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  “Mama will have my hide if I don’t get all my chores done—and Friday’s—before we leave for the ball again.” Possibly Wednesday’s as well, since Mama had already decided she d given birth to the future queen of Arilland. Not that there was anything out of the ordinary with Wednesday leaving her chores undone and unremembered.

  “The chores will get done. Mama said so.”

  “That she did.” Sunday sighed, never forgetting for a moment the burdens of a seventh daughter. The world would do as Mama bade, whether it liked to or not.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be distracted by other things soon enough.” Trix did a little jig. “The day won’t be l onger, but the chores might be smaller. Trust me.”

  History proved that more dangerous words had never been spoken. Trix skipped down the stairs; Sunday had no choice but to follow. She tossed off her nightgown, pulled the shirt over her head, tugged a skirt on, and blew out the candle. Before she reached the stairs, she ran back to the chair and pulled the silver dress to her in a fond embrace, breathing in the memories, indulgently spinning around once before taking it down to the sitting room. Friday would need to alter it for this new night’s festivities. If it were up to Sunday, she wouldn’t change a thing.

  Nor would she change a thing about her brother. Trix didn’t have to do anything to attract chaos—it ferreted him out eventually, and with alarming regularity. Over the years the mayhem had become more expected than feared, but there was still an element of surprise left in discovering the new adventure. The surprise this time was that the catastrophe was not Trix’s doing; it was Aunt Joy’s.

  When Joy had sped up the growing beans for Sunday’s second lesson, that power had infused itself into the soil. Thursday’s rose seeds were already sprouting. The spell had further spread to the ancient tree whose sturdy branches held Trix’s beloved tree house, and around whose trunk Sunday’s fey brother had tossed that cursed handful of magic beans.

  If it hadn’t been for that ill-fated purchase, Sunday’s life might be very different. And Trix’s tree would not currently be swallowed in mutant beanstalks.

  The green vines twisted and twined, up and over each other, around and through, weaving a net that covered the bark and limbs and leaves so completely that the tree became one giant beanstalk itself. The air smelled green and new and electrified, like it had before the storm. There was a soft hissing as the stalks slid along the bark; the giant trunk creaked beneath as it adjusted to the new weight. Most of Trix’s tree house was already covered in vines: only half a shuttered window and a small section of roof still peeked through. The beanstalks melded together as one, and the monster grew.

  Magic and monsters, all before breakfast. Sunday wouldn’t have it any other way. She bravely cupped a hand around a budding leaf; its new velvet skin tickled her palm as it unfurled and continued to stretch its way heavenward. The monster stalk’s leaves yawned above the tree’s top into the breaking light of dawn. The vines plaited themselves into a mass as thick as the trunk of the tree at its base. Sunday’s feet itched, remembering her own waltz as she watched the vines dance.

  There had been moments when the prince reminded her of Grumble: something the frog might have done or said, and how she might have reacted. These thoughts were unfair to the prince; he was a unique individual comparable to no one. But she couldn’t just erase those memories, nor could she change what had come to pass.

  “Let this be another lesson for you, child.” Joy looked oddly at home in one of Mamas homespun frocks, her immortal elegance encouraging the overworn threads of the cloth to become young and vibrant again. “All actions have consequences. Ones that affect you”—Joy waved her hand at the furiously rising monolith before them—“ and ones that affect those around you.”

  “And never sell your cow to a strange man for a handful of magic beans,” added Sunday.

  “Everything still happens for a reason,” said Joy.

  “That’s what Mama says,” chirped Trix, skipping merrily past them.

  “Even the harmful and awkward and stupid things?” asked Sunday. “There are reasons for those?”

  “Especially those,” said Joy.

  Sunday lifted her head at the sound of birdsong. Her pigeons played in the upward-crawling beanstalk, white as spry ghosts against the green monster, darting in and out of the serpentine mass and chirping as cheerfully as Trix. Sunday hoped they did not tire soon, or that if they decided to alight somewhere, it would not be for long.

  “Is it ever going to stop?” Friday asked Aunt Joy. She and Mama had finally appeared from within the house, with Wednesday floating softly behind them. Sunday’s dark sister seemed both younger and older than the day before.

