The Confrontation

“Mireille! Wake up, sleepyhead!” a cheerful, all-too-familiar female voice entreats the dozing seamstress. Mireille jolts awake, disturbed by the idea that someone has invaded her privacy. Her fears are slightly assuaged by the sight of her best friend standing over her tiny bed, grinning like a maniac.

“Christelle...What are you doing here? I locked all the doors last night….” Mireille groans groggily.

“Maybe so, but you gave me a key to the back door, remember?” the blonde grins, swinging the key on a dirty thread before Mireille’s sleep-blurred eyes. “Now, why the high security?”

Mireille groans again and hauls herself out of bed, knowing that no more rest is to be had with the perpetually energetic Christelle present.

“The Queen sent Prince Xavier to take me to the palace to work exclusively as her seamstress. I refused, much to the Prince’s chagrin. He kept trying to convince me to go. Agnes’s broom attacked him to get him out of the house and then I locked all the doors.”

Christelle stares incredulously at her raven-haired friend and follows her as she leaves her bedroom and sets about preparing breakfast. “You defied the Prince and the Queen?! God’s wounds, what were you thinking?!”

“Your brazen spirit no doubt possessed me, else I found my own strength to be bold. Anyway, the Prince didn’t seem to have too much of a problem with my willfulness, but he did seem very concerned by the idea of what the Queen’ll do to me when I refuse her to her face.”

“As anyone in their right mind would! Honestly, Mireille, even I have limits.”

Mireille tosses her head defiantly, disturbing her tangled black tresses, before taking a bite of her simple meal of bread and tea. “What do I care for limits now? This is a matter of principle, darn it! I will not work for that despicable woman, no matter what the decision costs me. Besides, ‘tis about time someone told the spoiled royal tyrant no.”

“Haven’t you endured enough abuse for one lifetime?” Christelle eyes the multitude of scars on her friend’s body that are visible around her nightdress, a mere fraction of the scars that mar her ivory skin. Just the sight of the scars overwhelms Christelle with a mixture of regret, outrage, and pity.

“Yes, but by the same token I’ve lived long enough working under a tyrant, and I refuse to work under a tyrant ever again. I’m my own master now, and that’s all I ask,” Mireille refutes with flashing eyes.

“You’ve told the Prince so?” Christelle questions, eyebrows threatening to fly off her face.

“Yes, actually.”

“Has he seen your scars? Does he know your story?”

“No, and he won’t, either, not if I have anything to say about it. He’s already agreed to stand up to his mother with me. He claims she’ll come for me today, since he couldn’t get me to the palace last night.”

“Bit impatient, isn’t she?”

“Quite, but we knew this before. It’s a splendid match for all of her other faults.”

“I still think you’re being a fool. You’ll be killed if you go through with this,” Christelle insists.

“So be it. She still won’t have her seamstress if she kills me. I’ll still win,” Mireille answers airily.

“Is that all that matters to you?”

Mireille shrugs, swallowing the last of her scanty breakfast and leaving her house in favor of the latrine. Christelle follows and stands outside the tiny outhouse.

“No, but I’d rather die than let her have her way.”

“She’s still the Queen, whatever else she may be--”

“Since when did you care for authority? Did we switch personalities overnight?”

Christelle laughs. “Sorry. You know that Mother tells me to protect you almost daily--she’s always been so fond of you since we rescued you from Agnes, that evil witch of a mentor--and letting you do something so rash doesn’t qualify as protection by any standards, even mine.” Mireille emerges from the outhouse smiling.

“Since when did you actually try to protect me, Christelle?”

The blonde rolls her eyes and follows Mireille behind the outhouse and into the woods, through which the Adrennes river runs. Mireille steps right into the icy water and begins to bathe, still wearing her nightdress.

“Since when have you actually needed my protection, Mireille?”

The seamstress grins. “Touché. Nothing noteworthy ever really happens here...But today ought to be exciting enough to keep the village talking for a good long time. Do you suppose Her Majesty will have one of her fits?”

“You’ll have to ask the Prince that, but it’d be marvelous if she did. Perhaps in killing yourself you’ll at least put on a darn good show.”

“If she’s anything like Agnes, I won’t have to do much of anything.” Christelle winces slightly; from all accounts, Agnes, the seamstress to whom Mireille had been apprenticed, had harshly punished the girl for the most insignificant of offenses or for nothing at all.

