The Princess and the Page Page 19

  The faces within the portraits begin mumbling, their lips moving incessantly. At first I can’t make out what they’re saying, but then as their voices grow louder, the words become clearer.

  “Beware. Beware. Beware, Word Weaver,” they chant over and over.

  “Stop!” I yell at them while clamping my arms tighter around my best friend.

  “Beware, Word Weaver,” an old woman says from inside her frame on the wall. “You are not safe in your own fairy tale. If you are caught by your enemy, you will be stuck here forever or, worse, destroyed!”

  “I can’t let this ghost take my best friend. I won’t!”

  But Bella continues her rigid pace so that I’m dragged across the floor until we reach the ghost’s feet, so close I could touch her bare toes.

  A black cauldron materializes beside the ghost. Curls of purple steam rise into the air. The ghost dips a chalice into the bubbling liquid and holds it out to Bella.

  “No, Bella!” I scream, clawing at Bella’s hand as she reaches for the chalice. “Don’t drink it. It’s poisonous!”

  But Bella’s arm is an iron bar, stronger than I could possibly imagine. With her eyes glazed, she takes a sip. I can’t stop screaming, my voice echoing throughout the ballroom in a wail. The chalice drops from Bella’s hand, smashing to the floor in a thousand pieces. A whirl of wind circles all of us, soaring and gushing with the strength of a tornado.

  My grip on Bella loosens. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on. One by one my fingers slip from Bella. I fall to the floor in a heap of golden material. Bella’s skirts billow about in a tangle of blue like a deadly storm off the seacoast, and her black hair whips across her face.

  And then she and the ghost vanish.

  “Bella!” I cry into the darkness. I’m alone, wretchedly alone.

  Survival Tip: Never drink anything from a stranger.

  I rise to my feet. The ballroom is empty; everyone from the real world has vanished. I must still be in my fairy tale.

  Then the howl of the wolves startles the silence. Somehow in the back of my mind, I know that they are signaling the beginning of their hunt. The hunt for the Word Weaver who must be punished for trying to tamper with her own story.

  The hunt for me.

  The portraits open their eyes and begin whispering as if they, too, fear the wolf pack.

  “Beware, beware, beware, Word Weaver,” they say, their voices no louder than the rustle of wind cutting through leaves.

  A sob escapes me as the full enormity of watching my best friend be taken away sinks in. My heart beats so fast I can’t think straight.

  There has to be something I can do. There has to be a way to stop this madness.

  I dash across the ballroom, glad I opted for the indoor soccer shoes rather than the heels Cheryl had insisted I wear.

  But once I enter the main hallway of the castle, my feet slow. Something is crashing against the front doors of the castle in hard, solid thumps as if it is trying to ram down the doors. Then the sound of scratching. The doorknob turns.

  And the castle doors are flung open.

  There at the threshold snarls a group of five wolves. Their teeth glint knifelike in the moonlight as drool drips from their snarling jaws. Their green eyes narrow in on me.

  “Word Weaver,” the wolf in the middle says. “So pleased you decided to come back. This time we will make sure you never leave again.”

  They dive into the hallway, straight for me.

  I sprint up the stairs, careening around the corner into the second-floor hallway. I bolt for my room and slam the door shut, locking it.

  The wolves smash against the door as if they hit it at a full-out run. I turn to assess the room. A single lantern is lit on the desk, flickering a friendly glow amid the gloom. There is nothing of Bella’s or mine in here.

  What if I rewrite the fairy tale in my own fairy-tale realm? Would that change everything? Encouraged, I throw open all of the drawers, hoping for paper. They’re completely empty.

  The door bends in, the wood finally succumbing to the onslaught. I don’t have much time.

  “Run, Word Weaver!” voices whisper from the figures in the tapestries.

  I glance at the door. A splintered gash snakes down the door’s center. A green eye of one of the wolves peers through, unblinking.

  Holding back a cry, I seize the lantern on the desk and race to the fireplace. I stare at the area, trying to remember back to the time when I ran this way with Gabrielle. How did she get inside the fireplace? I rub my hands over and over my head. And then I remember.