  “It will grow as high as it needs to,” said Joy. “Like most plants. And children.”

  For a woman who had just become a favorite for the throne,Wednesday didn’t seem very happy. “Maybe it will swallow the sun,” she said. In one of the stories they had heard at Papa’s knee, an old god had done just that. A young boy tricked him into sleep and cut open his belly to set the sun free so that the world might live on. Sunday shaded her eyes against the dawn; the sun was in no danger of being swallowed for half a day yet.

  “Those beans worth eating?” asked Mama.

  Sunday could almost see the piles of gold adding up in Mama’s mind as each tiny white blossom burst to life, withered, and bore fruit. Sunday would never let a bean from this beanstalk past her lips; she couldn’t imagine selling them to anyone else. Joy gave her youngest sister a look. Mama grumbled a little and said nothing more.

  Trix continued to hop around the trunk of the beanstalk tree, laughing and waving and cheering it onward and upward. And why shouldn’t such an insane and spectacular thing be celebrated? Sunday leapt forward and clasped hands with Trix, spinning with him. She threw her head back and laughed heartily at what had once been the tree’s top.

  Her birds fluttered and danced with them, a blur of snowy feathers. They flew at her, catching up locks of her hair. Sunday threw her hands up over her face so as not to catch an errant beak or talon in the eye. Their chirps were frenetic, cacophonous cries that sounded like ... words. Blood in the shoe. There’s blood in the shoe.

  Friday’s scream cut through their merriment. She tore down the hill, patchwork skirts a blur, mahogany curls streaming behind her. Papa and a shirtless Peter walked slowly toward the house, each bearing Saturday’s weight between them as she limped on one leg. The other leg was covered in bloody rags from the knee down. Both Peter and Papa looked concerned, but the agony in Saturday’s bright eyes was disproportionate to the amount of blood on her leg. Sunday suspected foul play.

  “Speaking of stupid things,” Aunt Joy said to no one but Sunday.

  ***

  Aunt Joy healed the terrible gash on Saturday’s leg, where her beloved ax had slipped on damp wood and bit deep into her calf. No one else’s nameday gift had ever harmed them—Sunday was amazed Saturday’s ax even could draw blood. Mama pointedly asked Papa about the wisdom of Saturday traipsing about in the woods every day. Papa argued on Saturday’s behalf, praising their daughter’s previous work ethic and reliability and other useful words that did not improve Saturday’s demeanor. Friday mopped up the blood that led into the kitchen and pooled under the chairs where Aunt Joy administered to the wound; years of tending to the poor and sick gave Friday the ability to stay both busy and out of the way. Wednesday disappeared to her aerie. Trix crawled under the table and held Saturday’s hand, resting his head against her good leg in support. Peter sat on the other side of the table, staring at Saturday as if waiting for the answer to a question he’d long since asked. Saturday would not meet his eyes.

  Sunday watched Joy as she deftly fused the muscle and broken skin with the pinch of her fingers. She applied a poultice and wrapped Saturday’s leg tightly in bandages that Mama had boiled and dried.

  “You need to keep this elevated,” Joy told Saturday, gently placing the wounded leg i
n the chair beside her. “Stay off it for the better part of a week if possible.”

  “But—”

  “You heard me, Seven,” Aunt Joy snapped before Mama could doom her daughter to action. “My abilities can return the appearance of things to normal, but there is no replacement for time when it comes to true healing. Your daughter needs to stay out of the woods for the next few weeks for her own safety.” “And the ball,” she didn’t say, but everyone heard. “Saturday will not be attending the royal ball tonight or any other night” Saturday let her long hair fall into her face, but Sunday could tell she was smiling at her lap.

  “Fine,” Mama said to her youngest-but-one, “but I’ll not have you sit there useless. Your hands still work just fine. You’ll help your sister with her sewing.” Saturday bit her cheek, bobbed her bowed head, and silently accepted the task. Sunday wondered if Saturday’s graceless fingers could even accomplish anything so delicate, but since Mama had ordered it, Saturday would have to try her best. Papa poked idly at the logs in the fireplace. He would not be losing all his daughters to the royal family tonight.