“True enough,” Christelle mutters, unable to come up with anything more profound under the shadow of Mireille’s unhappy past. Fortunately her friend has finished bathing, so the two young women return to Mireille’s cottage, where Mireille begins dressing for the day. Her dress of choice is an elegant black and white gown in the royal style, which she has been making in her spare time for years; she intends to surprise her friend with the finished product.

“So what of this Prince?” Christelle asks deviously while beginning to set up shop for Mireille. “Is he handsome? Courteous? Anything like his mother?”

“Based on the rumors, I would doubt he’s anything like her, and from my personal experience I would have to say that I found him both kind and gentlemanly, although far more argumentative than I would like--”

Christelle howls with laughter. “He’s probably never had anyone of a lower rank tell him no before, and who are you to call anyone argumentative?”

Mireille chuckles. “Both true. Anyway, he’s extremely handsome, and his voice is...how shall I put this...enthralling.”

Christelle’s eyes widen in surprise and hope; never has Mireille described a man so favorably before. “Ooooo! Do you...I mean, are you interested in him?”

“As a person and perhaps a friend, yes, but I know that’s not how you mean it. Are you out of your mind? He’s a prince, for goodness’ sake! He’s completely off-limits for both of us, whether I were interested in that sort of thing or not! You know how I feel about men, at any rate.”

“Yes, yes, I recall quite clearly... ‘Men are such brutes! They only want one thing.... And could they at least try to be discreet and polite in the presence of women instead of acting like swine?’”

Mireille giggles. She finally finishes lacing her corset and her gown, an elaborate creation sewn of the finest materials, which she had found under Agnes’s old bed when she returned to the seamstress’s shop a couple weeks after Agnes’s execution, when Christelle’s mother had deemed her somewhat recovered. After brushing herself off and checking in the cracked, smudged mirror to make sure that her waist is laced to a mere sixteen inches, Mireille joins Christelle in her sales cupboard.

“Well, someone’s dressed up,” Christelle remarks. “What’s that, a present from His Royal Highness? You trying to impress him or something?”

Mireille blushes indignantly. “No, indeed! This is that dress I’ve been working on with the fabric I found under Agnes’s bed when I moved back in here. I finally finished it last night and I thought it appropriate to look my best for the Queen’s visit. And you know full well that impressing any man should be the least of my worries, the way men hang around my shop all the time--”

“Oh, hush. They’ll hear you. Whatever excuses you may make, I maintain that the Prince has something to do with your attire. You’d just better pray that the Queen doesn’t discover that you made that dress yourself, and designed it too, I warrant, for nothing else could suit you better.”

“The dress was a gift from my predecessor, who passed away a few years ago much to everyone’s regret. I thought it proper to wear it to look my best for the Queen’s visit.”

Christelle laughs appreciatively. “You’re quite a piece of work, Mireille. The saddest thing about your stories is that if I didn’t know you, I could believe them.”

Mireille grins wickedly. “And that’s my plan exactly. You’ll play along with me against anyone, especially her, I know, and she’ll never know the difference. It’s entirely possible that we can get the Prince in on my little game, too.” The two girls giggle conspiratorially, but Christelle stops short, having sighted the Prince and the Duke of Pelanshire coming down the street in their direction. Mireille has just finished arranging her hair into an artfully dishevelled bun and now throws a wimple carelessly over it. Christelle examines herself in the much-flawed mirror, desperately trying to arrange her wavy blonde locks into a more comely style than their current wildness.

“That’s him coming down the street, isn’t it?” she asks, blue eyes wide with excitement and nerves.

“Yes, and he’s brought a friend. Why?” Mireille asks calmly, settling to her task of altering someone’s dress quite as though nothing is amiss.

“Which one is which?”

“The Prince is slightly taller and has the straight brown hair. I’ve never seen the other before.”

“The Prince is gorgeous, and the other almost more so! Why said you nothing about that?”

“Is ‘extremely handsome’ not sufficient for you?”

“No! He’s a god from Mount Olympus, you twit, not just another man!”

Mireille smirks slightly. “We shall see, my dear. We shall see. Mayhap his friend will take a liking to you.” Christelle gasps and slaps Mireille’s arm indignantly, and Mireille just laughs. Meanwhile, the Prince and the Duke have slowed and the Prince is watching the house warily, as though he expects the broom to come flying out at them any second.

“Fear not, Your Highnesses. Isaac dislikes mornings,” she calls merrily. “A pleasure to see you again. I’ve not met your friend, Prince Xavier.”

