Archive of Our Own ^beta

In a castle on a hill, one story has ended. Queen Ella Ashmore sits the throne, and her reign shall be a just and fair one, most unlike that of her predecessors. The wicked Stepmother lies petrified, never again to walk the Lands That Are or terrorise their people. The kingdom breathes a relieved sigh as calm settles over it once again.

But not all ever afters are happy - at least, not at first. So let us peel back the pages of this tale, and see what awaits our new queen, now that the crown rests uneasy on her gracious brow.

Ella Ashmore walks the midnight halls of the castle, a flickering candle held in one hand. Her feet are bare, and she is clad in just a thin white dress, with a scarf keeping her hair in place. The dress is not a nightgown - though the tailors were at work in an instant sewing her a new wardrobe fit for a queen, Ella found herself unwilling to part with all of her old clothes. This dress, now relegated to nightwear, was once her best. She knows every stitch and steam, the patches sewn in by starlight, the parts where the fabric is gossamer-thin from wear. It still smells, just slightly, of Ashmore House. Ella isn’t sure if that is a blessing or no.

Her feet tread a familiar path through the castle's corridors, her mind wandering just as much. Sleeplessness is a familiar song to Ella. Back with her stepmother, she was always the last to sleep and the first to rise, hard at work dirtying the castle and making things unpleasant for the trolls. She's been in the castle for weeks now, but old habits die hard, and Ella has found it impossible to sleep before the moon has risen to its peak.

She doesn’t consciously have a destination. Pacing is easier than remaining in her bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the memories of all that she has been through mire her in darkness. That first night, when the servants made up the fine feather bed for her, she lay there feeling her body sink into the soft mattress, to the point where it almost swallowed her. A maid sent to wake her the next morning found her lying on the floor swaddled in blankets, much like she did all those years at Ashmore House. Ella has made her peace with the comforts of her new home, now. But that doesn't mean that she has forgotten.

The path she takes through the castle is automatic. Down the corridor from the king's chambers (her chambers) past rows of guest rooms standing unused, through the grand ballroom where she once danced in her starlight gown, out to a veranda where she can sit, watch the world go by. The view from here covers the whole valley. There is the town below, beyond the castle walls; there is the river, there are the woods. She can just about see the roof of Ashmore House through the treetops, the gnarled branches of the old oak beyond. Ella sits there for a while, watching the unlit houses and the silent streets bathed in moonlight. It all seems so peaceful, when viewed from above.

She wakes in her chambers the next morning with no memory of how she got there. The sun streams through the high windows, filtering through the gauzy curtain on her four-poster bed and tinting the space a light green. (Tadius assured her that the bed was not the one that the old king had died in - and that the pillows, in particular, had been replaced.) She sits up, frowning, one hand pressed to her forehead as the tumbled dreams of the last night filter through her mind. The same dreams. Stone faces and sharp teeth, drowning in sludge and grime, the eyes of the townsfolk watching her with disgust. She massages her temples, breathing deep. She is here, in the castle. No longer in Ashmore House. She is queen. And there is work to be done.

Soon, the room is filled with motion. A maid enters to help her wash, dress - it is still strange, to have your every need attended. Mere weeks ago Ella was covered in grime and soot and mud, stinking like a compost heap with wild hair and wilder eyes. Now she is pampered and prim, with rosewater to wash in, manicured nails and neat braids and a gown of fine green silk, trimmed with gold. At first, Ella refused the maids, would only dress herself. But the finery of Ashmore House, even back in the days of prosperity, is nothing to a queen's raiment, and she soon found herself lost in a sea of silk and ribbons.

She chats to the maid as she works. The girl's name is Nell, and she comes from the town. Ella remembers seeing her in the line for the butcher's shop a few times. Nell has flame-coloured hair and a freckled face and a smile like the rising sun. She sends money each month to her aged parents, and is sweet on a carpenter's apprentice from the next town over. They speak of nothings, the weather and the mood in town and how the stray cat Nell feeds is faring. But Ella sees the brightness in her eyes as they talk, and is glad of it.

When she is dressed, Ella rises and, just on cue, there is a knock at the door. "Enter," she calls, smoothing down her skirts.

The door swings open, and there stands Tadius, holding a mahogany box with both hands. He is immaculate in his uniform, dark hair pushed away from his face. "Good morning, my lady," he says, inclining his head towards her. "Did you sleep well?"

Ella makes a non-committal noise in the back of her throat, and thankfully Tadius does not ask any further questions. Instead, he just approaches and hands her the box. She undoes the clasp, lifting the crown (her crown) from its place within the soft velvet interior. It sparkles in the light, the silver and glass shining beautifully - a hint of starlight. Slowly, she brings it to her forehead, donning its weight once again. From the mirror beside her, Queen Ella stands regal and perfect. With a small sigh, she smiles to Nell, nods to Tadius, and sweeps out of the room, to begin her royal duties.

In the early afternoon, she is in the great hall of the castle. The meetings with local lords and dukes and earls dragged on through the morning; now Ella must attend her day’s final duty here, before the court. It is a vast stone room, lined with stained-glass windows on either side showing the heroic exploits of kings and knights past. A large purple rug marks the way up to the throne - or rather, thrones, for there are two grand stone seats at the top of the hall. She sits on one of them, perched on a plush maroon cushion; the other is empty.

As befits her royal status, the walls are lined with liveried guards - though Ella feels much safer with just the mouse at her side. Crumb is wearing a new doublet in a deep burgundy, and his sword, too big to hang from his belt, is sheathed across his back. He is making a valiant effort at standing to attention, despite the many hours that he has been at Ella's side; he shifts, just slightly, from foot to foot, occasionally glancing at Ella for approval. Tadius is here too, standing a pace behind the throne, his hands clasped behind his back. He watches the proceedings, announces each visitor to the hall, the picture of a perfect seneschal. She feels his presence over her shoulder, his gaze on the back of her head, and lets herself relax into the throne.

