The Heartwood Box: A Fairy Tale Read online

  The Heartwood Box

  A Fairy Tale

  By Lilia Ford

  The Heartwood Box © 2012 Liliaford Romance LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  For my long-suffering husband and sons.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Of all the great magic users in our world, only one sought love above all else, Titania, Queen of the Northern Fae. Most Faeries are vain, selfish creatures, but Titania was different. The continental Fae drove themselves close to extinction with their divisions between Seely and Unseely, their obsession with pure blood, and their wasteful wars with the wizards. Titania had no time for such pettiness. Her realm lay in the British Isles, a few short leagues from the only demon gate in Europe. She understood that demons and their half-human spawn, the Reavers, were the true threat to wizard, human, and Fae alike.

  Titania was no fool to ignore weapons and warriors, but she knew in her deepest heart that over time, love is the only weapon that can prevail against cruelty.

  Her greatest warrior was the Black Prince, Declan. Declan was loyal to his queen, but he had little respect for what he saw as her romantic nonsense. He lived only for battle, fighting to the point of madness until Titania feared he would destroy himself. She knew that Declan’s disdain for love grew from frustration and loneliness. Though a man of great honor, he was ruled by dark and fierce passions, lust and a will to dominate. Faerie women are proud and exacting creatures, demanding worship from their males. They could find no pleasure in submitting to Declan’s fierce will.

  Finally Titania could stand it no more: she called Declan to her and told him she was releasing him from her service. She commanded him to go out into the human world and not return until he had found the woman who could be happy with him. She knew humans to be strange, varied creatures, no two looking the same, each village showing different customs and personalities, unlike the Fae who are far more similar to each other.

  To make sure that Declan was able to find a wife who could love him, she gifted him with a box made from the wood of the heartwood tree that grew in a sacred grove in her own garden. It was a box of miraculous properties because it would change color to reflect the deepest heart of the person it belonged to. She told him he must give the box to the woman he sought to marry, and if the box turned black that woman had a heart that could meet his in love and trust. And if the woman trusted him to unlock the box, inside they would discover the deepest desires that lay hidden in her heart.

  So Declan left and was gone for many years. Titania missed her champion, but she trusted that he had found happiness with a human woman. Then came the day he returned: to her astonishment, he was utterly distraught and threw himself at her feet. He had found a woman who could love him, and they had lived together in great happiness and had three sons. The sons had all grown up to be warriors, devoted to honor like their father, but sharing his dark passions.

  But when the two eldest had married, disaster had struck: the oldest son had tried his best to conform his heart to his wife’s nature, but doing so had broken something in him. Like Declan he had thrown himself into battles to drive away his despair, and finally had been killed. His second son’s story was even more tragic: he had revealed his nature to his new bride on their wedding night, and the poor girl had panicked and taken her own life, leaving his son broken and in despair. Now he had only one son left, and he prayed Titania to find some way to help him.

  The queen thought and thought, but she didn’t know what she could do. Even if she helped Declan’s son, his children would only suffer the same fate when it came time to marry. On a whim, she decided to ask the priestess of the town that lay on the other side of the gate between Faerie and the human world.

  The priestess was a wise and clever woman, and realized this might be the chance to help all of the people of the valley, not just Declan’s son. She counseled Titania to gift each unmarried girl with a box made from the heartwood tree. When it came time to marry, the girl’s box would change color to point to the man who would best suit her. Any girl whose box turned black would marry one of Declan’s descendants. But, she warned, such girls were not common, and though she prayed there would be one for each generation, there might not be more. The sons of his family must promise not to try to win over any girl not meant for them, even if it meant that some of them must stay unmarried. In return she promised the townspeople would revere Titania and serve her as best they could according to their different gifts.

  Titania was so impressed with the priestess’ words, she blessed her with immortality and set her to guide the town in their new rule. The town prospered greatly. Love and trust became the rule between married people, so that even in times of tragedy, the people could take solace in the knowledge that they had made another person’s happiness. And after a few generations, everyone forgot that the boxes had been originally given to help Declan’s descendants. They were now seen as a blessing to everyone, and the true source of the town’s unusual happiness and prosperity.

  Declan’s descendants remained in the hills above the town, guarding the demon gate and always showing unusual devotion to Titania. From time immemorial they had produced only male children, all sharing Declan’s nature. As the priestess had warned, they could not all find brides, but in each generation there was one girl whose heart was drawn to their darkness….

  The Bridal Week had finally arrived. All over town, girls who were to take part were putting on new dresses, arranging and rearranging their hair, watching the clock until it was time for the first event, the picnic. Only Genevieve Miran was in despair. It was not her dress. Her mother hailed from a family known for its gifts with the needle—their color was yellow—and she had created a dress so beautiful, it made Genevieve’s heart ache. They had no choice but to make it in white, but her mother had chosen the most delicate fabric she could find and then crafted dozens of petals that made Genevieve think of flickering butterflies. She knew her mother had carefully picked a creamy shade that would flatter Genevieve’s complexion, but there was no hiding that she was pale and drawn. She looked like what she was, a recluse who for the last few years had refused to mix with their neighbors and rarely ventured outside.

  It hadn’t always been like that. Genevieve had been an energetic, carefree child, who made friends easily and enjoyed school and play and being with people. Her father was a carpenter by trade, his color red, but he was also a passionate musician. On evenings and weekends he could be found at the tavern playing his wooden flute before a spellbound audience. When Genevieve was barely old enough to walk, she be
came fascinated by their little clavichord.