“I am pleased that I shall not be broom-handled again this morning, but I fear you have forgotten how I feel about titles, and until you remedy the situation I shall not introduce you to my associate,” the Prince replies in turn, earning an eye-rolling from the Duke.

“Forgive me, Xavier. This morning my surrogate sister Christelle is with me, and she has more qualms about neglecting titles than I do.”

A red-faced Christelle emerges into Mireille’s shop cupboard and curtseys to both men.

“Enough formality, Christelle, really. We are all friends here, facing a common foe. Ladies, may I introduce you to my best friend and confidante, Jerôme, Duke of Pelanshire.”

The Duke steps forward and gives a half-bow. “Please, call me Jerôme. I cannot tolerate my title any more than Xavier can tolerate his,” he smiles.

“A pleasure to meet you. Did Xavier send for you to come before the Queen as reinforcements for our cause, or were you here to begin with?” Mireille inquires.

“I accompanied him from the start. Queen Bêtel suspected you might be slightly difficult. Actually, she suspects everyone of plotting insubordination, but that is entirely irrelevant. I am much intrigued, however, by a village girl who thinks to defy the Queen of the realm.”

“I think only to preserve my relative freedom and autonomy, Jerôme,” Mireille replies, struggling slightly with the elevated vocabulary. “Sorry to cause trouble, but I’ve no desire to subject myself to a tyrant ever again. Surely you understand?”

“When heretofore have you been subjected to tyranny in so idyllic a village?”

Mireille opens her mouth to reply, but then her first customer of the day comes up to the counter. “Please excuse me, gentlemen. The day’s work has begun. Perhaps Christelle would be willing to answer your questions inside?” she answers evasively, shooting her friend a meaningful glance. “Good morning, Monsieur LaFontaine. How may I help you?”

“Do come inside, where we may speak in private,” Christelle entreats the Prince and the Duke, who obligingly enter the cottage. “Please be seated.” She waves a hand at Mireille’s modest table and chairs, invisibly repaired from Agnes’s temper tantrums. “Now, what were you asking?”

“Jerôme and I would be most interested in learning of the tyranny to which Mireille has previously been subjected. It would aid us greatly in understanding her current defiance,” Xavier explains carefully.

“If you could tone down the fancy talk henceforth, that’d make this much easier for some of us,” Christelle replies brashly before remembering her manners. “My apologies for my tongue, Your Highness. It runs away with me sometimes....”

“Please, do not apologize. We shall attempt to refrain from using Court language henceforth if you tell us all that we wish to know about Mireille.” Christelle shoots a nervous glance at Mireille, who is in her usual element, talking with her customers while working on an order and cheerfully shooing would-be suitors. She’d never approve of this...but it might be the only way to get them fully on our side. If telling them about her past can help her.... Christelle muses.

“I’ll tell you all I know. Mireille was placed in the care of the former village seamstress, Agnes, when she was roughly three or four years old. She showed incredible aptitude for all things stitchery-related and indeed by the age of six surpassed Agnes in skill. She’s always been a beautiful, cheerful, intelligent girl, as well, and Agnes grew jealous of her. No one knew for years and years, but Agnes abused her daily for the most insignificant faults, or for having no faults--no one’s sure which. We finally discovered the abuse when Mireille was eleven and Agnes started beating her on the front porch for sweeping improperly. That’s when the broom was enchanted, too. She never got the chance to lift the spell from it, for as soon as Agnes’s treatment of Mireille was discovered, the witch was executed. My mother and I took Mireille from this very shop back to our own house to take care of her, and....” Christelle breaks off, choking on tears. “It was horrible. She had bruises, cuts, burns...you name it, she had it, and she still has scars everywhere her clothes cover. She says that Agnes used her magic to erase the wounds on her face and hands whenever they occurred. The evil witch was smart enough that she knew how not to get caught, and Mireille, bless her soul, truly believed she deserved every blow she took and never let anyone know what pain she suffered.”

The Prince motions for Christelle to cease her discourse, and all three sit silent in Mireille’s cottage, watching the beautiful young seamstress work. To watch her none would ever guess at the pain she had endured; she is good-natured and kind to all who approach her. Xavier and Jerôme exchange glances.

“‘Tis an incredible story,” Jerôme sighs after several moments. “Would she perhaps deign to show a few of her scars as proof of the tale?”