  I slam down the fire poker. The back of the fireplace begins to rumble open, and I dash inside just as the door crashes to the floor.

  Stumbling, squeezing, and sprinting, I race through the castle’s secret passageways. The wolves gain on me, so close behind I can hear their heavy breathing. Still I run, a plan forming in my mind. I need to find my way back outside.

  Finally, just ahead, I spot the old wooden door with the two Ws carved on it. I push my body into overdrive and shove myself into the door. But the wolves are too fast.

  A wolf flies through the air, clawed paws outstretched toward me. I swivel around and smash the lantern on the wolf’s snout, shattering its glass. It rears back and howls in pain as flames lick across its shaggy fur.

  I don’t pause but heave open the door and slam it closed, praying it will take a long time for them to break this door down.

  Then I race down one of the garden paths, panting and gasping for air. The moon hangs above, now at its fullest, bathing the castle in its eerie glow. The wind turns colder, as if the air itself is trying to stop me from running back to the castle. Still, I keep running, praying, wishing, and hoping that Chet’s rope is still there.

  But as I careen around the bend, I skid to a halt. Before me hovers the iridescent sapphire form of the ghost, still wearing her shredded dress and the hooded cloak that shrouds her features.

  “Stepsister?” I whisper, my heart in my throat.

  Another gust of wind blows across the garden, tearing back the ghost’s hood. Red hair whips about like fire. I gasp. The ghost is Ms. Teppernat!

  “Ah, yes, Word Weaver,” Ms. Teppernat says, her thin lips gray in the moonlight. “Now you know the truth. I have you to thank for giving me so much power. It is through you that I have been able to live long after my days should have ended.”

  Ms. Teppernat appears so different with her long red hair hanging loose. Free of the hood, it whips behind her like a kite.

  And those eyes! A horrible emerald green just like the wolves. They mesmerize me. My knees buckle and I drop to the ground. Ms. Teppernat raises her hand and squeezes her fist tight. Then, as if mimicking Ms. Teppernat’s fist, my lungs squeeze so tight that it’s as if all the air inside my head has been sucked up and I’m lost in the raging wind.

  Ms. Teppernat loosens her grip and lowers her hand. My lungs gasp for air and suck it all in, choking uncontrollably. She laughs, a long ear-piercing laugh at me as the pack of wolves slink out of the shadows, flanking her.

  “This has been delightful having a Word Weaver enter my fairy tale,” Ms. Teppernat says in a hollow voice. “How did I ever get to be so lucky? But the fun must end. You are getting rather tiresome, and I grow weary of your games. Come, give her the flower.”

  Another figure emerges from the trees. Madame! Slowly, she glides along the path, holding out a single white rose.

  “You thought you were invisible,” Madame says. “But you were no feat for us.”

  I attempt to stand, but my legs are locked. “You have my mom here, too, don’t you?” When they both smile at me, I nearly lose it. “Where are my mom and my best friend?”

  “Oh, those two?” Ms. Teppernat chuckles and then snaps her fingers.

  A blue mist forms between us. The wind picks up and in my mind I fly toward a tall, twisted tower. As I draw closer, the two shutters at the top of the tower swing open, revealing a spiral stairca
se. Along either side of the staircase are cells. Prisoners clutch the bars that pen them inside, and their voices vibrate in my ears.

  “Help me, Word Weaver,” they wail. “Help me!”

  My body continues on, moving up the Dark Tower, higher and higher, past prisoner after prisoner, until I reach the very peak.

  And there sitting in piles of hay are Bella and my mom.

  “NO!!!!!” I yell, leaping to my feet, fists clenched at my sides.

  The mist vanishes, along with the tower and my loved ones.

  “And now you know the way of things,” Madame says, blowing the flower petals around me. “Do not worry, little Word Weaver. There is nothing you can do. They are scheduled to be killed shortly. Just as soon as I am finished with you.”

