Part 1 – The Princess
I was cursed by a wizard when I was seven years old.
It was at a charity gala, I think. Save for the wizard, it wouldn’t have stood out from any other event my grandfather took me to. Ball gowns and tuxedos, chandeliers glittering in opulent hotel ballrooms while string octets played in discreet corners. Ostensibly, these events raised money for the various foundations and causes championed by the rich and bored, but in reality, they were business meetings. Political allegiances for this candidate or that were sounded out; potential donors were identified and wooed. Business deals began here, and marriages in the upper reaches of society began here as well—because among the wealthy, what were marriages but lifelong business deals?
I understood some of this, even as a young girl, but it never troubled me. It was life—or at least Grandpa Leo’s life—and it didn’t occur to me to question it.
Besides, I enjoyed dressing up in the expensive flouncing dresses Grandpa Leo bought for me. I enjoyed having adults ask my opinion, I enjoyed seeing all the beautiful women and handsome men, and most of all, I enjoyed dancing with Grandpa Leo, who always let me stand on his shoes and who never forgot to spin me around and around so that I could pretend I was a princess in a fairy tale.
And late at night, when the big black car would pick us up and take us back to the Manhattan penthouse, he would let me chatter happily about everything I’d seen and heard, asking me questions about who had said what, about how they said it, if they had looked happy or sad or mad as they said it. He would ask me who looked tired, who looked distracted, who grumbled under their breath during the keynote speeches. It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized Grandpa relied on me as a kind of spy, a watcher of sorts, because people will behave around children in way they won’t around adults. They let their guard down, they mutter to their friends, certain that a child won’t notice or understand.
But I did notice. I was naturally observant, naturally curious, and naturally ready to read deeply into small comments or gestures. And at Grandpa Leo’s side, I spent years honing that natural weapon into something sharp and useful, something he used for The Party, but that I used for him because I wanted to help him, wanted him to be proud of me, and also because there was something addictive in it. Something addictive in watching people, in figuring them out, like reading a book and deciphering the big twist before the end.
But the night I met the wizard, all of that was still in the future. At that moment, I was giddy and wound up from spinning in circles and sneaking extra plates of dessert from the winking waitresses. I was still spinning when my grandfather beckoned me to join him near the doors of the ballroom. I skipped over, expecting another of his usual friends—the Beltway wheelers and dealers or the snappish, bored businessmen.
It was someone different. Something different. A tall man, only in his mid-twenties, but with crow-dark eyes and a thin mouth that reminded me of the illustrations of evil enchanters in my fairy tale books. Unlike the evil enchanters, he didn’t hunch over a cane or wear long, trailing robes. He was dressed in a crisp tuxedo, his face clean-shaven, his dark hair short and perfectly combed.
My grandfather beamed down at me as he introduced us. “Mr. Merlin Rhys, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Greer. Greer, this young man is moving here from England, and coming in as a consultant to The Party.”
The Party. Even at seven, The Party was a force in my life as strong as any other. A risk, I suppose, that came with having a former Vice President for a grandfather. Especially when that former Vice President had served in the White House with the late Penley Luther, the dead and revered demigod of The Party. It was President Luther who was referenced in all the speeches and op eds, it was Luther’s name that was invoked whenever a crisis happened. What would Luther do? What would Luther do?!
Mr. Merlin Rhys looked down at me, his black eyes unreadable in the golden glow of the ballroom. “This seems a bit dull for a girl your age,” he said, softly but also not softly. There was a challenge in his words, lodged somewhere in those neatly folded consonants and airy vowels, but I couldn’t puzzle it out, couldn’t sift it away from his words. I kept my eyes on his face as my grandfather spoke.
“She’s my date,” Grandpa Leo said affectionately, ruffling my hair. “My son and daughter-in-law are traveling out of the country for humanitarian work, so she’s staying with me for a few months. She’s so well-behaved. Isn’t that right, Greer?”