All the court nobles and gentlefolk are here, standing around watching the proceedings. Though it has been some weeks since Ella took the throne, many of the noble houses were slow to send someone to pay their respects to her and officially pledge their fealty to their new queen. So Ella's days have been filled by receiving lords and ladies who praise her name and thank her for ridding the land of those vile trolls. Mere weeks ago they would not have spared her a passing glance in the street; or if they had, it would have been accompanied with a kick or cruel words.

She receives them gratefully, of course. Offers them her hand to kiss. But her eyes (embers at midnight) bore into them as they kneel. She knows what they are, and they know that she does.

One in particular stands out. A young man in a plum-coloured doublet, whose is bow a little more obsequious than the rest, whose eyes refuse to meet hers. Sir Preston, who not a few weeks ago scorned her pleas for help, now stands pledging his loyalty. She gives him the same pretty words she gave the others, but when he bows and starts to walk away, she beckons him closer.

Preston leans in. She can see him swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he draws closer, her ear practically brushing her lips.

“Just so that you know, Sir Preston.” Her voice is no more than a whisper, but no less strong. “If I ever hear a word of you treating some poor girl the same way that you treated me? It will be you taking a bath in the river, and that will just be the beginning of it.”

He goes pale as paper, and Ella has to stifle a laugh lest she undermine her own threat. Behind her, she can see Tadius shift slightly, a slight smirk curling his lips.

Preston, to his credit, just gives her a curt nod and scuttles back to his place among the nobles. To all the court, it looks as though the queen simply had a private word for an old friend. She settles back in her throne, surveying the assembly. She has greeted and heard the pledges of all assembled; good, that means that surely, she must be due a break. Though she was raised a noble, the strict court etiquette she must maintain as queen was a stark difference from running around after her stepmother and stepsisters all day. It is a muscle she has not yet trained, despite the many days she has sat this throne.

Tadius steps forward, ready to read the official words that will close the proceedings for the day, when there is a scuffle at the great castle doors. Some of the guards are shouting, and there is the sound of boots hammering on the stone floor. Crumb jumps up at her side, drawing the sword from his back (it takes him a few tries to get it out of the sheath, but he perseveres) and Ella shoots to her feet, body tensed, the fire and fury of the Fairy Queen coiled inside her.

But what bursts through the scrum is no troll, no man, no assassin racing to the throne. Instead, it is a girl – a child of no more than thirteen years, dressed in drab browns and greys, the hem of her dress ragged and her body covered in filth. One of the guards lunges forwards to grab her, but she dives to the side, bare feet scrambling for purchase on the polished floor as she races towards the throne.

She feels Crumb tense, raise his sword – Ella shoots a hand out, holding him back. He lowers the sword, though it is still held tight in his little hands. Around the hall, all of the lords and ladies murmur and whisper at this ragged thing that just invaded their hall. But Ella just stares the guard down. “Stop!” she commands, and the single word ricochets through the room like a cannon-shot. Everyone freezes, even the girl, who skids to a halt just before the throne, breathing heavily.

Silence rings throughout the hall. Nobody speaks, nobody moves; Ella could swear that nobody even breathes, bar the girl. Now, Ella can get a good look at her. She’s skinny, all knees and elbows, and her skin is marked by scrapes, bruises, and grime. Her dark hair was once pinned up beneath a coif, but it must have been dislodged in her run, because it now cascades down her shoulder, the coif hanging on with a single pin. Her eyes are wide, wild, and she stares at Ella with a desperation that is hauntingly familiar.

“Please!” It is the girl who breaks the silence, her voice high and lonely in the large hall. “Please, m’lady! I need-you have to listen to me!”

Slowly, Ella takes a step towards her. The girl is trembling, her whole body shaking as though she is freezing. Swallowing, Ella takes a knee before her, putting herself on the girl’s level. “What’s your name, my child?” she says. Her voice is low, soft – her eyes meet the girl’s, a smile on her lips.

The girl takes in a shaky breath. “Tansy, m’lady. I’m…I’m Tansy.”

Ella nods. “Tansy. How can I help you, Tansy?”

Tansy smiles, and opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a shout from behind her, making her jump. One of the guards, a loutish brute with a broken nose and a wicked scar down one forearm, calls out to Ella. “Don’t listen to her, m’lady!”

“And why not?” Ella raises herself to her full height, back straight, staring the guard down with her most piercing glare.

The guard falters, just a second, and addresses his next words to his boots. “I know of her, m’lady. She’s from the next town over – she’s a witchling, they say. Does all kinds of foul magics on the folk of the town. Curdles the milk, turns wine to vinegar, smothers the babes in their cradles, that’s what she does.”

Tansy’s eyes fill with tears. “M’lady, I-”

Ella raises a hand, cutting her off. Her eye is still on the guard, her jaw set. “I will thank you to keep your opinion to yourself, guardsman. Return to your post. I have no need of you here.” Thinking better of protesting, the guard slinks away, leaving Ella to take a knee before Tansy once more. “Now, what is it that you need, Tansy?”

“I…” Tansy’s hands twist in her skirt; Ella’s heart twists in her chest. She remembers that well. The fear that stops your tongue. “I am not cursed, m’lady. Nor a witch. My mother…there was a baby who died, that’s all. They blamed me.” Her eyes meet Ella’s again. “But I didn’t, I would never! They threw me out, I have nowhere to stay, I-”

Ella takes the girl’s hand. “Say no more,” she says, quiet and gentle as she can. Rising, she turns, looking over her shoulder. “Tadius?” she says, louder now. “See that Tansy is fed and bathed, and prepare a room for her to sleep, please.” Looking back to Tansy, she smiles. “Then, we can find a place for you, I’m sure.”

Tansy falls to her knees, grasping at the hem of Ella’s dress. “M’lady,” she sobs. “Thank you, I- ”

“Shush.” Ella helps Tansy to her feet. “It’s alright, dear one. I believe you.”

Rushing forward, Tansy throws her arms around Ella’s waist, hugging her tight. It catches Ella by surprise; she freezes, just for a second, before hugging the girl back. Then Tadius is there at her side, ready to take Tansy’s hand and whisk her away from the hall, leaving Ella standing there, the eyes of the nobles on her, alone in her crown in the centre of the room.

