Apples and Princesses (The Tales and Princesses Series Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Apples and Princesses

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Map

  About the Author

  More by Aleese Hughes

  Apples and Princesses

  Book Two of The Tales and Princesses Series

  Aleese Hughes

  Copyright Ⓒ 2019 Aleese Hughes

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781088563564

  Dedication

  For my sister-in-law Emeline, who will forever be my biggest fan.

  Chapter 1

  I rubbed my arm, wincing at the pain. The bruise was already starting to form. I clenched my jaw and wiped at the hot tears spilling down my cheeks. My father’s abuse didn’t make me sad anymore— it made me angry.

  I pushed through the trees and ran faster, not knowing where I was going. All I knew was that I just wanted to run. I often found solitude in the woods after a particularly bad bout of temper from Father, but it had just been particularly bad. He struck me more than once, and I didn’t know how much more I could take. I was beginning to reach my threshold of tolerance.

  My father was a rich lord with a manor in the country, and his land went on for miles, so I had no idea of knowing how far I had to go before I could be free. But did I want to leave? What would I do; where would I go?

  Shaking my head, I stopped, staring up at the night sky past the bright green leaves of the forest. The wind chilled me, and I regretted running out into the night wearing only a thin, short-sleeved gown.

  “Hello, child.”

  I jumped at the voice, whirling around to see a ragged old woman with little gray hair left on her head. Her teeth weren’t much better. In her arms, she held a large wicker basket full of red apples. The skin of the fruit gleamed underneath the moonlight.

  “Who are you?” I squeaked, inching away from the woman.

  The woman licked her chapped lips and smiled. “I’ve been going by Bavmorda lately, and I rather like that name.”

  Bavmorda started stepping towards me, seemingly desensitized to the sharp branches under her bare feet. I gagged at the sight of her long, yellowed toenails.

  “And you, my dear, skin as white as snow, lips the color of blood, hair as black as ebony... You must be Snow White.”

  I cocked my head, not knowing whether to feel nervous or curious. Magic was a common practice in the Edristan Kingdom, and I had met a few magicians and fortune tellers in the past, but it was not always a respected practice.

  “Are you a witch?”

  Bavmorda cackled, her throat moving like a croaking toad’s. “That’s one way to label what I do.” She moved even closer. “I’ve wanted to meet you.”

  I didn’t move away from the woman this time. “Why?”

  Bavmorda shrugged clumsily, the basket still in her arms. “I have seen that our paths will cross many times in the future.”

  That made me laugh, and the sound of my voice echoed around us. “Is that so?”

  I knew fortune tellers to be more tricksters than to have actual, supernatural foresight. At least, the few that traveled to the Manor for Father’s entertainment gave me that impression. The witch knew my name, but anyone could have a lucky guess. Maybe she inquired after the White family before… Or perhaps she knew of White Manor and its inhabitants.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Bavmorda set the basket down and stretched out her back. I winced at the sound of many joints and bones popping all at once. “Let me prove my abilities to you.” She wiggled her knobby fingers and grinned. “Your mother wanted to name you Snow because of your beautiful, fair skin and rather liked how it fit with the surname of ‘White.’ Unfortunately, your mother died due to complications of your birth, and your father hasn't been the same ever since.”

  In the blink of an eye, Bavmorda came up to me and grabbed my bruised arm. “Your father’s insanity tends to cause you some unwarranted pain, if I’m correct in saying so.” She clicked her tongue. “How sad.”

  I pulled my arm away from the witch’s grasp, then immediately regretted the brash movement against my bruises.

  “How—”

  Bavmorda rolled her dark eyes and sighed. “People always ask me ‘how.’ I’m a witch, that should be enough explanation.”

  Despite the woman’s unnatural ability of “knowing things,” I didn’t find myself scared.

  “Why all the apples?”

  “Oh, those!” Bavmorda looked at her basket in disgust. “I confiscated those from a lowly warlock in town. He thinks it’s okay to give out poisoned apples like candy.” She put her hands on her hips. “He thinks it’s funny.”

  My curiosity came to its peak.

  “Poisoned apples?” I said, moving to touch one.

  Bavmorda placed herself in between me and the basket. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I crinkled my nose at the witch’s pungent breath. “Sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be playing with these,” Bavmorda spat. “One bite can put someone into an almost permanent coma. More than that will kill.”

  She pulled her holey shawl back over her shoulders, shivering in the night air and pulled the basket back into her grasp with a grunt.

  “Until next time, child.”

  I watched as the woman hobbled away. Then, out of nowhere, one of the apples rolled from the top and fell onto the forest floor. The witch didn’t seem to notice. I waited until Bavmorda was out of sight and rushed to grab it.