Xavier stifles a groan and elbows him in the ribs. Christelle bristles with anger and stands abruptly, tears glistening in her eyes. “You dare to doubt? You dare to suggest that we’d make up such a tale? I saw her afterward, Jerôme. I saw her bruised and bleeding. I saw her *****, the scars of five or more years of constant abuse covering her frame. I helped bathe her, hard as it was because she was so shy of being touched, not that any could blame her. You’ll notice she still shies from contact; see how she interacts with the customers? And no, you can’t interrupt her from her work. I won’t permit that. She’ll hate me enough for telling you what I’ve said already. She hates for people to know because she hates to be pitied. I only told you so that you’d understand why she can’t go work for the Queen, not for any price. Now I’m wishing I’d found another way....” She shakes her head as her words trail off, fury choking their flow.

The two young men glance at each other again, genuinely flummoxed as to what they can say to soothe their reluctant informant.

“I apologize for his skepticism,” Xavier begins in an effort to save face, partly because he feels bad that Christelle is so offended and partly because he hopes to extract further information from her. “It is a difficult thing to imagine, someone like her suffering so much. She hardly lets on, you know, although last night she got quite nervous when I got too close too her. I can understand why Jerôme would be reluctant to believe you. But please, if we have not offended you too much, I must inquire as to why she was placed in so terrible a situation to begin with.”

“Agnes was kind to Mireille while she was small and Mireille’s skill with a needle was inferior to her own. And where else would we put such a girl? This is the only seamstress shop for miles and miles. People came from everywhere for Agnes’s services long before Mireille even arrived, although certainly Mireille has become quite the tourist attraction in her own right. Mireille showed such an aptitude for the craft while she still lived with my family that Agnes practically begged to take her as an apprentice, once we taught her Mordalcean--”

“She did not speak Mordalcean? What did she speak, and why was she staying with your family? Had she no family of her own?” Jerôme interrupts, eyes alight with curiosity.

“She appeared one morning in the river, splashing and playing and babbling in Vyrunian. Her dress was quite simple but in the Vyrunian style. We presumed she had drifted downriver from a Vyrunian town. My father is the town arbiter and because Adrennes is so close to the border, he is fluent in both Vyrunian and Mordalcean, so he was an ideal candidate to teach Mireille our native tongue and thus she stayed with us until she was fit to work for Agnes.”

“How old was she at the time?” Christelle shrugs.

“Maybe three, maybe four. It’s anyone’s guess. We think she’s seventeen now. All the ages I’ve given for her in her history are estimates.”

“A last question, if I may be so bold,” Xavier asks, ignoring the look on Jerôme’s face that practically screams ‘She is the one!’. “Of what did she speak when she still spoke Vyrunian, and does she remember any of her native tongue?”

“She stopped speaking it entirely shortly after her skill surpassed that of Agnes. When she was little.... Father said she was very imaginative, talking of castles and royalty and such. When he asked her about the war, she had no idea what he was talking about. We think she was quite sheltered, but I think her life here has overcorrected that minor fault.”

Jerôme is about to make his thoughts known, but a clatter of hooves and screaming of wheels outside drowns out all speech and thought. A tense-faced Mireille turns towards them, eyes defying all argument.

“The Queen is here. Xavier and Jerôme, I need you to come argue with me as though you’re still trying to convince me to take Her Majesty’s offer. Christelle, change into a nightdress, try to look ill, and then come into my shop area,” she instructs calmly, much as though she is requesting that tea be brought rather than preparing for a war. All do as they have been told while Mireille politely convinces her customers to leave.

“But think of all you can gain by working in the palace! A chamber of your own far sturdier and more sumptuously furnished than this hut, all the finest materials with which to work--” Xavier begins earnestly.

“You forget that I’m completely content here, Your Highness. I’ve no desire to leave the only home I’ve ever known to work for a woman I’ve never met and about whom I know next to nothing,” Mireille replies placidly, still stitching as though nothing is the matter. Meanwhile, the Royal Carriage drawn by eight black Royal Horses has pulled to a screeching halt in front of Mireille’s cottage and the Queen is in the process of alighting from it.

“Your skills deserve far more recognition than this lowly village can offer,” Jerôme insists.

“And she will give it to me, more than the tourists I already attract? That I doubt, even if she’s the Queen. No human is all powerful, even if they’re royal.”

