Werewolf fairytales

Not every fairy tale begins with a prince or a princess. Some begin with a kiss that turns a man into a frog, or a tumble on the road that turns a basket of eggs into scramble. They begin with the realization that what was once tall and handsome is now green and croaky. This story belongs in that category, because it wasn’t until Miss Paisley Silverheart gave her virginity to her betrothed, Rodney Dullard, the future Alpha Rodney Dullard, that she realized exactly what she wanted from life: Never to be near Rodney again. It was unfortunate that she realized this significant point only now, standing in the barn and readjusting her petticoats after giving Rodney her most prized possession. But sometimes it takes a clear-eyed look at a man sprawled in the straw at your feet to realize just how you feel about him. One moment of weakness, ten minutes of discomfort, and now she was a grown she-wolf. She felt different. Meaner. *Paisley* “Damn, that was nice,” Rodney says, making no attempt to straighten his clothing. “You’re as tight as a…” His imagination apparently fails him. “A lot tighter than my hand, anyway.” I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t you think you should get up now?” “I waited so long that it took all the strength out of me. It isn’t every day that a man loses his virginity, you know.” “Or a she-wolf,” I point out, using my fingers to comb bits of straw from my hair. He grins, “My friends have been poking around from the moment they got a stand. You’re not innocent anymore, so it doesn’t matter if I’m blunt, I reckon. I saved myself for you. Didn’t want to get a disease.” The etiquette my mother taught me did not foresee this particular situation, but I say, “Thank you.” “If you aren’t the prettiest thing with your hair shining like that in the sunlight,” Rodney says, stretching. “I’m about ten times as much in love with you now, Paisley. And you know I’ve loved you ever since I saw you the first time, ever since…” “Ever since you saw me in church when I was seven years old,” I say drearily. “You were like a little angel, and now you’re a bigger one. And your bosoms are heaven-sent, all right. Damn, but I could do that all day.” He reaches toward my ankle, and I move back just in time. “Shall I climb up to your window tonight? I know you have never let me before, but the banns have already been posted at St. Mary’s, so it seems as if…” “No,” I state. “Absolutely not. And you should cover yourself. What if one of the stable hands returns?” Rodney peers down at the limp pinkish thing he calls his own. It’s draped across his thigh in a way that makes me feel positively ill. “I bet I’m the biggest man you’ve ever seen.” I roll my eyes and start braiding my hair. “’Course you never saw anyone else,” he adds. “I know that. You were a virgin all right. Of course you were. I had to force my way, you know.” I know, and the recollection makes me grind my teeth. “Though I did right by you too,” Rodney says, as oblivious as ever. “You did what?” “Didn’t you notice when I tiddle-taddled you?” he asks. “Diddled you right where I was supposed to, giving you she-wolf’s pleasure. I expect we’ll be making love two or three times a day in the next year. I expect we won’t even get out of bed in the next few weeks. Not even to eat. My daddy planted me in the very first week of his marriage, and I aim to keep to the tradition.” If I hadn’t already made up my mind, that would have done it. I am not going to marry Rodney Dullard. Even though he told the whole village at age nine that he would marry me or no one. Even though I spent my girlhood being complimented by those who thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. Even though I gave him my virginity, which renders me, for all intents and purposes, unmarriageable. Just at the moment, I have absolutely no problem with that idea. “I’m leaving, Rodney,” I say. “Won’t you kiss me good-bye?” he says, his blue eyes still hazy. “No.” And I walk out, feeling… as my nursemaid would have said… meaner than a barnyard dog. As I walk away, I realize that it isn’t an entirely new sensation. I’ve been a little angry at Rodney for a long time. After he’d made his famous declaration in St. Mary’s Church, no boy ever looked at me twice. I was ‘that lucky miss Paisley, destined to be the next Luna Dullard. What’s more, no one ever asked me what I thought about Rodney, about his pale blue eyes, or his round buttocks, or the way he looked at my heaven-sent bosom. My mother died last summer, clutching my hand and repeating how glad she was that her little girl was taken care of. My father has told me over and over that he is grateful to have been spared the expense and bother of a Bath mating season or… even more onerous… a trip to London to be sponsored into pack society by my godmother. My family and the Dullards have always celebrated Yuletide together and walked to the front of church together at Easter. When both she-wolves in our respective families passed away… well, Alpha George Dullard and my father simply kept trudging side by side as they had before. Their children’s marriage would place my family’s land in the hands of the Alpha, which everyone, including my father, agrees is a good idea. “My land runs alongside his,” he told me once, when I complained that Rodney had stolen my doll and chopped off its head. “You two will be married someday, and this is the boy’s way of showing affection. You should be happy to see how that lad adores you.” Everyone has always told me just how I should feel, from the time I was seven