It is Crumb who saves the day, in the end. Still brandishing his sword, he draws himself up to his full height, and in his squeaky voice makes a proclamation. “M’lady is done here! You can all go!”

There is a murmur through the crowd, but nobility know when they have been dismissed, and begin to file out of the room. Ella scratches the top of Crumb’s head, whispering thanks into his ear. Together, they retire to a quieter room, where Ella can compose herself.

That afternoon finds them on a carriage ride, out into the marshes, where Ella has an appointment with a certain frog. There are very few roads here, so after a while Ella, Crumb, and Tadius must get out and walk through the mud and slime to find the newly-built keep where Lord Hop-a-Lot now lives. Tadius is holding Crumb above the mud - the mouse, even at his size, is waist-deep in muck when he tries to walk under his own power. To his credit, Crumb has only apologised once or twice, and it isn’t that far across the marsh. And Tadius isn’t complaining (“Carrying a mouse across a swamp is more pleasant than wiping the late prince’s behind, my lady.”)  

Ella smiles to herself as she hitches up her skirts. Not long ago she would have been striding through the grime with nary a second thought; now, she takes care not to splash her clothes, knowing that she will not be the one washing them.

Lord Hop-a-Lot’s keep is a work in progress, even now. A castle is not built in a day, after all. But enough of it has been constructed from the stone around the swamplands that the frog lives in comfort, even by the standards of the nobility. The tower appears as a smaller castle, incongruous in the swampland; the stone is weathered, grey-brown, with moss spotted around the walls here and there. It seems at once ancient and modern, like it has grown from the swamp itself rather than being painstakingly built by a team of (rather confused) workers. Only three or four rooms have been completed; a large part of the upper keep is covered in scaffolding, the mere shell of a castle.

Tadius puts Crumb down as they reach the more solid ground around the keep. He is staying outside - ostensibly to guard her in Sir Crumb’s stead, but Ella suspects that a measure of discomfort with the talking animals is a factor.

The frog himself is at the door, dressed as ever in his armour, his sword still belted at his waist. He greets Ella with a low bow, swishing one froggy hand out to the side, before twirling his moustache slightly. “My lady!”

Ella can’t stop herself from beaming. Despite everything, Lord Hop-a-Lot’s presence never fails to cheer her. “My lord,” she says, and holds out her hand for the frog to kiss - which he does, with a strange, wet sound. “How fare the swamplands?”

“Well, my lady, well.” He is beckoning her into the keep now - into the modest entrance hall, wood-panelled and with a fire blazing. Hop-a-Lot’s space looks like much like her father’s old study, with soft green carpets and dusty tomes on the bookshelves and well-upholstered chairs by the fire, just ready for someone to pass an evening with a good book. Crumb, familiar with all of the old frog’s hiding-places, scampers in and makes a bee-line for the pantry, emerging after a moment carrying a block of cheese as big as his head. Hopping up onto a nearby chest, he immediately sets about shoving it into his mouth.

Hop-a-Lot gives him a withering look, before turning back to Ella. “I have some news, in fact!”

“Oh?” Hopefully, he hasn’t made good on his threats to become a knight-errant, roving the countryside in search of derring-do. Ella isn’t sure her heart can take it.

“I have begun...” He pauses, as though waiting for some kind of drumroll from beyond. “A school!”

“Oh!” Whatever Ella was expecting, that wasn’t it.

Hop-a-Lot gives his froggy grin; or, at least, his mouth widens, and his voice takes on a note of triumph. “To teach youngsters the way of the sword, as I taught young Crumb here.”

Crumb looks up from the cheese block he is tearing apart. “Yes, sir!”

Ella giggles, trying not to sound teasing. “How noble of you, my lord.”

Hop-a-Lot draws his sword, inspecting it - he whisks a cloth from his belt, and begins to clean an invisible-to-Ella speck of dirt from it. “Some of the local boys come by the keep, and I tutor them. There is a severe lack of honourable knights in this realm, my lady.”

She has to concede that; the thought of Preston’s ashen face from this morning flashes into her head, and she smirks. “True enough.”

“I don't know what they're teaching children these days,” says Hop-a-Lot, shaking his head. “Still, I taught you thoroughly enough, Crumb!” Crumb looks up from his cheese and gives the mouse equivalent of a thumbs-up. “Is he guarding you well, my lady?”

“He's doing a wonderful job.” And Ella has to admit, that’s true. There have been no more assassins sneaking through the night to slit her throat, sure, but Ella can’t help but feel secure with her sworn defender at her side.

Crumb, for his part, beams. “Oh, thank you, m'lady!”

“Hmm, well.” Hop-a-Lot is still giving Crumb the side-eye, though he turns back and nods to Ella. “Taught him all he knows, don't you know!”

“That's right, sir!” Crumb squeaks. “Especially not tripping on my tail!”

Hop-a-Lot chuckles. “This is why a frog is necessary, my lady. No tails to trip, just pure swordplay!”

Ella beams at him. “I'm sure your school is much appreciated.” She’ll have to come by while he’s teaching one day - she’d very much like to see the town’s boys facing up to Hop-a-Lot’s methods.

“Indeed!” He sheathes his sword again with a flourish. “Inspiring the youth of today - we shall have them all fighting like frogs before too long!”

Crumb squeaks nervously. “I'll still be your knight, won't I, m'lady?”

“Of course, Sir Crumb.” Ella toasts him with an imaginary glass, and he brightens up.

“Oh, thank you, m'lady!”

Hop-a-Lot clears his throat. “But just remember, if there is ever a dragon that needs slaying or a giant terrorising the land-“

Ella places a hand on her heart. “You shall be the first person I call.”

“Good. Good.” Mollified, Hop-a-Lot gestures inside the room. “Now, come in! Crumb can’t be the only one to throw propriety to the wind.”

Picking up her skirts, Ella steps further into the keep, taking a seat by the fire. It has been a week or so since her last visit. They have a lot to catch up on.