“I shall prove you wrong, ignorant wench,” Queen Bêtel snaps, having overheard enough. Mireille simply stares at her adversary and tries not to laugh. The two could not form a more perfect contrast. The Queen is short and fat, while Mireille is slightly taller than average and extraordinarily slender. A towering wig of red curls sits atop the Queen’s head, girthed by an overdone crown large enough to be its own country; Mireille’s tresses are simply done and modestly confined by a plain wimple. The Queen’s features are ugly and speak of her cruelty and selfishness, while Mireille’s are exquisitely beautiful and show off her strength, grace, and good heart. Mireille’s gown, while elegant, is simple and shows her off perfectly; the Queen’s, in contrast, is a mass of ribbons, lace, flounces, and unnecessary ornamentation--enough fabric to clothe a village, Mireille notes scathingly.

“Will you, Your Majesty? And how do you propose to do that? Think you to be equal to Almighty God?” Mireille begins, already venturing into dangerous waters. Queen Bêtel’s face darkens.

“Worship of anyone but myself was forbidden by Royal Decree long ago. All the churches were razed and their property confiscated by the Crown. Surely you remember this, base ignoramus of a sewing maid?”

“My apologies, Your Majesty. It’d slipped my mind entirely. At the time I was quite young and in an unhappy family situation. I pray you will forgive my insolence.”

Xavier and Jerôme exchange troubled glances, wondering what game Mireille is playing.

“I care not. Tell me, Xavier, why you have failed in this simplest task to which I have set you. Why is this girl not already in my palace, serving my will only?”

“Because she will not go, Your Majesty,” Xavier replies respectfully. “She claims she has all she can possibly want here.”

The Queen snorts incredulously. “What? All she can want? In this desolate, despicable hovel of a place? Come, silly girl, you must be out of your mind. What wench would not jump at the chance to trade this ruin for a palace?”

“Do I look to be in want, Your Majesty? I had more customers than I could handle when first you rode up, and look at my attire. I think myself to be quite well off, personally. And Your Majesty, I am loved here. I’m the only seamstress for miles around in this area. The village would be all the more desolate without me. Besides, I cannot leave just now, even if I were favorably disposed to the idea. My family’s gone away on a long journey to trade elsewhere, but for my sister, for she is most wretchedly ill, and I am to be wed upon my family’s return one month hence. I must remain here to care for my sister and await my marriage. Would you deny me that sacrament, the only means by which my soul may be saved from eternal perdition?” Although she struggles slightly with the elevated language she sees fit to use, Xavier gains much respect for her as she argues thus with the tyrant. Can she really be betrothed? the Prince wonders. She must be making things up to try to win the Queen over, if Christelle spoke true. The bit about her family being elsewhere to travel is almost certainly false, anyway.

“More from the religion which I have most expressly outlawed.”

“Does not the religion which you head also hold matrimony to be a sacrament, Your Majesty? For indeed, marriages still occur quite frequently throughout the land with your name invoked for the blessings thereof.”

The Queen reddens visibly. Xavier smirks imperceptibly. Checkmate.

“That is as it may be, but to violate my Supreme Will is a sin for which there is no remedy. Do you not remember that, either, as well as you seem to know the creed when it suits you? Craftiness suits you not, wench. Better to be dumb and alive than to speak your mind and die for it. Unless you are even sillier than you look, you will be learning that quickly.”

“Through my death? For indeed I hold the opposite to be true. I’d rather die for upholding my own beliefs and doing what I think to be right than live silencing myself and serving you only. If you wish to order things from my shop, I’ll be happy to serve you in that way, but I’ll not be removed from my village or from the people I love so much for your selfish purposes.”

“One way or another you will be removed from this place, either to the palace or to Hell!”

“I fail to see the difference, Your Majesty.” Christelle finally makes her appearance, a truly dreadful sight to behold. She is coughing, cheeks red supposedly from that exertion, and she trembles with each step, clinging to the wall for support. Her hair and nightdress are disheveled and her eyes seem half-glazed with fever, although how she managed that is unknown to all but she. “Christelle! Oh, you poor thing, have they waked you? I promise this bother will be done with soon, beloved sister.”

“What’s g-g-going on?” Christelle wheezes, barely able to speak.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. Let’s get you back to bed. Please excuse me, Your Majesty.” With that and an elegant curtsey, Mireille helps Christelle back into the house, out of the Queen’s sight. Enraged and lacking a valid target, the Queen turns her attention on Xavier.

“How have you not managed to take that ninny by force? How can she, a mere slip of a vulgar strumpet, possibly fight the two of you?” Queen Bêtel demands.

