Rosamonde: The Real Story of Sleeping Beauty (10 page)

I married a doctor of medicine. A nervous, stuttering, lanky fellow named Henri whom I’d known all my life. He wasn’t too pleased about the whole thing. I mean, he was pleased about me, but he wasn’t pleased about becoming royalty.

“I don’t want to be king,” he said. “It’s a wretched job.”

“Don’t be petulant,” I said patiently. “You don’t have a choice now. Do you think I’ve ever had a choice?”

“I don’t care. I could’ve been a cheese maker, like my parents wished, and married that little dairymaid from the village next door. Little what’s-her-name. Hagatha or Hilda. Or maybe it was Helga? I can’t remember which. She had long blonde braids and red cheeks and a gap between her front teeth. She could whistle marvelously.”

“Oh, she did, did she?”

“Yes. It was remarkable how loud her whistle was.”

Perhaps he would’ve said more, but he was momentarily distracted by me throwing a vase at him. It was not a valuable vase. My parents had bought us several dozen of them as a wedding present, knowing that they would be put to good use.

Author’s Note

Thank you for reading this story. I’ve always suspected there was more to the old Sleeping Beauty tale than a spinning wheel, a grumpy fairy and a predictable prince. Truth is always stranger than fiction. At least, most days in my world.

I’d like to thank my editor, Jen Ballinger, for her hard work and attentive eye. She always does a great job. Thanks to Streetlight Graphics for the cover design. Also, thanks to my beta readers: Tracie Brown, Jessie Shimaoka and Angelika Offenwanger.

Feel free to get in touch with me at my website at
www.christopherbunn.com
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Sincerely,

Christopher Bunn