Later, when Ella exits the keep, promising to return with haste, she is met by a Tadius who looks uncharacteristically grim. As soon as she appears, he is at her side, speaking in a low voice. “There was a note from the castle, my lady, while you were talking.” Ella’s heart skips a beat - what could have been so urgent, for the castle to send a messenger when she was to return before sundown? “He has responded.”

It’s as though the breath has been knocked from her lungs. There is only one he that Tadius could be talking about; but she first sent to him just after the coronation. It’s been weeks. She had thought - hoped, somehow - that this was the end of it. That she wouldn’t have to do this at all. “You mean-?” She shakes her head, the news still sinking in. “After all this time.”

Tadius, as ever, is unreadable, though he watches Ella closely. “He has invited you to visit him on the morrow, my lady. I took the liberty of sending a confirmation on your behalf.” He shifts, glancing downwards. “I apologise if that was forward.”

“No, I...I would have asked you to.” Ella pauses, thinking it over. She doesn’t want to go, not yet - but delaying longer would just leave her anxiety bubbling. Better to get it over with. “Thank you, Tadius.”

“My pleasure, your highness.” Tadius stoops down, accepting a sluggish Crumb into his arms and hoisting him once more onto his shoulder. “Shall we return to the carriage?”

“Yes.” Ella hikes up her skirts again, suddenly ready for the comforts of home. “Please.”

That night finds Ella pacing through the halls once again. The world is tinged midnight blue, with only slivers of silver moonlight and the comforting glow of her candle to light the endless halls that she wanders, alone. There is an ache building within her head, a tension coiled at her temples, and fresh air might do some good. That is why she finds herself sitting on the veranda again, watching a few night owls wander the town, small as ants from her lofty vantage point.

It is past midnight, she knows that - the moon is high in the sky behind her, and clouds of stars shine down from an inky sky. The night is cool, with a slight breeze that nips at her bare arms. The veranda is stone, but contains a couple of benches for anyone who needs to sit; she is perched on one of them, glad for the comfort of a cushion. There is silence in the air. She can just about hear the rustling of trees from the woods, the call of a distant owl, occasional laughter and chatter as lategoers are ejected from taverns for the evening. Other than that, stillness.

Ella gazes out at the world, resting her elbows on the railing. Her eyes are half-closed, fatigue wearing her down. Though sleep does not come easy, it seems that her body still needs it. Truth told, her mind is still too busy to rest. She is thinking over the day - Lord Hop-a-Lot's school for youngsters, the fear on Tansy's face when she burst into the hall, the letter Tadius received. The journey she must take tomorrow. The journey that, in all honesty, she wished not to make at all. But she must. She owes them that much.

So occupied is she in her thoughts that she doesn't realise she is no longer alone - at least, not until the figure behind her speaks. "Finding it hard to sleep, my lady?"

She leaps to her feet and whirls around, fists clenched and body tensed, ready to pounce upon the intruder before his words sink into her mind, and she realises who it is. It's just Tadius, out of uniform but not yet dressed for bed, in a soft-looking dove grey tunic that is open at the neck and dark trousers. His hair is unkempt, a few dark curls falling haphazardly around his face. In his hands, he holds a tray containing a teapot, a chipped teacup, and a small cake.

Heat rising to her cheeks, Ella lowers her fists. "Tadius! I'm sorry, I-"

"You do not need to apologise, my lady." He inclines his head towards her. "It is a lifetime's habit to go about silently and unseen, after all." Moving forward, he places the tray on the bench next to Ella, standing to her side in his usual manner, back straight and hands clasped behind him.

Ella blinks, her thoughts slow as porridge as she regards the tray. "Is that for me?" There is a floral scent rising from the teapot; how unused she still is to sweet smells, even after this time.

Tadius nods. "Yes, my lady. I often find need of refreshment when awake this late."

She glances up at him, a frown creasing her brow. "You're usually about at this hour?"

There is a second's hesitation. Tadius purses his lips, clearly torn between the tactful and the truthful response. After a moment, he gives her a knowing look. "The late prince was...not overly fond of many of his official duties," he says, clear irony laced into his voice.

Ella snorts. "I'm shocked."

Tadius raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile gracing his face. "Someone had to perform the tedious formalities of paperwork. The prince gave me the..." He pauses. "Great honour of bearing his seal so that I could deal with it for him."

"This far into the night?" Though, knowing what she does of the late prince, Ella can well see it. Doubtless the prince spent his days in idleness, lounging around the castle and dallying with passing noblewomen, his duties long-forgot.

But if Tadius remembers it poorly, that does not show on his face. Instead, his ghostly smile broadens. "A servant's life oft contains little time to sit in the quiet, my lady," he explains. "If signing papers on the prince's behalf was the price to pay, it was little enough."

Long days and nights at Ashmore House. The trolls screaming at every turn - the windows are not greasy enough, the floors not dusty, and has Ella caught enough cockroaches in the cellar to garnish the evening meal? Ella's feet still ache with the hours spent without sitting down, her arms still sore from the weight of buckets of mud. "I remember what that was like," she murmurs, almost to herself.

A strange expression flits across Tadius' face, then. Guarded, reserved; yet there is recognition in his eyes as he takes a seat beside Ella, the tea tray all that separates them. "Indeed," he says, taking the teapot and pouring a measure into the cup. "Here, my lady." He offers it to Ella, who takes it, her fingers grateful for its warmth as she cradles it.

That aroma rises once again. Ella has learned to cherish it where she can find it. She takes a tentative sip - it burns her tongue, just slightly, but she can taste flowers and musky sweetness. "What is this?"

"Elderflower tea, my lady." Tadius folds his hands on his lap, watching her. "Mirri, one of the kitchen maids, she gathers it herself."

"It's good." Ella had never thought to brew flowers before, makes a mental note of it. "And the cake?" It's a small and delicate thing, frosted with spun sugar (an expensive luxury) and smelling of honey.

Tadius grins. "I am sure that her highness will not look upon you too unkindly for sampling tomorrow's dessert a little early."

"I am not so sure." Ella, eyes wide, shakes her head. "I may have to throw myself on her mercy and confess everything."