“The seamstress before her was a witch. The house is still full of magic and enchanted objects. Last time I mentioned taking her by force, I was evicted from the premises by a malevolent broom,” Xavier explains. Queen Bêtel reddens further, resembling an overripe tomato.

“Let us try to speak to her again, this time in private,” Jerôme adds, trying to smooth things over. “I am quite sure that this whole situation must be extremely stressful for her. Imagine, trying to run a business and care for a sick sister while so young, and then having to deal with this offer! It must be a terrible strain, Your Majesty. I am sure I could not do it. Perhaps if we try to sympathize with her and accommodate her as much as we can--”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Queen Bêtel thunders. “I will not be seen stooping to compromise with any such village trash as that upstart tramp! You will go in there and take her by any means necessary, magic or none! I refuse to believe that my son can be bested by something so inconsequential as a twig on a bad hair day. GO!” Xavier and Jerôme exchange glances, then go into the house, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

They enter upon chaos. Mireille is practically flying through the small space, collecting items she values and packing them into neat bundles on the back step. Christelle dashes up to the back door and stops just long enough to scoop up a few bundles before vanishing to parts unknown. Several seconds pass before Mireille even notices their presence, such is her distraction.

“Come to take me by force, have you?” she inquires in passing, not staying in any one place long enough for them to make eye contact. “You’ll have a time of it.”

“We intend to do no such thing, regardless of Her Majesty’s command,” Jerôme assures her. “I stand by my previous claim that this entire experience must be extremely stressful and demanding for you and that compromise is the best option, whatever we may be able to offer you to that end.”

“I won’t take the job no matter how I’m compensated. Compromise isn’t a satisfactory answer. I seek a way out of this horrid situation, and unless you wish to discuss that with me, I’ll have Isaac and whatever else Agnes left enchanted chase you away for me.”

“Then let us speak to you of the alternatives. Pray, sit down a minute and converse with us normally. The Queen will not set this place afire while Jerôme and I are yet within it,” Xavier requests. At least, I hope not, he adds silently. Mireille reluctantly seats herself at her rickety table and motions for the two young men to do the same, which they do. “I have to say, playing on religion was an excellent strategy. You couldn’t have picked a better way to appeal to the people. None but the Queen approved of the abolition of the Faith.”

“Thank you,” Mireille replies stiffly, glancing back at those things she still means to pack.

“You are already preparing to flee, I take it?” Xavier sighs, taking the hint that he ought to get down to business.

“Yes. Christelle’s family will take me in. They’re my legal guardians as things are.”

“You know that by living with them you place them in grave danger. If you continue to refuse the Queen’s offer and she learns that you live through this encounter, she will declare you an outlaw and assign the death penalty to any who will harbor you.”

Mireille pales. “I wasn’t aware of that. Then I’ll only stay there long enough to find someplace else to go, maybe to another country. She won’t declare war on another nation simply for my sake.”

“A safe bet. The Council will not allow it, in any case. I had hoped you would choose that route, actually, as close as we are to Vyrunia. It is entirely possible that you are of Vyrunian origin, anyway, from what we have heard of your history.”

Mireille’s face hardens. “What’d Christelle tell you?”

“Enough for us to suspect that you are no ordinary seamstress,” Jerôme replies before the Prince can respond. “Enough, in fact, for us to find it entirely possible that you are the missing Vyrunian Princess.”

Mireille shakes her head vehemently. “That’s impossible. Royalty, me? Really, gentlemen, what’ve you been drinking? And can I have some?”

They laugh heartily at Mireille’s half-joke. “Only hear us out, Mireille,” Xavier insists. “To begin with, the Princess’s name was also Mireille. For another, you look to be the right age. Your name is not common in this country or in Vyrunia--in fact, it is quite unheard of in both places, although very pretty. Also, you arrived here around the same time the Princess disappeared, from Christelle’s account, and you spoke only Vyrunian when they found you.”

“I remember none of this.”

“How far back do you remember?”

She scrunches up her face, searching her memories. “...The earliest thing I remember is Agnes standing over me and cackling. Something about a spell working. We were in the cellar.... It was the only time we were in the cellar and she didn’t do something awful to me. After a few minutes of cackling, she let me go to bed.”

“Do you have any idea how old you were at the time?” Jerôme presses.

Mireille shrugs. “Six? Seven? It’s hard to say. It was so long ago...and I presume Christelle told you how Agnes treated me.”

Both men nod gravely. “Would you mind...showing us a few of the scars? Just for verification?”