“Yes, Grandpa,” I chirped obediently, but when I caught the frown on Merlin’s face, something chilled in me, as if a cold fog had wrapped itself around me and only me, and was slowly leaching away my warmth.
I dropped my eyes to my shoes, shivering and trying not to show it. The glossy patent leather reflected the shimmers and glitters of the gilded ceiling, and I watched those shimmers as Merlin and my grandfather began discussing midterm election strategy, trying to reconcile what I felt with what I knew.
I felt fear, the kind of creeping, neck-prickling fear I had when I woke up at night to see my closet door open. But I knew that I was safe, that Grandpa Leo would keep me safe, that this stranger couldn’t hurt me in a room full of people. Except I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me or stealing me away, necessarily. No, it was the way his eyes had bored into mine, the way his disapproval of me had enveloped me so completely, that frightened me. I felt like he knew me, understood me, could see inside of me to all of the times I’d lied or cheated or fought on the playground. That he could see all the nights I’d been unable to sleep, my closet door open and me too afraid to get up and close it. All the mornings my father and I went walking in the woods behind our house, all the evenings my mother patiently taught me tai chi. All the fairy tale books I so adored, all of the treasures I’d gathered in the little treasure box stored under my bed, all of my secret childish dreams and fears—everything. This man could see it all.
And to be seen—really seen—was the most terrifying thing I’d ever felt.
“Leo!” a man called from a few feet away. He was also with The Party, and Grandpa gave my hair a final ruffle as he gestured to the man to approach him. “One moment, Mr. Rhys.”
Merlin inclined his head gravely as my grandfather turned to speak to the other man. I willed myself to meet his eyes again, and then immediately wished I hadn’t. His eyes, I now realized, had been shuttered when speaking to Grandpa, and they were un-shuttered now, burning with something that seemed a lot like dislike.
“Greer Galloway,” he said in that soft-not-soft voice. Something like a Welsh lilt emerged in his words, as if he’d lost control of his voice as well as his eyes.
I swallowed. I didn’t know what to say—I was a child, and always my girlish demeanor had been enough to charm Grandpa Leo’s friends—but I sensed that it would do no good here. I could not endear myself to Merlin Rhys, not with smiles or dimples or twirls or childlike questions.
And then he knelt down in front of me. It was rare for the adults in Leo’s world to do that—even the women with children of their own preferred to stand over me and caress my blond curls as if I were a pet. But Merlin knelt so that I could look him in the eye without craning my neck, and I knew despite my fear, this was a sign of respect. Merlin was treating me as if I were worthy of his time and attention, and even though it was tainted with disapproval, I was grateful for it in my own young way.
He reached out and took my chin in his long, slender fingers, holding my face still for inspection. “Not ambitious,” he said, dark eyes searching my face. “But often careless. Not cold, but sometimes distant. Passionate, intelligent, dreamy…and too easily hurt.” He shook his head. “It’s as I thought.”
I knew from the stacks of books beside my bed that the words of an enchanter were dangerous things. I knew I shouldn’t speak, I shouldn’t promise him anything, agree to anything, concede or lie or evade. But I couldn’t help it.
“What’s as you thought?”
Merlin dropped his hand, and an expression of real regret creased his face. “It cannot be you. I’m sorry, but it simply can’t.”
Confusion seeped past the fear. “What can’t be me?”
Merlin stood up, smoothing his tuxedo jacket, his mind made up about whatever it was. “Keep your kisses to yourself when the time comes,” he said.
I didn’t understand. “I don’t kiss anyone except Grandpa Leo and my mommy and daddy.”
“That’s your world now. But when you are older, you will inherit this world,” Merlin said, gesturing around the room, “the world your grandfather helped create. And this world hangs on a thread, balanced between trust and power. Powerful people have to decide when to trust each other and when to fight each other, and those decisions aren’t always made with the mind. They’re made with the heart. Do you understand this?”
“I think so…” I said slowly.
“Greer, one kiss from you would swing this world from friendship to anger. From peace to war. It will destroy everything your grandfather has worked so hard to build, and many, many people will be hurt. You don’t want to hurt people, do you? Hurt your grandfather? Undo all the work he’s done?”