  Friday returned to the re-cleaned kitchen with the dresses, her new sewing box, and the bag of lace and trimmings. She tossed the shimmering rainbow onto the table in front of Saturday, who gave the requisite grimace and stuck out her tongue. Mama shooed Papa and Peter back to work and the rest of her children off to do their chores. Joy stayed in her chair beside Saturday; she took up the blue-green dress and pulled a line of lace trim from the hem. Good, thought Sunday, Aunt Joy would keep the peace between Mama and Saturday. And with Mama so preoccupied, she’d stay out of her youngest daughter’s hair.

  Sunday scooped up the feed basket and walked out to the yard. She tossed great handfuls of dried corn at the chickens, at her pigeons as they swooped down to join her, and at Trix, when the pigeons perched cheerfully on his head and shoulder. He laughed as the cracked corn bounced off his chest and bare feet. When they were a safe distance from the kitchen window, he asked, “What happened last night?”

  “My, my,” Sunday clucked with the chickens. “There’s something you don’t know? I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’m as shocked as you,” Trix said. “This ball was all Mama could talk about for days. Now everyone’s mouths are clamped shut like you’re all hiding some big secret. Mama was all whispers with Aunt Joy over the stewpot this morning, and I’m sure Saturday told Peter and Papa during their walk to the Wood before...” His voice drifted away. “Sunday, why would she do such a thing?”

  Sunday halted mid-toss, closed her eyes, and put herself in each of her sister’s dancing shoes. “It scared me, too, at first: all those people and all that noise. Saturday was as miserable as she was gorgeous. She’s not one for dressing up for a room full of ninnies pretending to be who they’re not.”

  “Ugh,” groaned Trix. Having to put on shoes was horrible for Trix. “I bet she wished she had her ax the whole time.”

  “Mama told her to stand up straight, so she looked down her nose at all those pompous ladies, as if she could trust them about as far as she could throw them.”

  “Saturday could throw them farther,” said Trix.

  Sunday chuckled. “I bet you’re right. Oh, and Monday was there.”

  “Of course!” Trix danced gleefully; the pigeons scolded their unstable perch. “How is she?”

  She thought back on their princess sister, perfect as a painting with her jewel-studded fan. Sunday had spoken more to the prince than to her own estranged sibling. “Beautiful,” she said finally.

  “Oh.” It didn’t seem to be the answer Trix was looking for. “And what’s the matter with Wednesday?”

  Funny he should say that; of all of them, it was Wednesday who was acting most like herself: aloof, despondent, and largely uncommunicative. “The king seems to have taken a shine to our Wednesday. The two of them dancing together was something out of a bard’s tale.”

  “Aiming to outdo our dearly departed brother, is she? I thought these balls were being held for the prince.”

  “They were. Are.” Sunday turned her face into the cool wind, hoping the blush would fade before he noticed.

  He noticed. “Oh no,” said Trix.

  “Oh yes,” said Sunday.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Rather a lot, unfortunately.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I hardly know him.”

  “Hmm,” said Trix.

  Sunday threw back her head and let out a laugh that came straight from her toes, filling her whole body with joy. How long had it been since she had felt so real? “‘Hmm’? I pour my heart out to you, O He of the Unusually Wise Comments, and all you have for me is ‘hmm’?”

  Trix’s smile could have outshone the sun, had it dared peek from behind the morning clouds where it hid from the hungry beanstalk monster. “Sometimes ‘hmm’ is the wisest thing to say.”

  “Indeed.” Sunday tossed the rest of the handful of seed onto the ground. The grains fell hard and fast, more like stones than corn. Trix bent and rescued a few pieces before the closest chicken had a chance to snap them up. He examined them and then held his palm out to Sunday. She sighed at the contents.