Mireille fixes Jerôme with an icy glare before slowly pulling back her left sleeve a few inches to reveal jagged scars and an aged burn mark. Xavier inhales sharply, and Jerôme seems uncomfortable.

“I marvel that men like you, whom I heretofore thought decent, could doubt the word of a lady,” Mireille remarks scathingly as she releases her sleeve. “I must confess I’ve lost respect for you.”

Xavier and Jerôme wince simultaneously. “I apologize most sincerely for the both of us,” Xavier says humbly. Mireille arches an eyebrow at him, which he blandly ignores. “If you will permit me to continue on the matter of the Vyrunian princess--”

“Isn’t the Queen waiting for you to drag me out there kicking and screaming? Don’t we have more important things to worry about?”

“This is part of that, though! If you want to escape so badly, why not travel to the Palace of Roses in Vyrunia and claim to be Princess Mireille? You bear a strong resemblance to the King and Queen, anyway, and since you do not remember your past before you came to this town, who is to say that you are not in fact the Princess?” Jerôme argues.

“We shall discuss that later. In the meantime, I have another plan to evade the Queen, at least temporarily. Simply don’t judge me for whatever I have to do to make this work.”

“What have you in mind?” Xavier inquires, somewhat nervous. Mireille says nothing, only pulls a dusty book from a shelf in the kitchen and picks up the broom from its corner while glancing to the hook by the door to see that Agnes’s thick, dark cloak is still hanging there, making her shiver involuntarily.

“Drag me outside. Act like you’ve been struggling with me for some time.” Both men shrug and comply with her wishes. She drops the book and the broom in the doorway so that she will have easy access to both later, as is her plan.

“Oh, good. You have actually complied perfectly with my wishes, albeit not in as timely a fashion as I would normally desire. Bring the hussy hither and let us have no further nonsense. We have wasted quite enough time here,” Queen Bêtel grumbles.

“NO! NEVER! YOU CAN’T TAKE ME ALIVE!” Mireille shrieks, flailing about like a wild thing. Xavier and Jerôme struggle with her for a moment before giving up, and just in time, for the broom shoots out of the doorway like an spear aimed for the Queen’s heart. Her eyes widen in shock and she reddens in fury.

“WITCHCRAFT! Guards, destroy that menace!” she orders while running for cover. A dozen of her bodyguards leap from around her carriage to attack the broom, which they quickly hack into countless pieces. Mireille, having fled back to the doorway of her house, smirks slightly and stands resolute, brandishing a garden hoe to keep both Xavier and Jerôme away. Xavier obligingly engages her in a fencing match of sorts while Jerôme tries fruitlessly to get around them and into the house, defending himself from both of their weapons with his own. A crowd of townsfolk has gathered a short distance away to watch the spectacle, which they currently find quite amusing.

“Now what, wench? Card tricks? What can you do against my soldiers?” Queen Bêtel taunts.

“My name is Mireille. I’ve no desire to be your seamstress, or to work for you in any way, especially after the way you’ve treated me today. You can’t persuade me with force, nor with promises of wealth and honor, for I’ve all I want here. Death is preferable to serving under someone like you,” the seamstress answers proudly, head held high and stance both determined and dignified, no mean feat while fencing with a garden hoe. Even in that state, she looks every inch a princess, and none present except the Queen can miss it. Xavier actually stops fencing with her to stop and stare, and even Jerôme is awestruck. “As for what is to come, look at my brooms. Arise, brooms!” Every last splinter of the broom has developed into a whole new one of the original size, much to the Queen’s dismay.

“I had not heard that you were a witch,” Queen Bêtel hisses. Her bodyguards quickly surround her protect her from the onslaught of enchanted brooms bent on her destruction. “If you will not work for me, I shall have you executed for your crimes.”

“What crimes? I didn’t enchant the brooms. I haven’t the first clue how to perform magic. The seamstress I was apprenticed to was the witch. She enchanted the broom. She was executed a few years ago....” Mireille answers, breaking off into feigned tears at the end. Xavier moves to comfort her while sheathing his sword, but a glare from the Queen freezes him in his tracks. Jerôme quietly sneaks away behind the cottage, hoping to have another word with Christelle.

“Irrelevant. You will work for me, or you will die, one way or another.”

“I’ve already said that death is preferable to working for you. You don’t scare me. However, if you’ll only place an order, I can have it ready for you within a week. Surely you can send someone to pick it up, Your Majesty?” Mireille smiles sweetly.

