Dreaming beauty dreaming.., p.1
Dreaming Beauty (Dreaming Princesses Book 1), page 1
Dreaming Beauty
Dreaming Princesses, Book 1
C. Rae D'Arc
Copyright © 2022 C. Rae D'Arc
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ASIN: B0B5CQWDYH (eBook)
ISBN: 9798804013227 (paperback)
Cover design by: Arcane Covers
For the dreamers and their dreams.
“Don’t quit your daydream.” - Anon.
“For it is very probable . . . that the good fairy, during so long a sleep, had given her very agreeable dreams.”
La Belle au bois dormant (Charles Perrault, 1697)
Map of Somnus
and surrounding kingdoms
Chapter 1
I never liked needles. Whether sewing, knitting, mending, or embroidering, I disliked the frustration of stabbing the thread through the eye, the tediousness of weaving back and forth, and the piercing pain of accidental pricks.
All the same, I never expected a single prick from a spindle to be my demise.
Everything was supposed to be perfect for my sixteenth birthday celebration. I had planned the ball and feast down to the napkin folds. From the truffle appetizers to the elaborate fish entrées, from the spring green drapery to the star floral arrangements, and from the dance-worthy music selection to the hour candles to keep the schedule, I organized it all. This event would prove to my father that I could lead, that I could see projects fulfilled, and that I could be like my eldest sister, Garnet.
Garnet and I were physical opposites, making my dreams to be like her almost silly. At twenty years old, she was a female version of Father, the King of Somnus, with her ink black hair, strong and sharp facial features yet motherly figure, a mouth that seemed most comfortable in a cunning smile, and dark brown eyes that could take on the world with all of its challenges and worries. I, however, took after Mother with my round face, sandy blonde hair, emerald green eyes to inspire my name, and features that required emphasis to call them feminine.
Garnet stared suspicious eyes at me, the perfect image of frustration if she wore a frown instead of a teasing smile.
“Emer,” she said, “how can you expect me to help you if you lock me out of the ballroom?”
I responded with my cheesiest grin. “Your persistence to help me is precisely why I barred your entrance to the ballroom. Your schedule is busy enough as it is. I expect nothing more of you than to enjoy the celebrations tonight.”
Garnet’s smile twitched as her eyebrows went high. “Do you realize how backwards this is? Most people wish to be surprised on their birthdays with a festival that was planned for them, not to be the one frantically planning a surprise event for others.”
“I know,” I said, “but what I want for my birthday is to see you and the others enjoying yourselves.”
Garnet pinched her lips tightly, her tired eyes growing sad. “I suppose I will try. Very well. You have full responsibility of this event.”
“Perfect.” I grinned.
Garnet’s joy was my short-term goal for the night. Long term, proving myself worthy to lead could let Garnet and Father give me more responsibilities. Then I could lighten the burdens on Garnet.
She was perfect for someone who was born and bred to someday rule over Somnus, but she was imperfect for someone who had to make hard decisions. I was a personal witness to her love and concerns for our people. I was also a personal witness to her anxiety attacks before festivals and after battle reports.
The only times I saw my eldest sister truly happy were during our secret midnight masquerades. With that in mind, I had planned a masquerade for my birthday celebration.
Garnet sighed in resignation and turned to leave. I watched and waited for her draping red gown with golden embroidery to disappear around the corridor.
Finally.
I ran to the kitchens. The chaos inside mimicked my insides as every chef and baker bustled about, calling orders and services to one another. The heated room smelled of flour, fish, and spices. I skipped around the preparation tables, careful not to dirty my dress or shoes.
My other older sister entered from the castle’s side entrance. Aquamarine (known as Marin among friends and family) had Father’s black hair and Mother’s rounded face that made her look younger than her eighteen years, and her eyes were a green and brown mixture of hazel. She wore her usual outfit for visiting her husband at the docks; a simple surcoat over a tight white shirt. The surcoat had wide arm holes for easy movements and was made elegant by its bright blue color, pink flower embroidery, and a pink sash knotted around her waist.
“Ah, there you are, Emer,” she said, gesturing for people behind her to come forward. Her husband—Admiral Ranae Irving of the Somnus Navy—and five muscled dockworkers rolled three large barrels into the kitchen. Rolling those large barrels was no easy feat. I waited by surveying the horned fish entrées, rolled with grains and a thin layer of sealeaves. The men situated the barrels and unstopped a hole to pour a glass of deep purple wine.
My brother-in-law smacked a barrel. “Three barrels of Ormio wine, as requested.”
“Perfect,” I said, gesturing to the castle cooks to complete the fish entrées with their herbal sauce. I was about to turn away to my next task when Marin’s voice caught me.
“Is it perfect?” Marin asked, turning her face away from the dead fish. “So much life taken to serve the hunger of guests who may not even come. I heard that you invited the royalty of Ormio and Huiess, but do you truly think they will come?”