  I looked at the deep red apple against my white hands and slid my fingernails along the hard skin. It was one of the most delicious-looking apples I had ever seen. My thoughts started turning. I didn’t completely believe that someone in town would just be giving out lethal produce. On the other hand, if Bavmorda had been telling the truth, I might be able to get some use out of this apple. I thought of my abusive father. But would I? Would I even be able to follow through with it?

  I tucked my hands and the apple away at the front of my purple, silk skirts and closed my eyes. The breeze blew through my dark hair that flowed undone past my hips, and a smile formed on my blood-red lips. There was no harm in trying.

  Chapter 2

  Princess Dalia Char’s life was perfect. She loved being the Princess, she loved her kingdom, and she loved her parents. Nothing could ever get in the way of her wonderful situation. Or so she thought.

  Dalia daintily brought one bite after another into her mouth. Her plate of sausage and eggs was delicious. The food was always delicious, and she couldn’t help but marvel at and appreciate that fact.

  “Dalia,” King Rory said from the other end of the long table. His bright red hair matched the plush of the chair he sat upon. “Your mother and I are traveling to some of the outlying villages today.” He placed a hand lovingly atop Queen Margaret’s knee. “We’re due for
some more public appearances, I think.”

  Dalia dabbed her lips with a napkin before speaking. “I promised to ride with Lady Aeryn today, Father.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” her mother chimed in. The King opened his mouth to protest, but Queen Margaret shot him a playful, warning look. “You have fun today, dear. Don’t worry about any duties today.”

  Dalia smiled prettily at her mother. Queen Margaret smiled back with a twinkle in her green eyes. Dalia received her own green eyes from the Queen but had red hair like the King. She was told, however— especially by her mother— that those two things were a good combination.

  “May I be excused?”

  The King and Queen nodded, and she bolted from her seat. She rushed over to kiss them each on the cheek. Dalia began to step briskly out of the spacious dining room, heels clicking against the smooth, marble floor.

  “We’ll expect you to come with us next time!” her father called after her. There was laughter in his voice, and Dalia chuckled herself.

  “Of course, Father!”

  “It’s so hot!” Aeryn shouted to the trees.

  Dalia and her lady-in-waiting rode side-by-side along the hidden dirt path behind the castle. It was the only place the Princess could ride without getting bombarded by townspeople, or even nobles, with a plethora of questions, comments, or just coming by to say, “Hello.” Dalia relished in the solitude, and it helped that the trail was beautiful. She loved the bright green leaves and the pretty daisies blooming on every side of them.

  “Well, it is summertime,” the Princess said.

  Aeryn groaned, flipping her sweaty, blonde hair out of her face. “I know, but you’d think the shade of the trees would help a little bit. It’s just so muggy!”

  Dalia giggled. Her lady-in-waiting was often negative, but the Princess had always been fond of her, and the company she gave.

  “Riding was your idea.”

  Aeryn stuck out her tongue but was unable to suppress her own laughter.

  “Fine,” she conceded. “I’ll try to enjoy myself. Beat you to the creek!”

  And with that, Aeryn clicked her heels against the black flank of her horse and bolted away.

  “Hey!” Dalia shouted after her, urging her own horse into a sprint.

  The Princess’s horse was a magnificent beast with a gleaming, white coat and strong, yet lean, muscles. Her name was Flicker, and she was a young horse with a lot of spirit and was incredibly loyal to Dalia— especially for an animal. And the Princess was just as loyal to her. Dalia caught up to Aeryn quickly and passed the young woman with ease.

  “No fair!” Aeryn shouted.

  Dalia pulled sharply on her horse’s reins when she reached the small creek she and Aeryn often rode to together. The leather of the reins rubbed painfully against her palms, but her triumph was enough to help her ignore it.

  “How many wins is that now? One hundred and… twenty?”

  Aeryn pulled on her own horse’s reins and rolled her gray eyes. “It’s just because you have a better horse.”

  “Princess! Princess!”

  Aeryn and Dalia turned their heads sharply to the shouting. A manservant that Dalia vaguely recognized (there were too many staff members to remember faces to names) was riding up to them on his own horse, a much older beast than what the young women were riding. As he pulled in beside them, he gulped for a breath of air. His eyes were wide in shock.

  “What is it?” Dalia pressed, cocking her head to the side. Upon closer inspection, she realized he was one of the stable boys. The scrawny one. What was his name...? Robin?

  “Your Highness,” he breathed, “something has happened.”

  Chapter 3

  “Snow, you wretched child! Where is my dinner?”

  Agnes, the head chef of White manor, shut the kitchen doors to muffle Lord White’s shouting.

  “Your father,” the plump woman fumed, “treating you in such a way.”

  I continued rolling the pie dough I had been working on, sweat cresting on my dark brow.

  Agnes walked up to me, raising her own eyebrow. “Pie wasn’t on the menu tonight, dear.”

  A cloud of white flour went into my face as I patted the dough smooth with my hand. I turned away from the food to sneeze.

  “I know, but I wanted to surprise Father.”