  Her laughter had turned the seed to gold. The hired carriage was a little less cramped that night. Saturday might not have been there in body, but pieces of her were still with them: Friday had retrimmed each of their dresses with bits from Saturday’s. Friday’s bodice and sleeves were now edged in blue, and Mama’s in green. Saturday’s decorative braid now lined Sunday’s own hems, and her damask overskirt transformed Wednesday’s soft gray clouds into a storm-tossed sea. Friday had sewn the last scrap of material into a slender tube, stuffed it with strands of each of the sisters’ hair, and given it to Saturday as a bracelet. Sunday saw the blue-green flash of it on her sister’s wrist when Saturday raised her arm at the door to wave goodbye. She leaned her weight on Peter, and he helped her hop back into the house. The coachman snapped the reins and drove the rest of the Woodcutter girls to their second night of adventure.

  Wednesday had found an old pair of gloves with which to cover her ink-stained fingers. No one but Sunday noticed that Wednesday’s penknife—Joy’s nameday gift to her poet goddaughter—had crept back to its usual place in the knot of her hair. A small comfort, Sunday knew.

  The lane to the castle’s inner courtyard was once again crowded, but the driver managed to get them closer to the entrance than before. They only had to wend their way through a small maze of muck and horseflesh before their slippered feet hit stone. So many people were enjoying the crisp night air that it was difficult to tell who was in line for receiving and who was simply milling about. Sunday was swept up in the sea of skirts and smoke from gentlemen’s pipes. The crush was all around her: shoulder to shoulder, back to front, and within ever-quickening heartbeats, she could not see her mother and sisters. Sunday called out, but she could hear no one answer above the din.

  Sunday pardoned and excused herself, but instead of letting her pass, the crowd squeezed closer. A few times, the press of bodies lifted her off her feet. She tried to remain calm. The only faces she could make out were all strange to her. No one seemed to notice her predicament. If they did, no one bothered to help her. And then the two girls next to her turned ... and snarled. A third girl landed the first punch into Sunday’s stomach.

  Sunday doubled over and struggled to regain her breath. Hands tore at her ribbons and ripped her dress to shreds; she heard shrieks like wild animals above the rending of fabric. Her cheek was scratched. Soot was rubbed into her hair and face. One particularly strong blow sent her to her hands and knees, and someone’s—or several someones'—pointed slipper connected with her ribs. If she did not stand, she would surely be killed. Pain blinded her briefly, and when her vision swam back to her, she saw blood on her fingers.

  The blows came too quickly. She brought her free arm up in a futile effort to protect her head. Sunday focused on the angry fe
et surrounding her, the gray cobblestones, the blood on her finger, just as when she had pricked it for Trix on the spinning wheel. She should perform some magic ... but what could be created from such madness? There was only one thing she wished for. She drew a small circle on the cobblestones in blood and breathlessly mouthed, “Quiet.”

  The pain in her head died almost instantly. The blows stopped, and she fought to stand. She stumbled drunkenly through the mob, pushing against strangers, propelling herself closer to the castle wall. She forced her eyelids to stay open as she felt along the wall, step by step, brick by brick, until she came to a doorway and fell inside. The smell of bread and oven fires surrounded her. A scullery maid bolted the door behind her, while another gingerly lifted Sunday’s head and cradled it in an apron that reeked of cinnamon and onions.

  “Please don’t tell him,” Sunday begged her bright-eyed, stringy-haired savior.

  “Who, milady?”

  “The prince,” she said, and suddenly wished she hadn’t.

  14. Pain and Punishment

  “WHERE IS SHE?”

  “The main kitchens, sire.”

  “Take me there?” It was more of a request than an order; Rumbold couldn’t have found the main kitchens if his life depended on it. How many kitchens were in the castle? Had he ever visited them? He bowed to the Count and Countess of Wherever, frozen in mid-salutation. “Forgive me,” he said, and spun about to chase after Rollins.

  The castle never seemed so large as it did when one desperately needed to be at the other end of it. When he and Rollins emerged into the blasting furnace heat and bread-and-beast stench of the kitchens, it was all he could do not to collapse at the foot of the crowd gathered by the back door. Rollins parted the onlookers, and Rumbold hit the stone floor beside Sunday, his beloved Sunday, torn and tattered and tossed to the ground. Her hair was a mess, her dress was in rags, her shoes were gone, and there were holes in her stockings. What skin wasn’t covered in filth was red from scratches and slaps. A skinny, mousy-haired girl knelt on the opposite side of Sunday and gently tried to wash away the mask of blood and soot she wore.