The stress clawed into my stomach, and I whispered back, “Even if the kings and queens refuse to come, the princesses know how to sneak away from their parents as well as you and I. Have hope.” Leaning away, I said, “Concerning the fish, there will be stuffed mushrooms for others like you who observe a meatless diet, but what is worse? Killing a few extra fish or insulting a guest by miscounting the dinner plates?”
Marin opened her mouth to answer, but her husband jumped in. “You should not ask questions when you know you will dislike the answer.” To Marin, he said, “Come now. Is it time to change into that gown you were dying to show me?”
My sister blushed and gladly took his arm to escort her to their chambers. I smiled, thinking of her beautiful blue-green bliaut with sleeves that draped to the floor. Her transformation between a simple dock lady and extravagant princess always took me by surprise.
I glanced over my own gown. Beshrews. In all my frantic planning for the event, “tattered” described my insides and outsides. My brown dress was rumpled from my day's activities, including a dusting of flour on my bodice. How did that get there? At least my elbow-length blonde hair remained contained in its morning updo. It usually liked to poke free from the bows like birds fleeing the nest.
The sun hovered over the horizon. There were a hundred more items to check off, but guests would arrive any moment. Time to make myself look as perfect as the rest of the evening, as if no sweat or tears were shed behind the curtains.
I dashed from the kitchens to my bedchamber, passing the ballroom.
The servants were still arranging the florals? They were behind schedule. I considered helping, maybe stealing a moment to smell the star tulips, but there was no time to instruct them in the proper hanging of garlands. No time, no time.
Maybe I should have allowed Garnet to help—no. This was my problem, not hers. I would show Father that I was capable of difficult and last-minute decisions. Still, I prayed to the goddess of time that the sun would sink slower, allowing me more time before guests arrived.
I found my two younger sisters, Pearl and Tanzanite, preparing for the celebrations in our shared bedchamber.
Pearl was impossibly beautiful for a fifteen-year-old. She had Father’s midnight black hair and Mother’s round brown eyes and milky face. On me, I thought the round features made me look overfed. On Pearl, they made her look youthful and innocent. She also had a figure that could wear a potato sack and still turn heads. For all her beauty, however, she was as naïve as a fawn. Some called her the Light of Somnus for her beauty and unsuppressed charity for others.
At twelve years old, Tanzanite was my youngest sister and the youngest princess of Rezhina Valley. My sisters and I called her Tanzi. Her blonde hair was striped with black and her dark green eyes had tones of brown in the right lighting.
As soon as I entered the room, Tanzi jumped from her chair and ran to me.
“Emer!” She cupped her hands around my ear and whispered, “Pearl said something mean to me, so you should look at her and laugh like I said something funny about her.”
I leaned back, but instead of laughing, I stared in shock. “Tanzi! How rude!”
First of all, I had a hard time believing that Pearl said anything mean. Second of all, where did Tanzi learn such a trick? Every year, she seemed to grow more and more devious.
She pouted at me. “Beshrews.”
Shocked again by her language, I rocked back. At least, I tried to. Tanzi stood on my dress, pulling me off balance. An ugly rip tore through my dress and my heart.
Everything was supposed to be perfect. The brown bliaut gown was the perfect shade to emphasize my green eyes. It was the perfect length to make me look tall and not baggy. It was the perfect fashion of elegance, with a high queen’s collar and lace sewn around the openings. I came to my bedchambers hoping to freshen it with a wet rag over the wrinkles and flour dusting. Instead, a rip of twelve centimeters rose from its broken hem.
“Oh,” Tanzi said, looking at her accidental alteration. “Oh no! Was this your evening gown?” Her hands went up to her horrified mouth. “Forgive me, I am so sorry! Can we mend it?”
Was there time? I had no other gowns ready. Too late to customize another gown. Too late even to shop for something premade. Too late, too late.
Pearl knelt at my feet to examine the rip. “It may be easy to mend.” Turning her eyes to mine, she stood and wrapped her arms around me. “Everything will be alright,” she said. “Let it out. Mother says that holding back tears only causes headaches.”
Was I crying? It was only a rip. Only a rip in my perfect dress on my perfect day when a hundred other things piled on top of me. I hugged Pearl back, allowing myself a few seconds to breathe and pretend that everything was still perfect.
No time to pretend. No time to breathe.
I squeezed my little sister before stepping back, sniffling and wiping my eyes. I had to be strong. How could I keep Garnet from breaking down if I did too?
“Tanzi,” I asked, “will you fetch Elisa to meet me in the weaving room?”
Tanzi nodded and slipped out the door to call on the castle seamstress.
I thanked Pearl and sent a prayer to the goddesses that the rest of my plans stayed above the manure trench. A quick scrubbing removed the flour and smoothed the wrinkles before I ran down the stone stairs.