  Agnes shook her head, her frizzy, brown curls bouncing off of her chubby cheeks. “You’re too good for him, child.”

  “I don’t know if this counts as being ‘too good for him,’ Agnes. I’m just making an apple pie.”

  Agnes walked over to the large, stone ovens to my right and pulled out the juicy roast she’d been laboring over that entire day.

  “Well, if that be the case, I hope you’ll let me and some of the other kitchen servants have a piece.”

  “No!” I cried.

  The little chef froze with the roast half-way out of the oven.

  I scrambled for an excuse. “It’s just that this is a very special pie for Father. I don’t want anyone else touching it.”

  Agnes shrugged. “If you say so, dear.”

  After making some finishing touches to the dough, I pulled out a bowl of sliced apples I had hidden under the counter. Among the slices was the apple I stole from the witch the night before. I poured the fruit into the crust, added some juices, and finished it off in preparation for the oven.

  “Snow!”

  I jumped at the sound of my father’s shouts piercing all the way from the dining hall and through our kitchen walls. It was never good when he got angry.

  “You’d better take your father’s dinner to him,” Agnes said, handing me a plate with a tender piece of beef topped with gleaming carrots and potatoes.

  I took the plate, then looked to my unfinished pie.

  “I’ll put the pie in the oven. Now shoo!” Agnes waved me off, getting a little distressed.

  I hesitated, but after another shout from my father, I decided to let Agnes take care of the pie. I’d be back before it was cooked, anyway.

  Traipsing through the hallways with my shoulders hunched, I found myself shaking. My grip on Father’s food was faltering. It was always terrifying to approach my father during one of his tempers, but tonight was critical. If everything went according to plan, Father wouldn’t be a problem for me anymore.

  The paintings of my various ancestors adorning the side of the halls glared down at me with disdain, as if they knew what I was about to do. I avoided looking at the depiction of my late mother to my left. It was always too painful for me to see the face of the woman I never met. People always said the likeness between Mother and me was uncanny, and they weren’t wrong. All except the coloring. She had been much tanner than I. I couldn’t help but wonder at what she would think of my situation. What would she think about my father’s rage and the… the hitting? Would she approve of what I was about to do?

  I shook my head, pursing my lips as I reached the large, swinging doors to the dining hall. Taking a deep breath and straightening my shoulders, I entered.

  Rolland White was a large, burly man who intimidated anyone he ever met. But rumors said my mother was the one person to have ever softened his heart. Her death threw him into madness, and he took it out on me more than anything— forcing me to work with the servants, abusing me… He resented me for killing his wife. I knew that because that is what he always told me.

  Father was sitting at the head of the long table, back turned to the roaring fire in the hearth. He was picking at the dirt in his fingernails with a small dagger that never left his side. When hitting didn't seem like enough for Father, I was often threatened by that blade. Father’s booted feet were placed on top of the table’s surface as he lounged back in his chair.

  “It’s about time, Snow,” he said without even looking at me. He ran his fingers through his black hair and groaned. “I am starving.”

  I lifted my chin up even higher and set the food before him. Before I could even blink, his hand struck the
side of my face, and I yelped in pain.

  “That’s so you won’t be as long next time.”

  I forced myself to stop trembling and stood even straighter than before. I stared at my father as he snarfed down the food like an animal, pieces of beef sticking to his thick beard. There had been many times in my life where I wished for acceptance and love from this man, but all I could feel in that moment was a burning hatred that ate me up inside. Too many bruises and too many cruel words. I was ready for him to die.

  “What are you staring at?” he shouted. He inched out of his chair slowly, dagger still in his hand. The blade glinted menacingly from the firelight.

  “Father?”

  “What is it?”

  I looked down to the weapon in his fist, remembering all the moments he threatened me with it. He had never gone as far as to cut me, but it was scary all the same. Many times I thought he might snap and actually use it against me, but that day never came. I pushed down any fear I felt and let my hatred fuel my bravery.

  “I made you an apple pie tonight for dessert. I hope that’s something you might be interested in trying.”

  He sank back into the embroidered cushions of his seat, raising an eyebrow at me. “Is that so?”

  I nodded.

  “Fine,” he waved me off. “But bring it quickly! I don’t have all night!”

  Meaning he wanted to leave as early as he could to the local tavern for a night of gambling, drinking, and women. When he wasn’t running his textile business, a successful endeavor that had lasted for generation after generation of Whites, he was getting drunk. That’s all he cared about. Money and alcohol.

  “It’ll take about another half an hour, or so.”

  He growled, gesturing for me to grab his empty plate. “I’m not leaving for another hour yet. Bring it to me in my study.”

  I walked away, my steps echoing loudly in the empty room. Agnes and the other servants told me of Mother’s love for décor before she died, but I was also told her beautiful furniture and antiques were one of the first things Father got rid of in his grief.