"She will forgive you," says Tadius, with such sincerity that it takes her by surprise. "She is a kind and gracious ruler." There is silence, for a second. Ella sips her tea, filling her nose with its sweet scent. Tadius shifts, uncomfortably - Ella can read him well enough, knows that there is something he wishes to say. Somewhere distant, there is the call of a nightingale. A cloud drifts over the moon, and Ella leans back, watching the world once more. It is then that Tadius speaks. "My lady-"

"Tadius, you have seen me drenched in muddy river-water and risen from the dead after being murdered by trolls, I think you can just call me Ella." There is a sparkle in her eyes as she glances over at him, playful.

But Tadius doesn't meet her eye. He blinks, his careful servility jostled, just for one moment. "As you wish, my-" He pauses, smiling self-consciously at the honorific, then runs a hand through his hair, as if to collect himself. "Ella." Her name sounds strange in his voice - alone, without titles or embellishment. "How are you feeling?"

Ella blinks. "Me?"

"You have certainly been through a lot, of late. More than anyone ever realised." There is a note of bitterness in Tadius' voice, something she just can't place. "I imagine this has been quite a shock, adjusting from what you once knew."

She stares down into her cup of tea, the dark liquid cooling in the cup. "I still expect to wake and find that it was all a dream. That I am back in my cot in my father’s home. With her. With them."

"I know what you mean." She looks up at him, sharply - he is still sitting stiffly beside her, but he has moved to face outwards, surveying the town and all beyond. When he speaks, his voice is somewhat distant. "I feared the old king’s death. The throne would just pass to the prince, and - well, you met him."

"You really think he would have been that bad a ruler?" After years imprisoned within the walls of her own home, attending Stepmother's every whim, it is hard to see the terror in negligence, rather than cruelty. But there is a cloud over Tadius' expression, and he fidgets with the signet ring around his little finger as he speaks. Ella watches him attentively, that old, familiar defeat settling in over his features.

"Who can say?" Tadius lets out a sigh. "Certainly, the late prince would have paid as much attention to matters of state as his father. That is to say, he would only have cared about what lined his coffers for the next grand feast." He lapses into silence, twisting his hands in his lap once more. "I assumed his queen would be just like him. He had been rejected by every woman of wit and wisdom across the land. The only candidates left were the likes of Putrice Ashmore."

Ella closes her eyes, shuddering.

"Quite." Tadius glances downward. "I had thought my future filled with standing by as the kingdom fell to squalor, powerless to change anything. But then...there was you."

She cannot resist teasing him. "An unknown maid from a house that had 'fallen into disrepute, to put it kindly'."

He chuckles. "In fairness, I did apologise for that." Ella gives him a look, barely keeping the laughter from her own lips. "But when we spoke, the night of the ball...here, in fact. I had not dared to dream that any candidate for the prince's hand could be a woman of true intelligence and grace."

"I recall us trading insults most of the night." Though Ella lets herself smile at the memory. It was perhaps the first real conversation she'd had in a long time - with someone who listened, at any rate.

Tadius presses his lips together, one corner of his mouth curling upwards. "You are far better at insulting a man than the prince was. He tended to fall back on profanity over wit." Ella sips her tea again as Tadius' voice grows almost wistful. "I still cannot believe I have gone weeks without hearing the word 'cunny'," he says, the vulgarity sounding strange on his tongue. "Still. What happened to him..."

He trails off. Ella steals a curious glance at him; his shoulders have slumped and his gaze is downcast. In the pale moonlight, she can see the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Tadius," she says, gently.

"I know." Tadius breathes a heavy sigh, one that seems to reverberate through his entire body. "Brainless and boorish though he was, the prince could have learned responsibility, not had his head torn off by his new queen." He blinks slowly, before turning his gaze to Ella again. "Although, were he here," he adds sardonically. "He would likely just make a jest about that not being what he meant when he asked her to give him head."

There is a second's awful silence before Ella snorts with guilty laughter, practically spitting up her tea in mirth. "I should not find that funny," she says, wiping a tear from her eye.

"Why not?" Tadius says, his ghostly smile returned. "He would."

He settles back onto the bench, looking out once more over the town, the woods, the silhouette of Ashmore House in the distance. But Ella can tell, he sees none of it. His eyes are faraway, lost in the mists of time - she gives him a moment, waits for whatever it is he wishes to say. When he speaks, it is with hesitance, his voice low. "I was just a lad when I first came into the king’s service. The prince, little more than a babe in arms. He was not always the lout that you met. But money, power, privilege - it warps a man."

"And you think I will be any different?" Ella is regarding him curiously - he turns to her, a question on his lips, so she explains. "I am highborn. To a noble house, or at least it was. A rich house."

Tadius' brow furrows as he considers her point. "Those born to privilege have often never done a day’s work in their lives," he says. "Even a manservant to royalty enjoys some prestige among servants. You, in charge of a whole house, alone?"

Ella shrugs. "I got used to it."

"You should not have had to." His voice is gentle, surprising her - that surprise must have shown on her face, because he sits up a little more rigidly, his expression returning to careful neutrality. "But that is what I mean. You know what it is to work. To be hated, shunned, degraded. To be told no." He gives a wry chuckle. "The late prince was never told no in his entire life! But you...you listen." Tadius smiles at her, and the pure concern, pure regard on his face brings a lump to her throat. "It is still difficult to believe what you went through."

Her blood runs cold. She told him - told everyone who was there - the full story of what she had been through after the dust had settled. When the coronation was done, and the statue that was once her stepmother was moved far away. The whole story of what had transpired between the walls of Ashmore House those many years, excluding nothing. "You don't trust my word?" she manages to choke out, and it feels like she is back there, in the streets of the town, begging and pleading for somebody, anybody to take her seriously.

"No!" Tadius appears as horrified as she feels, and she allows herself to breathe as he speaks, stuttering in his haste to clear the air. "No, I-I do not think you a liar. I just-I find it difficult to fathom how anyone, even a creature as repugnant as those trolls, could do something so cruel to...to someone so..."