I shook my head vehemently.
“I didn’t think so. Because that’s what will happen if your lips touch another’s. Mark my words.”
I nodded because this was logic that spoke to me. Kisses were magic, everyone knew this. They turned frogs into princes, they woke princesses from deadly sleep, and they decided the fates of kingdoms and empires. It never once crossed my mind that Merlin could be wrong, that a kiss might be harmless.
Or that a kiss might be worth all the harm it caused.
The regret in his eyes turned into sadness. “And I am sorry about your parents,” he said softly. “Despite everything, you are a sweet girl. You deserve only happiness, and maybe one day you’ll learn that’s what I’m trying to give to you. Hold tight to the things that make you happy, and never doubt that you are loved.” He nodded towards Grandpa Leo, who was now walking back toward us.
“Don’t be sorry for my parents,” I said, puzzled. “They’re just fine.”
Merlin said nothing, but he reached down and touched my shoulder. Not a pull into a hug, not a pat or a caress, just a touch. A moment’s worth of weight, and then nothing but the feeling of air on my skin and worry settling into my small bones.
Grandpa Leo scooped me into his arms as he reached us, planting a big mustached kiss on my cheek as he did. “Isn’t my granddaughter something special, Merlin?” he asked, grinning at me. “What were you two talking about?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Merlin cut in smoothly. “She was telling me how much she enjoys staying with you.”
Grandpa looked pleased. “Yes. I love Oregon as much as anyone, but there’s nothing like New York City, is there, Greer?”
I must have answered. There must have been more conversation after that, more words about politics and money and demographics, but all I could hear were Merlin’s words from earlier.
I am sorry for your parents.
In my overactive imagination, it wasn’t hard to conjure the worst. It was what always happened in the stories—tragedy, omens, heartache. What if my parents had been killed? What if their plane had crashed, their hotel caught on fire, their bodies beaten and robbed and left to die?
I am sorry for your parents.
It was all I could think of, all I could hear, and when Grandpa Leo tucked me into bed later that night, I burst into tears.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” he asked, thick eyebrows drawn together in concern.
I knew enough to know he wouldn’t believe me when I told him that Merlin was an enchanter, maybe a bad one, or that he could somehow sense my parents’ deaths before they happened. I knew enough to lie and say simply, “I miss Mommy and Daddy.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Grandpa Leo said. “We’ll call them right now, okay?”
He pulled out his phone and dialed, and within a few seconds, I heard Mommy’s light voice and Daddy’s deep one coming through the speaker. They were in Bucharest, getting ready to board a train bound for Warsaw, and they were happy and safe and full of promises for when they returned home. For a short while, I believed them. I believed that they would come back. That there’d be more long forest hikes with my father, more tai chi in the evenings with my mother, more nights when I fell asleep to the sound of them reading poetry to each other with logs crackling in the fireplace nearby. That the warm sunshine and tree-green days of my childhood still stretched out before me, safe in the cozy nest of books and nature that my parents had built.
But that night as I tried to fall asleep, Merlin’s words crept back into my mind along with the fear.
I am sorry about your parents.
I barely slept that night, jolting awake at every honk and siren on the Manhattan streets below Grandpa’s penthouse, shivering at every creak of the wind-buffeted windows. Dreams threaded my sleep, dreams of tree-covered mountains in a place I’d never seen, broad-shouldered men crawling through mud and dead pine needles, my parents dancing in the living room after they thought I was asleep. A train steaming across a bridge, and the bridge collapsing.
My parents danced, the wind blew through the trees, men crawled through mud. The train plunged to the valley floor.
Dance, trees, mud, death.
Over and over again.
Dance, trees, mud, death.
And when I sat up in the weak sunlight of morning to see my grandfather standing in the doorway, his eyes blank with shock and horror, his phone dangling from his hand, I already knew what he was there to tell me.
Like King Hezekiah, I turned my face to the wall and prayed.
I prayed for God to kill me too.
