Frantic with anticipation, I thrust my shovel again and again into the roof of my tunnel, not pausing even to brush away the clods of dirt that rained down on me. I got dirt in my eyes and kept shoveling. I got a splinter in my hand and ignored it. Then finally I felt something different brush my face with the falling soil. Something soft.
Grass.
Without thinking I jumped up, my head bursting through what remained of my tunnel’s ceiling. The cool night air felt like a caress against my face. I had to stifle a shriek of glee.
I was out.
Caution overtook me after a second; I crouched and looked carefully around. There were lanterns at intervals along the castle wall behind me, but I saw no guards. I reached back into my tunnel and grabbed my food bag. When I noticed the shovel—my best friend for five days, now nearly forgotten—I picked it up to take along too, just in case it could incriminate Mary. I liked the notion of leaving people wondering how I’d gotten out. Let them think I’d dug through the crap hole with my fingernails. I grinned, remembering how the prim ladies-in-waiting always reacted in horror if anyone broke a fingernail during needlepoint. I wanted my hands to be more useful than that. I wanted my life to be more useful than that.