His words stop, and he looks over at her with an expression she cannot parse, somewhere between pity and fear and something else entirely. All at once he stands, nearly knocking over the tea-tray, hands clasped behind him as though he is merely a servant attending his lady, and nothing more.

"Tadius?" she prompts, and even that single word hangs in the air between them.

"I am keeping you awake, my lady," he says, expressionless. "You should be well-rested for the morrow. This is-I should take my leave. Forgive me."

Ella casts her gaze down at the teacup she still holds, at the cake that still sits on its dainty little plate beside her. "...of course."

He nods, and bows stiffly at the waist. "Good night, my queen."

"Good night, Tadius."

She watches him retreat inside, closing the doors to the castle behind him as he goes. The darkness of the castle seems to swallow him whole, and Ella shudders once more, not quite from the chill. After a second, she takes the little cake from its plate and bites into it. Gooey honey flows from the centre. Ella closes her eyes, and breathes it in.

When morning comes, it is as though the night was just a dream. She wakes in her bed, as ever; the maid comes to help her wash and dress, then Tadius arrives bearing her crown. He greets her with the same warm formality as ever, though today there is trepidation in it. She wants to say something to him, to recall their moonlit conversation, but what lies ahead occupies her thoughts far greater. Today, the carriage is being prepared to take her to the last place she wants to go. Today, Queen Ella Ashmore will at last visit Honeyhold, and bear the news to Lord Grizzwald of his daughters' final hours.

She had sent a letter to him immediately after she was crowned. The coronation was a hasty affair, attended by the same lords and ladies who had come for the prince's wedding. Afterwards was not so much a celebration as a funeral - compounded by the king and the price being buried the next day. Ella had told Lord Grizzwald everything, from the moment Stepmother entered her home to the troll petrifying in a burst of starlight. But, of course, her focus was on Justine and Lucy, and why they would not be coming home.

The carriage ride feels long, longer than it ever had before. Tadius sits beside her in silence; Ella watches the once-familiar path they ride down from out of the window, counting every tree and bush. Atop the carriage, she knows, is Crumb, with a watchful eye kept out for any bandits or miscreants that might attack them on the road. (Though in all honesty, she would prefer to have him and his soft belly there with her, for comfort.) Still, knowing he is up there gives her the courage she needs as the carriage pulls into the grounds of the manor, and she steels herself for what is to come.

Ella is not sure what to expect from Honeyhold. When she remembers this place, it is with the eyes of a child - the green, sunny gardens, the sparkling white pillars, the giant windows that let in streams of light, the soft, plush carpets her feet would sink into, the high banqueting tables filled with endless feasts. The laughter of three little girls caught up in carefree mirth. The welcoming baritone of her father's voice as he greeted Lord Grizzwald with an embrace.

She remembers Lord Grizzwald as he was then; tall and auburn-haired, with an easy smile and a candy hidden in his pocket just for her. Other fathers would bemoan their lack of male heirs, but Lord Grizzwald doted on Justine and Lucy. He would always say that, had he a legitimate son, he would still have made Justine his heir, for she was worth more than any boy he had ever met. He loved the girls as Ella loved them - Justine for her kind heart and gentle nature, Lucy for her cleverness, her cheek, and her quick wit.

But when they reach the grounds, childish recollection gives way to sober reality. Tadius holds the door of her carriage open, and Ella emerges to find a manor that is frozen in time. The light that filters through the windows is cold, and the air is stale. A few servants stand beside the imposing oak doors, their expressions inscrutable.

Ella tries to smile at them as she passes. Memories flash before her eyes - that dour woman in grey is the cook, who would give the girls sweetmeats and tastes of pie before supper if they asked nicely. Now her head hangs low and she refuses to meet Ella's eye. The tall, blonde man in livery was her favourite footman, who once let her ride on his shoulders when she lost her shoes in the gardens. Now he meets Ella's gaze with dull impassivity, the mere respect of a servant to a lady. The dwarf-woman with pins sticking from her pinafore is the tailor, who more than once needed to mend the girls' dresses after a misadventure or two. Now she just watches Ella as she passes, and Ella's queenly smile fades to stone.

Tadius takes her arm without prompting; grateful, she leans on him as they are shown through an entrance hall, to a small study in the west wing. In better times, this would be a cosy room. The fireplace would be blazing with light and heat, the book-lined walls giving that familiarly musty smell that always made Ella feel at peace. But the fire is not lit, and the books stand cold and inanimate, and the paintings that adorn the walls are covered in black cloth. And there stands the Lord Grizzwald, looking out of the window at the gardens beyond.

His hair is almost entirely white. His back is stooped, and he holds the windowsill in a vicelike grip. Ella spots a black-handled cane leaning against the wall beside him. His pale skin is paper-thin, and she can almost count his bones through it. Though he is well-dressed, in black doublet and hose, the fabric bears a few patches of colour, as though the garments have been hastily dyed. His pinched face is deeply lined, and his soft grey eyes are glazed somewhat. He bears no sign of noticing Ella's entrance.

She clears her throat at the same time that Tadius drops her arm, moving near-inconspicuously to the corner, his hands clasped behind his back. The Lord Grizzwald does not react, and Ella shifts slightly, uncomfortable in her finery. But then he turns, releasing his grip on the windowsill and taking up his cane. His red-rimmed eyes meet hers, and despite everything, there is steel in them.

He breaks the silence first. "Your highness." His voice is a croak, like a rusty hinge, and there is stiff formality in every syllable. Etiquette would insist that he bow before his sovreign; he bends slightly at the waist, not dropping her gaze.

"Lord Grizzwald," she says. When she was a child, she would race up to this man and throw her arms around him. Now she fights to keep her expression neutral. "I..."

There is so much she would say. About that last, golden day with Lucy and Justine. How she didn't know what was to come until Stepmother appeared in the clearing, crossbow under her arm. How she wept that night, wept as she was burying what remained of them, wept every night since at how she wished they were by her side. But her traitorous tongue will not speak the words and she stands mute, withering under his Lordship's stare.

"Say what you are here to say, your highness." Lord Grizzwald's voice could cut glass.

