that you could produce it for me tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But, ma’am—”
“I was prepared to pay thirty ducats for it.” The woman reached for the wool. “Half in advance. But if you say it’s impossible…”
Mother backed away, still gripping the sack of wool. “It’s not impossible. I can do what you ask.”
The woman smiled, and I grew uneasy. “I’m delighted to hear that.” She dropped a small bag of coins on the table and swept out of the shop.
Mother turned to me, her cheeks flush with excitement. “Do you think that was her? She’s high and mighty enough to be a princess.”
“She looked too old. Remember, the princess is only sixteen.”
“Yes, you’re right. But the last year of the curse is almost over.”
I looked at the wool. “Why would she pay us so much, Mother?”
“It doesn’t matter. Thirty ducats! We won’t have to take another job for months.”
She practically danced down the cellar stairs. She insisted upon spinning it herself. As she worked, I began to wonder what kind of sheep could produce such wool. It twisted into thread much finer than anything we had made before.
“Look at it! It feels just like silk.” She caressed her cheek with it.
It did feel like silk. What’s more, the spinning wheel now looked different. The polished wood gleamed even more than usual, and the tip of the spindle glinted wickedly. The entire apparatus had an unnatural glow about it. Mother shoved aside the lantern, since she no longer needed its light. Her eyes took on a fevered cast and she spun faster and faster until I feared the spinning wheel would fly apart. The whir of the wheel grew so loud that I hurried up the stairs to close the windows, to shut in the sound that had been outlawed for sixteen years.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I stopped short.
Our shop had a customer. She turned around. Our eyes met.
It was Rose.
***
She looked at me without a trace of recognition. How could she? Ten years had passed since I had seen her last, and I was now skinny and sickly.
But never had I seen a girl so lovely. Her face was still losing the plumpness of childhood, but had already gained the definition of womanhood. Her hair looked like a cloud of unspun cotton, with just a hint of yellow. Her skin was the color of creamy butter, pinked with rose. She looked like a princess, even in the clothing of a peasant. She was tall and slender, and she moved as gracefully as fairies dancing.
My heart began to thud in my chest. Fate, twisted by the curse, was going to spin its thread in our own cellar, just as my mother had surmised. And my own beautiful Rose was going to be the target of it.
Downstairs, as if in response to my thoughts, my mother stopped spinning to laugh in manic glee.
“She is laughing,” the girl said. Her voice was a melody of tones, but the manner of her speech had not changed from her childhood. It was stilted, the rhythm wrong.
“Rose,” I said. She looked back at me. “Do you remember me? Tally?”
She cocked her head and studied me. “Tally?” she asked.
“Yes. I used to watch you for your godmothers.”
She continued to look at me blankly.
Downstairs, my mother started to spin again.
“Oh, there it is, again!” she said, clapping her hands. “I kept hearing that sound. I followed it here. What is it?”
A generation ago, no one would have failed to recognize the sound of a spinning wheel.
“I could almost dance to it,” she said before I could reply. And to my astonishment, Rose did begin to dance, holding her skirt up as she frolicked throughout our shop without a care in the world.
I could only stare at her. Despite her simplemindedness, there was a certain genius in her. She sang a wordless song to the tune of the spinning wheel. It was a melody I had never heard before that day, yet had been there all along. Her voice was the sound of angels and nightingales blended together. I watched her with my mouth agape, rapt.
“Oh, I must
“Tomorrow? But, ma’am—”
“I was prepared to pay thirty ducats for it.” The woman reached for the wool. “Half in advance. But if you say it’s impossible…”
Mother backed away, still gripping the sack of wool. “It’s not impossible. I can do what you ask.”
The woman smiled, and I grew uneasy. “I’m delighted to hear that.” She dropped a small bag of coins on the table and swept out of the shop.
Mother turned to me, her cheeks flush with excitement. “Do you think that was her? She’s high and mighty enough to be a princess.”
“She looked too old. Remember, the princess is only sixteen.”
“Yes, you’re right. But the last year of the curse is almost over.”
I looked at the wool. “Why would she pay us so much, Mother?”
“It doesn’t matter. Thirty ducats! We won’t have to take another job for months.”
She practically danced down the cellar stairs. She insisted upon spinning it herself. As she worked, I began to wonder what kind of sheep could produce such wool. It twisted into thread much finer than anything we had made before.
“Look at it! It feels just like silk.” She caressed her cheek with it.
It did feel like silk. What’s more, the spinning wheel now looked different. The polished wood gleamed even more than usual, and the tip of the spindle glinted wickedly. The entire apparatus had an unnatural glow about it. Mother shoved aside the lantern, since she no longer needed its light. Her eyes took on a fevered cast and she spun faster and faster until I feared the spinning wheel would fly apart. The whir of the wheel grew so loud that I hurried up the stairs to close the windows, to shut in the sound that had been outlawed for sixteen years.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I stopped short.
Our shop had a customer. She turned around. Our eyes met.
It was Rose.
***
She looked at me without a trace of recognition. How could she? Ten years had passed since I had seen her last, and I was now skinny and sickly.
But never had I seen a girl so lovely. Her face was still losing the plumpness of childhood, but had already gained the definition of womanhood. Her hair looked like a cloud of unspun cotton, with just a hint of yellow. Her skin was the color of creamy butter, pinked with rose. She looked like a princess, even in the clothing of a peasant. She was tall and slender, and she moved as gracefully as fairies dancing.
My heart began to thud in my chest. Fate, twisted by the curse, was going to spin its thread in our own cellar, just as my mother had surmised. And my own beautiful Rose was going to be the target of it.
Downstairs, as if in response to my thoughts, my mother stopped spinning to laugh in manic glee.
“She is laughing,” the girl said. Her voice was a melody of tones, but the manner of her speech had not changed from her childhood. It was stilted, the rhythm wrong.
“Rose,” I said. She looked back at me. “Do you remember me? Tally?”
She cocked her head and studied me. “Tally?” she asked.
“Yes. I used to watch you for your godmothers.”
She continued to look at me blankly.
Downstairs, my mother started to spin again.
“Oh, there it is, again!” she said, clapping her hands. “I kept hearing that sound. I followed it here. What is it?”
A generation ago, no one would have failed to recognize the sound of a spinning wheel.
“I could almost dance to it,” she said before I could reply. And to my astonishment, Rose did begin to dance, holding her skirt up as she frolicked throughout our shop without a care in the world.
I could only stare at her. Despite her simplemindedness, there was a certain genius in her. She sang a wordless song to the tune of the spinning wheel. It was a melody I had never heard before that day, yet had been there all along. Her voice was the sound of angels and nightingales blended together. I watched her with my mouth agape, rapt.
“Oh, I must
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