  “Please.” I’m desperate. How can I save them? “This wasn’t supposed to be real. It was just a story. I had no idea it would actually come true! I’ll do anything to fix this!”

  “Fix this?” Ms. Teppernat gasps as if I suggested she eat toads for breakfast. “There will be no ‘fixing’ happenings in my fairy tale, Word Weaver. This is how you wrote the story. This is how the story goes. I had heard that Word Weavers at times feel sudden regret for how their stories turn out and try to change events and such. I will not have such nonsense. It is completely unacceptable.”

  I back up, scanning the area for a way of escape, but the trees fade into blurry images and my legs and arms are numb.

  Meanwhile, Ms. Teppernat snaps her fingers again and her cauldron and chalice appear from thin air. She holds the chalice out to me. A coil of steam curls upward.

  “Time for a little drink, my dear Word Weaver,” the Dragon says in a singsongish voice.

  The chalice floats right beneath my lips. I can’t think of anything except drinking the liquid. An overpowering urge washes over me. I must drink it! My thirst begs me to take a teeny, tiny sip.

  But a burning sensation in my hip yanks me away from wanting to drink. Instinctively, I reach down to my waist to stop whatever is burning me. My fingers curl around my magical pen.

  Everything crystalizes before me as I grasp hold of the pen. I’m not thirsty. And I definitely don’t want to drink from that cup. Angry, I plunge the pen into the chalice. The green liquid bubbles up.

  An explosion bursts from the chalice, it’s filled with gunpowder. The power of the explosion hits me. I sail across the garden and land in a row of bushes.

  Not waiting for the black haze to dissipate, I dash through the bushes and continue my race to the castle, crossing my fingers that everything I wrote with my pen really does come true. Finally, I stop beneath the very window I tried to get to earlier today with Chet.

  A glistening glow radiates from the window at the peak of the castle. It’s the only warmth in this whole land. And there, swaying lightly in the evening breeze dangles the rope that I had written about when Chet and Bella had me see if the pen truly worked. I want to burst into tears with joy. For once, my pen has worked in my favor! The rope’s rough strands bite into my palms, still scratched and rubbed from climbing the castle earlier.

  The window is an eternity away. Could I climb that high with the rope again? It’s one thing to rock climb, secured with a harness and someone belaying me in case I fall, but quite another to just climb a rope. The image of Bella and Mom locked in the tower springs to my mind. I take a deep breath and begin climbing.

  The wolves come bounding around the castle just as I reach the first-story window. My heart jams into my throat. I haven’t climbed high enough yet. As I expected, the lead wolf gallops down the path and leaps up, snapping at me.

  I plant my feet on the castle, lean back, and scale hand over hand up the wall. One step after the next, I make my way up, straining against the pull of gravity and the fiery ache of my muscles. My skirts threaten to trip me, and twice I hear the rip of material. If there was motivation to climb before, I sure have it now.

  At the second-story window, I wrap my body around the rope, resting my arms, and dare a peek below. Like before, the ground swims, but this time my friends aren’t below but the wolves, circling the rope as if dancing, are.

  I nearly throw up. “After today, I’m never, ever, climbing anything again,” I promise myself. Heights and I aren’t a good combo.

  I count to five, and at five I force myself to start climbing again. Not once do I look down. Instead, I focus on the golden light. This time as I pull myself up on the window ledge of the top turret window, there’s no stone wall. It leads into a room. I understand now. This hidden room only exists in my fairy tale.

  YES!

  I slide open the window and scramble inside, falling to the wooden floor with a resounding thud. I’m so thrilled that this place exists and I found it, I practically kiss the dusty floor.

  How to Write a Book 101: A book must have a

  beginning. And a middle. And an end.

  Otherwise, it simply is incomplete.

  As if in a trance, I stare at the room laid out before me. This is like the control room of my fairy tale. Cobwebs string from the rafters to the corners of the room. Dust cakes the floor and walls.

  But I can focus on only one thing: the massive open book on the desk in the center of the room. Golden light streams out of it, flows across the air, and out the window.