"Yes." Ella takes in a breath, centres herself. The queenly mask falls upon her face once more. "I am sorry, my lord." She said as much in her letter, but words on a page are cold as the ink that scribed them. He deserves to hear her condolences from her voice.

But Lord Grizzwald's expression is still grave. "You are sorry." His words are flat, emotionless.

"You know that I loved your daughters as though they were my own blood." Ella's words are choked from her throat. Her mother's health being what it was, Ella never had the blessing of siblings. Never, that is, apart from the Grizzwalds. He knows that. He was there - saw it all, the little Ashmore family, how Ella's life lit up whenever she visited Honeyhold for the summer.

Lord Grizzwald, though, merely grips his cane tighter. Has the man even blinked? Ella isn't sure. "Loved them enough," he says, and there is fury barely restrained behind his words. "To invite them to their deaths."

"I..." Ella falters, glances downwards. The memories dance across her vision - Lucy falling, blood seeping through her butter-yellow gown, Justine refusing to leave her side. "I played no part in the trolls' games." The words taste of lies even as they leave her lips.

"They say those creatures went to court wearing my daughters' skin." Lord Grizzwald's jaw is set. His breathing is rapid and shallow - Ella feels Tadius shift, behind her, and signals for him to stay put.

When she speaks, her voice is quiet, but firm. "That is true."

Lord Grizzwald's eyes flash, and he rounds on her, clear anger now spilling into his words. "Justine and Lucy were so happy to see you again. Ever since your father died, they worried so much that they hadn't heard from you."

Ella bows her head. "I was glad to see them, too."

It's then that Lord Grizzwald's face crumples. The anger and bitterness drain away, his icy gaze melting, and a tear begins to trickle from one eye. His voice is no longer stern, but the frail and fading rasp of an old man, laced with a desperate need to understand. "Then why?"

"You do not know what a monster that troll was." Despite herself, she feels fury coiled in her chest. How dare he blame her. If he had seen what she'd endured - tasted just a little of what she had been through - he would not be saying such things. She suffered. She died. Just like Justine and Lucy. The only difference is that, rather than resting in the Greener Fields Beyond, she has been dragged back here to finish her revenge. Their revenge.

Lord Grizzwald blinks, some of his steel returning to him. "I know that my girls should be here right now."

"I avenged them." Ella's coal-black eyes are blazing now, anger rising to her tone as she pulls herself up to her full height, squaring off against the elderly man. "Putrice was split in two by my loyal knight. Rancilda, chased to the border by him and his squire. And Stepmother lies in stone, never to move again - felled by my starlight."

He grips his cane so tightly that his knuckles are white. "You sit the throne, and my daughters lie defiled in the dirt."

"Because of them, the Fairy Queen of Sweet Dreams came to me." She had explained this, too, in her letter, though not the detail. "Through their sacrifice, I survived to save the kingdom."

"Would that the kingdom lay in ruins, and my daughters lived."

Ella stares at him, dumbfounded. Lord Grizzwald stands firm, his jaw set, courtly poise and noble elegance still intact, despite everything. And a part of Ella whispers that he is not wrong. That she was so eager for a sweet day that she forgot the thorns that hid beneath her stepmother's desires. That though she did not kill the Grizzwald girls, she is just as responsible for what happened as the trolls. And she has known it all along.

After a moment, Ella regains her composure, her voice returned to its gentle, queenly state. "I buried them near Ashmore House," she says. "I can show you the place, or if you'd prefer to go alone...it's peaceful there."

Lord Grizzwald's expression does not change. "Is that all, your highness?"

There's insolence there; another monarch would have his head for that alone. But Ella just lowers her eyes. "Yes. I...I am sorry, my lord."

He says nothing. Just inclines his head in the barest of nods. She takes it for the dismissal that it is. Without another word, she turns, and heads out of Honeyhold, Tadius at her heels. Not once does she look back.

The carriage ride to the castle is just as silent. Ella sits and stares out of the window, seeing nothing, while Tadius watches her with mounting concern. But he does not speak, and neither does she. Not until they draw closer to the town. The carriage is making its way through the woods, winding near the old oak tree, and Ella jolts upwards, galvanised. She opens the carriage window and calls to the coachman to stop, just for a moment. Tadius helps her down, as usual, but when he goes to follow her she holds out a hand.

"I shall be alright," she says. "I will have Crumb with me. Please. Wait here.”

Tadius just nods, steps back and stands by the carriage. So it is that Ella finds herself standing in the clearing once more, a noble mouse at her side, looking upon the graves of her friends.

Beneath the old oak tree, the clearing is as verdant as she remembers - the sun streams down through the trees above, illuminating the soft green of the grass. In truth, that this place is a gravesite would be obvious to none but her. Ella had nothing to mark the spot when she buried the girls; all she could do was leave twigs poking from the ground, braided together, to remember where they lay. Now, the shimmering breastplate of her starlit trappings sits atop the mound of dirt where her friends lie, and twin wreaths of pink and yellow honeysuckle are twined above them. She wanted to build some kind of monument, but had hesitated. It would be more proper to leave that to Lord Grizzwald, after all.

Crumb stands at the edge of the clearing, staring up at the old oak. Of course - it was here where she first met him, him and Hop-a-Lot. It feels a lifetime ago. She gives him a wan smile, before sitting in the grass where she once picnicked with her friends. One hand splays in the grass beside her, just above the grave. The other is on her heart.

"I saw your father today." Her words are loud in the tranquil space. "He is grieving, of course. There were harsh words said, but...he misses you." She closes her eyes, summoning his image into her mind. "I see his fury. If I must bear its brunt, so be it." Ella wraps her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the glow of the sun above. "Oh, sweet girls," she says, her voice little more than a whisper. "Will you ever forgive me for baiting the trap that killed you? I should have guessed Stepmother's plans, I knew she would not give me a good day. Not without a price. But I...I just wanted to see you again." Opening her eyes, Ella gets to her feet. She brought nothing, no flowers, no tributes to two kind and worthy friends. Instead, she just lays a hand on that breastplate, feels its power surge to meet her. "I hope you rest easy. Lucy, Justine. I hope your dreams are sweet. You deserve the quiet."