years old: lucky, special, celebrated, and beautiful. Now, though, I feel nauseated. I also feel like running away. My father will never understand if I tell him that I’ve changed my mind about marrying Rodney. It isn’t as if I could claim Rodney is cruel, or bestial, or even unlikable. And the moment my father finds out what just happened in the barn… which he will, because Rodney will stop at nothing to marry me… he will deliver me to the altar no matter how fervent my protests. No, if I want to escape Rodney, I will have to run away. I take a deep breath. Why on earth couldn’t I have figured this out yesterday rather than after that unpleasant episode in the barn? I’d never granted Rodney more than kisses until this afternoon. Instead, I had drifted along like a twig caught in a stream, not really visualizing my life with Rodney. The nights with Rodney. But now… there might be a baby. I walk back to my family’s trim house, so different from the garish brick monstrosity that is Dullard pack house, worrying about the possibility. I love babies; I always try to steal away from tea parties and find my way to the nursery. What’s more, I spent my happiest hours with my uncle, a doctor in Cheshire, who allowed me to accompany him as he ministered to village children. Still, it is that possible baby who poses the greatest dilemma. I am not sentimental about the life of servants. I couldn’t condemn Rodney’s child to a life of servitude, which is what my life is bound to be if I am with child but nevertheless flee my intended marriage. My mind is spinning like a whirligig in the wind. Finally, I make a decision: I will leave it up to fate. If there is a baby, I will resign myself. Walk down that aisle, smile, become Luna Dullard. I shudder at the thought. But if not… I’ll steal freedom. That very night, I discover that Rodney has failed to ‘plant’ anything, to use his repulsive terminology. I am still thinking about what it means, and what I will do next, when I realize that Betty, the upstairs maid, is chattering on and on about a castle. Elsewhere in England, people undoubtedly talk of the great castles of Windsor and Edinburgh, but around here, there is only one castle worth discussing: Pomeroy. It stands on the other side of the great forest, its turrets just tall enough to be visible on a clear day. For years, I have stared out my window and dreamed of a knight in shining armor who will ride through town and fall in love with me, sweeping me onto the back of his steed and taking me away. Away from Rodney, I now realize. No knight in shining armor ever comes; in fact, the castle had been unoccupied and neglected for years until a real prince moved there a couple of years ago. He is a foreigner, from some place in Europe. As in a real fairy tale, the prince hadn’t lived in Pomeroy Castle long before he fell in love and married a princess. Or an heiress, at the least. No one really knows for sure because this place is far away from the polite world. Although Rodney puffs out his chest and boasts about his father’s connections, the fact is that Alpha George Dullard is the sort of man who stays very close to home. He’d even kept his son home with a tutor rather than send him off to Alpha school. “It’s not good for the lad to be so provincial,” my father remarked, years ago, even if, the truth be told, he isn’t all that interested in Alpha George, nor in his future son-in-law. What Papa likes is to investigate battles. He spends the better part of his days in his study, surrounded by maps of places like Spain and Egypt, painstakingly translating accounts of Greek battles. In short, no one knows anything about the castle and its royal occupants, and in keeping with their provincial outlook, most of the goodly inhabitants around here had lost interest once the prince moved in. “I’m sorry, Betty,” I say, “could you tell me that again? About the princess, I mean?” “Well,” Betty says importantly, “I am just saying what I hear from Mrs. Pickle, who hears it from the coachman of the morning mail.” “And?” “She had a baby. The princess that is, not Mrs. Pickle.” “Oh,” I say. “Very nice.” “You’ll be having one soon enough,” Betty says comfortably. “One only has to take a look at the future Alpha’s good, strong thighs to know that he’s all man, if you know what I mean. At any rate, this baby up at the castle cries all the time. Has the collywobbles, like my cousin’s second. I shouldn’t wonder if it will die. Some of them can’t take milk, and they just fade away.” My lips tighten. “Only if people insist on giving them cow’s milk as a substitute.” “Well, my point is that the child isn’t doing so well,” Betty says. “The coachman said that he’d dropped off a footman in Manchester who is supposed to round up nursemaids and doctors, as many as he can find.” “They must be desperate,” I say. “The baby’s a prince. ’Course they’re desperate. He’ll inherit the castle someday, though not if he’s dead.” It is that easy. I pack a small bag with my plainest clothes, and write a note to my papa. Then I make my way to what passes for a high street in the village and pay the old drunk, Fettle, who lies around in back of the Biscuit and Plow, to drive me to the next village over. There I cover up my hair, which is distinctively silver-colored and therefore annoyingly recognizable, and buy a coach ticket to London. I hop off in a bustling inn-yard in Lower Pomeroy, reasonably certain that with all the milling passengers, no one will notice that I don’t get back on the coach. An hour or so later, I am standing at the foot of Pomeroy Castle.