  I pad across the room with only the sound of my golden dress swishing to fill the silence. The book is flipped open to near the end of the story. One word at a time bursts aglow like the flames from a fire, shooting off sparks into the air. Then that word becomes as black as coal. As if it’s written in permanent ink. Word after word blazes in sequence.

  My pulse pounds as everything clarifies. When the words erupt into flames, it’s as if they have taken life. As if they become reality.

  The page turns.

  All by itself. Magic is flipping the pages.

  I scan the page, my heart beating so fast it almost blurs my vision. It’s hard not to make the words twist and turn as I read them. Because there on the very last page of the book, written in my own handwriting is:

  And they all lived unhappily ever after.

  THE END

  A gasp stutters from me and I stumble backward, needing to put space between myself and those words. They are my words. This is my story. My stupid, thoughtless, ridiculous story. Why did I write it with that ending? What was I thinking?

  Trembling, I sag into the chair, rubbing the inside of my hands furiously as word after word flares to life. I have only a few minutes at most before the story comes to an end!

  Mom and Bella’s capture is my fault.

  I need to destroy this book, just as this story has destroyed the lives of so many others. I pull out my pen and hold it up as if it’s my magic wand. I start writing in the book. But just like those other times, nothing happens.

  Frustrated, I grip the last page and pull and twist it. “Rip, you moronic page. You’re supposed to rip!”

  I keep pulling back against the book, leaning all my weight into the effort. Still it doesn’t budge, and the words continue to appear. It’s as if the book is made of rubber, bending and twisting, but never breaking apart. I scrunch up the paper toward the spine of the book, but when I release it, the pages cascade back into place.

  My body trembles and my hands shake. I can’t hold back the tears anymore. Taking both fists, I raise them above my head and swing them down, smashing them on the book with all my might. Over and over, my fist hammers the pages.

  Then I pick up my magic pen, and holding it like a dagger, I plunge it into the whiteness of the book. Over and over, I stab the book with blind rage until my hair falls from its pins and strands of curls cling to my wet face.

  It didn’t even make a dent in the book! And my Word Weaver pen appears as sharp and shiny as ever.

  But then a speck of ink disappears from one of the words. I squint, studying the page. Dozens of tiny splashes have dropped onto the pages and act like erasers, whiting out the words.
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  “They must be all the places my tears dropped.” I say aloud. “But I don’t understand why.”

  I hold my breath as more words vanish. Every place my tears touched, the ink washes away. That’s when I understand. I can’t rewrite the ending until the things of the past are erased. Only then can I make them write as the sea serpent told me to do.

  The memory of my grandma’s words after my scare at the beach rush back to me. Don’t be afraid of those tears of yours. They mold us and transform our endings into something meaningful.

  “That’s it!”

  Without wasting another moment, I lift up my Word Weaver pen once more. This time it’s shining, and sapphire sparkles flicker out of its edge. A thrill shoots through me and I start writing, eager to create my new ending. This time the ink flows and imprints on the page.

  “It’s working.” I’m breathless, exhilarated. “It’s really working.”

  Princess Gabrielle, with the help of a mouse chewing through her rope bindings, escaped from the Dark Tower where she had been vanished. Then, one by one, she released all the prisoners the stepsister had imprisoned there.

  When Gabrielle and the queen returned home, they banished the stepsister from the kingdom and she was never seen again.

  Now that the kingdom was made whole again and no longer in mourning, Princess Gabrielle and the prince celebrated with a huge party that lasted a whole month, eating as many chocolate croissants and Twizzlers as they could muster.

  And they lived happily ever after.

  THE END

  Mind Twister: All good stories must come to an end.

  Even if they’re only the beginning.

  As soon as I write THE END, tiny specks of light sparkle on the pages. They radiate larger and brighter until the whole book beams in a brilliant golden glow. The light swells until I’m forced to cover my eyes with my hands, only peeking out from between my fingers. Warmth washes over me, and then, with a suddenness that makes me jump, the book slams closed and the latch on its side lifts and locks itself.