The Queen’s glare moves to Mireille. “Only for me, nitwit. Xavier! Don’t just stand there, you obstructive sack of skin that I call a son! Seize her and drag her along at once!”

He looks at Mireille, whose face is impassive but for her eyes, which practically beg for some sort of assistance. Xavier seems torn and Mireille sighs, feeling that she must once again take things into her own hands.

“I’d rather spend the rest of my days in the Northern Waste than one minute with you and your ‘sack of skin’ in Cloiche Fuar,” she snaps, choosing this time to fight fire with fire. Xavier flinches, stung by this insult, and determines to redeem himself in her eyes.

“I shall not arrest her,” Xavier refuses firmly.

The queen’s jaw literally drops.“What did you just say?”

He shifts into his military stance. “I said I shall not arrest her, Your Majesty. I will not remove an innocent girl from the only home she has ever known for so selfish a purpose as yours. Her family and her village need her more than you do. You have so much, and they so little. I will not help you deprive them further.”

The Queen’s outrage is more than apparent, but her soldiers are still fighting the army of brooms all around her, so there is nothing she can do. “If you fail to restrain her and get her into my carriage or onto your horse, I swear I shall--”

“You will what, Your Majesty? Last time I checked I was essential to you, being your heir to the throne and the one who performs all of your Royal Duties that you find too boring to bother with. The way I see it, you cannot punish me too harshly.”

“If you really believed that, you would have stood up to me long before this. I will make your life a living hell if you do not comply with my wishes.” You do that anyway, Xavier thinks. Mireille mouths a single word to him: Pretend. She has noticed that one of the soldiers has finally discovered that fire will stop the brooms, meaning that she needs a new plan, and Xavier quickly catches on. With a heavy sigh and the look of a beaten man, he moves to grab Mireille, who darts into the house, scooping up her book and kicking the door shut behind her. She latches it firmly before peeling off her gown and slipping into Agnes’s long, dark robe with a hood that hides her face; the gown’s skirt is too full to fit under the cloak, at least for the appearance she has in mind. A swift trip to the cellar gains her a long wooden staff with a large, curved knife affixed to one end. Thus attired and armed, she opens the book, which is one of Agnes’s books of spells. I never thought I’d be grateful that the magic left in the house wouldn’t let me get rid of her things, Mireille marvels silently. After finding what she wants, she lays the book open to the correct page on the floor of the shop cupboard, unseen by those outside. Then she enters the shop cupboard for real, effectively gaining the attention of all those outside. God forgive me, but I cannot work for that woman. Help me escape that loathsome fate, Mireille prays.

“Totus ornamentum, suscitatio! Tenatio vestri vinco!” she commands in a deep, terrible voice quite unlike her own voice while extending her scythe towards the soldiers. To her surprise and everyone else’s horror, all the soldiers’ weapons unsheathe themselves and begin to attack their owners. Xavier stares at her in shock, but she vanishes into the main room of the cottage immediately after this performance. There she disrobes again and redresses in her gown, returns Agnes’s witchy belongings to their original places, unlocks the door, and resumes her flurry of packing.

“What in blazes was that?!” Queen Bêtel rages, fleeing from the melee her soldiers and their weapons are creating. “Was that girl responsible?”

Xavier shrugs. “‘Tis anyone’s guess, Your Majesty. I have already told you of the strange things that go on in that house. It might well have been the ghost of the original owner, if you believe in such things, or some lingering enchantment like that which was on the brooms,” the Prince answers carefully.

“You actually believe the rubbish she spouted about the previous owner?”

“I have inquired throughout the village, and everyone with whom I spoke confirmed her tale. The previous owner was a seamstress with skill in the Dark Arts who doubled as a psychic-medium and witch. She was executed six years ago, burned at the stake for witchcraft and violation of local child labor laws. They say Mireille was apprenticed to her from a very young age and that the old seamstress abused her mercilessly.”

“No wonder. The base, obstinate, pig-headed strumpet is a menace to the civilized world. Even so, I doubt any of that has a basis in reality. That brainless bag of bones more than likely has all the village folk wound around her little finger. Mayhap she has even enchanted them.”

“I sincerely doubt that she is a witch, Your Majesty.”

“Then go in and fetch her to turn off the magic, if you do not fear her!” She shoves him toward the door of Mireille’s house. To her surprise, he goes in quite willingly, even closing the door behind him.

“Perhaps he is none so far gone as I have thought,” Queen Bêtel mutters. “He may yet be of use to me....”

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