Midway through a corridor, I spotted an elderly maid with more grey hair than black.
“Elisa!” I called. “Did Tanzi send you?”
The seamstress blinked. “No, Your Highness. I haven't seen Princess Tanzanite.”
Grumbling, I beckoned her to follow me anyway. I showed and explained my ripped dress as we walked to the weaving room. Tanzi stepped out just as we arrived.
“Oh!” she said. “You found her! Elisa, Emer needs—”
“I already informed her,” I said, hurrying past my sister. “Thank you, Tanzi.”
“Do not worry,” she said, stepping away. “All is going according to plan.” Her attention lingered on me with a curious expression, but I had no time to speculate.
A large loom appropriately took up half of the weaving room. The other half was occupied with washing and dying buckets, filling the room with scents of soap and stagnant water. Our interest was in the corner, where a strick of flax sat beside an empty spinning wheel and a cabinet with dozens of drawers that contained buckles, thread, and snippets of lace and fabric.
Elisa began picking at my dress and pinning the ripped edges together.
“Will it be done in time?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “as long as there is enough thread on the spinning wheel. Could you grab it for me?”
“Of course,” I said, reaching for the bobbin of freshly crafted thread. When the weather forbade me from visiting the gardens, I often came to the weaving room to watch Elisa spin at the wheel. She sang songs to keep her spinning rhythm and wrapped her flax with blue ribbon to symbolize her happy marriage. I had watched her remove the bobbin on occasion, but never tried it myself.
“How do I take it off?”
Elisa spared me less than a glance as she busily picked at the threads of my garment. “Loosen it from the maiden.”
Right…what was the maiden? I grabbed at the bobbin and the parts around it, then pulled. Nothing. I pulled harder until the wood cracked and my hand slipped. I grabbed the next closest part of the spinning wheel for support. My finger caught the needle top that was usually covered by unspun flax.
Pain shot through my index finger, jumped up my arm to my heart, then burst to my head and fabric-laced toes.
I fell into a dream and I dreamed of falling. My hair slipped free from its pins to flutter like tongues of flame around my face. Each wild flutter made me want to cry out. My sixteenth birthday was supposed to be perfect with no hairs out of line. The shimmer of my gown dimmed as I fell into nothingness. The force of the fall put me in a fetal position, pushing my lighter legs and arms above me as my back raced towards the ground.
At least, I assumed there was a ground.
All I could see was the tunnel of blackness growing around me as the hole of light shrank to a pinprick, then faded, faded, faded. The darkness swallowed me, yet I continued to fall.
A voice echoed in the blackness. It came from…somewhere. From the light? Or somewhere below? I concentrated on the sound only to recognize my name.
“Emer…”
Only my sisters and close friends called me Emer. My parents called me Emerald, and everyone else called me Princess Reo of Somnus. The harder I listened, the more distant it became. The whisper faded to a thought, then to a memory.
I fell, but surrounded in darkness, I had no perspective to gauge my speed or distance. All I had was the air rushing around me. Eventually, I managed to twist myself to face the rushing air. I continued to drop into darkness as silver dots appeared below. They grew into spots with a sinister shine. A few of the shining dots grew larger and closer. My heart caught as I realized what they were.
They were the points of needles. My pulse quickened. I fell with uncontrollable speed towards the sharp ends of gigantic needles.
I wanted to spread my arms to slow my fall, but I also wanted to curl into a ball to hopefully avoid the needles. I struggled to angle myself away from their stabbing tips. Swimming through the air did nothing to change my position.
With every second that I fell, more and more dots appeared. More spots with sinister shine. There were too many too close together. I could not avoid them. The air rushed faster past me as the needles came closer. My heartbeat hammered in my ears.
A wicked gleam shone on a dozen needles directly below me. Their deadly tips reached for me like teeth. I saw my reflection in them, then shut my eyes, terrified of the impact.
With my eyes squeezed closed, the rushing air around me shifted. It blew from multiple angles and softened.
“Hey,” an unfamiliar masculine voice scoffed.
I dared not to move. The needles. Too many needles below. I kept my eyes shut in darkness, tensing for the pain.
“Hey, girl,” the man drawled. “You awake?”
What a disrespectful cad.
My eyes snapped open. The needles were gone. Instead of never-ending darkness, I sat on wildflowers beside a dirt pathway, wearing an odd purple chemise that cut below my shoulders and knees. Two men stared down at me from the path. Beyond them, the grassy field dropped to a flat blue horizon.
The men looked about a year or two older than I was. Their long-sleeved tunics, if I could call them such, cropped at their waists and were made of some glossy material. Their heavy boots were likewise made of strange leathers and appeared new and sturdy, despite the amount of mud crusting their thick soles. The packs on their backs were also strange. They had a strap for each arm, rested on the shoulders, and had a variety of outside pockets—one containing an odd tubular waterskin.