Straightening up fully, Ella turns her gaze to the old oak tree. In the daylight, it seems harmless - tall, yes, and imposing, but there is nothing of the fae about it. Nothing unusual. In her mind's eye, she sees it how it was that night; the shimmering silver of the fairy queen, the shades that danced around her. The image of Lady Ashmore, young and alive, weaving her spells in the dead of night.

"Fairy Queen of Sweet Dreams," Ella says to the tree, then curtseys. "My lady. I wonder, is this what you wanted? The house of Ashmore rises to the throne, and all that it cost was everyone I had loved." Those last words are a sob, grief rising once more to Ella's throat; beside her, Crumb appears, laying his head against her side. Ella takes a breath. "I am not ungrateful, my lady of song and starlight. You gave me a future I never could have painted for myself. With all the burdens and blessings that entailed." One hand rises to her brow, where her crown sits amid her braids - Ella has stopped feeling its weight, almost. "I thank you. I just hope that I shall be equal to it."

Crumb steps forward, something held in his little pink hands. As Ella watches, he lays a wedge of cheese at the base of the tree - she holds back a smile, seeing his solemnity. "Thank you, m'lady," Crumb says to the tree. "For everything."

She takes his hand, and together they return to the carriage. To the castle. To Queen Ella Ashmore's life, whatever that entails.

By the time they return to the castle, it is late enough that Ella can retire to her chambers without raising any eyebrows. Tadius promises to deal with anything that arises for the night. As soon as she is alone in her room, Ella changes out of her queenly raiment to one of the plainer, simpler dresses from Ashmore House. Then she lies on her bed, and thinks of nothing as the sun sets outside her window.

Of course, she cannot sleep. She sits in bed and half-heartedly attempts to read a book by candlelight, but the words dance and blur together and in the end, she places a bookmark on the page and delicately returns it to her bedside table. Taking her candle in one hand, she walks the familiar path to the veranda, and sits herself where she can watch the stars.

Lost in her thoughts, she once again doesn't notice the door opening behind her until Tadius clears his throat. This time, she just turns her head. He's lingering by the door with another tray, and another pot of tea - this time, though, there are two cups, and instead of a cake he has brought a selection of biscuits.

Ella motions for him to come over. "I don't remember demoting you to royal tea caddy," she says with a smile.

"In fairness, my lady, some of this is for me." He sits beside her, pouring her a cup - that familiar sweet scent fills the air as she accepts it from him. Pouring another, he takes it in both hands, holding it stiffly in front of him. "Are you still not sleeping, your highness?"

"Tadius, you can still call me Ella." She takes a sip of her tea, letting its warmth spread through her body. "It seems only fair."

He just smiles. "How are you? Today was...taxing, I am sure."

Ella doesn't say anything at first. She's tired. It is as though all of the life has been sapped from her, leaving only the desperate need to sleep and the horrible itch at the back of her mind that will not let her. Sleep would draw this day to a close, put it in the past where it belongs, bring forth something new on the morrow. But she doesn't want to relegate the Grizzwalds to the past. Not yet.

When she speaks, it surprises even herself. "Was it my fault, Tadius?"

He blinks, a frown creasing his brow. "You surely cannot think to blame yourself for your stepmother's crimes." His tone is of disbelief, careful concern laced through it. If only Ella could allow herself to listen.

"She used me to lure in my friends," she says, addressing her teacup more than Tadius. Her voice is low, almost a murmur. "Like lambs to the slaughter."

Tadius leans forward, eyes trained on her. "That was not your doing."

"But it was still done." Now she looks up, meeting his eye with such intensity that he flinches, just a little.

He shakes his head. "And you vanquished her. Because of you, the kingdom does not have a troll queen."

"That didn't save them." Her mother. Her father. Lucy. Justine. Everyone she cared about lay in the grave, and her hand in all of their deaths. And it seems only Ella can return from the grave. Her sweet dream, alone. "Maybe it would have been better if the trolls had just eaten me," she says, offhandedly. She meant it almost as a jest, but Tadius' face is a mask of horror.

"Ella," he says, his voice both soft and insistent. "Do not blame yourself."

It's strange. The night shrouds all things, but the moon is full and round and casts a spotlight on them, two lone figures silhouetted on the side of the castle. Darkness covers all things beyond - the grounds, the town, the distant roof of Ashmore House - but Ella can see Tadius clearly, shining in the starlight, mere inches between them. The gentle concern in his eyes. The worry that sets his jaw, the way he angles himself towards her, so that she is the centre of his world.

A moment passes, then; a moment where something might have awakened. But Ella says nothing and Tadius clears his throat, straightening up as if to stand. "I..." he says, giving Ella a weak smile. "I shall leave you to your thoughts, my queen."

"No," she blurts out, the single syllable escaping her lips before she can stop it. Tadius raises an eyebrow, and Ella closes her eyes for a second. She takes a breath, willing herself to stillness. "Tadius - stay. Please.”

A thousand expressions flit over Tadius' face. Apprehension, confusion, joy, fear, and something she cannot place. But instead of standing, he settles himself back onto the bench beside her. He hasn't taken his eyes off her the whole time.

Later, she will not be able to name the instinct that made her do it. But in that moment, Ella leans over and takes his hand. He starts, but does not draw away - he is strangely warm despite the chill of the night, his skin smooth against her. She nods, squeezing his hand tight as she turns her attention back to the world beyond the veranda. After a second, she feels him squeeze back.

They stay there, that night. As the starlight ebbs and the midnight sky pinkens to dawn. They stay and talk, of court gossip and royal duty, of concerns for the kingdom and favourite foods, holding back the darkness in their pasts one word at a time. They stay in silence, watching as the early birds in town begin to rise and go about their lives, baking bread and chopping wood and greeting one another from open windows. They stay until Ella's exhaustion overwhelms her, and she lets her eyes drift shut, slumping against Tadius' shoulder into a deep slumber.

Night turns to day. The work of the crown never ceases. But Ella Ashmore is learning to live with it. And no matter where her ever after takes her, she knows that she has people she can trust. People she can love.