  Soon it was clear she had an unusual gift. Not only could she play any piece she’d heard just once, but she could effortlessly adapt and rearrange it, discovering lovely and unexpected dimensions. As soon as she was old enough to properly study music, she began writing her own compositions. Her parents happily scrimped and saved to purchase a beautiful pianoforte, which had pride of place in their small parlor.

  Soon Genevieve was accompanying her father to play at weddings and festivals, where she would delight neighbors with her improvisations on familiar tunes. But when she was fourteen, her life took an unexpected turn. Genevieve was playing before the whole town at a feast for the Bridal Week when suddenly her music just… changed.

  The sweet, pretty tune she’d been playing was suddenly filled with harsh dissonances and jarring shifts. Instead of evoking the pure joys of childhood, it brought to mind ugly passions and disappointments, bitterness and clawing fears, sentiments that were mostly foreign to the cheerful villagers.

  Genevieve was horrified at her creation, but she couldn’t stop. Her music was spontaneous and had always grown out of her feelings. Looking out at the audience, she saw astonishment and fear. The people who had known her all her life looked at her like an alien. Genevieve couldn’t bear it.

  As soon as she got home, she went to her room and in a frenzy burned every last notebook that held her compositions. She announced to her parents that she would never play again.

  Unfortunately, for Genevieve that was only the beginning. Though she’d quit music, she found she could not escape that song. Soon, she couldn’t even remember the happy girl she’d been. She was tormented by horrible mood swings, fits of temper followed by crippling sadness. Genevieve hated this side of herself. When the moods gripped her, she secretly feared a demon lived inside of her who would take possession and perhaps one day drive her to harm the ones she loved. She detested the uneasiness she saw or imagined on the faces of her neighbors, and she began to refuse to go out.

  Even her parents were a source of pain. At times she flew into rages that they understood nothing of what tormented her. At other times she was buckled under with guilt at the pain she was causing them. Worst of all, she was consumed by wicked doubts that they couldn’t possibly love her given all the anguish she was causing them.

  The worst moment came the following summer, on the anniversary of that first disaster. Her parents had left her at home while they attended a wedding feast. Jealous and bitter at being left, she attacked the beautiful pianoforte in the parlor. When her parents arrived home later that night, they found her sobbing, huddled amidst the splinters of the instrument, her badly torn hands covered in blood.

  The Mirans were utterly baffled. They adored their daughter, but Genevieve was right that they had no understanding of the dark moods that consumed her. They took her to the healer, but the woman could find no illness, no cause for Genevieve’s change.

  After, they went to the priestess, fearing that some demon really had taken possession of her. The priestess calmed their fears. She told them there was no cure, but promised that their daughter’s sadness would not color her whole life.

  The Mirans were simple people, so they received comfort from the priestess’ words. They never stopped loving their daughter, found patience to cope with her moods, and never lost their hope that someday she would find happiness. Later when Genevieve reached the age to marry, they again consulted the priestess, who told them firmly that Genevieve must join the Bridal Week. So they went about all the preparations, divided between hope and fear at their daughter’s destiny.

  Genevieve had also gone to the priestess and begged her to say she was too ill. It was the only reason any girl ever delayed. The entire idea of marriage terrified her. What would her husband think? How could she bring such misery down on some unsuspecting man? She secretly feared that alone of the girls in the town, her heartwood box would never change color, would always remain locked.

  The priestess refused to excuse her. She told Genevieve that she was beloved by Titania and must never turn away from her gifts, no matter what the price. Genevieve became impassioned and warned of dire consequences if she were forced to go through with it. The priestess strongly rebuked the girl, saying her words were akin to blasphemy, and warned her that it would destroy her parents and curse her family if she ever harmed herself. And so Genevieve had no choice but to acquiesce in the preparations.

  Her mother came in, showing none of the uneasiness she must have felt. “You look so lovely, Jenny, truly.”

  “It’s the dress,” Genevieve said sourly. Her mother clutched her hands in despair at her daughter’s habit of decrying everything about herself. Genevieve hadn’t wanted to upset her and tried to give a cheerful smile. “Thank you, Mama,” she murmured.

  Genevieve didn’t hate her looks. Though she’d probably never be considered the rival of the Fae Queen, she had a wholesome village prettiness. Her hair was long and thick, and a striking mix of honey and gold, and she had clear, frank blue eyes. But several years of poor eating and sleeping had taken their toll: the pallor and thinness that might look attractive on a more elegant woman didn’t suit her. When she was younger, she was always tanned and lightly freckled and strong enough to run and climb trees. Now she looked like an invalid.

  “It’s time to go, Jenny,” her mother said gently.

  Genevieve’s face fell. “Mama, I can’t face them.”

  Though she’d had friends when she was younger, after her music changed the boys and girls her age became wary of her—not unkind but uncomfortable, unsure what to say around her.

  Her mother said, “There now, it’s just a picnic. I was nervous when my year came, but you’ll see. It’s like everyone’s had a glass of champagne—the week brings out their best nature. Please give them a chance, Jenny.”

  Genevieve turned from her mother and reached for her shawl, frowning when she saw it. Like all girls joining the Bridal Week, she had woven it herself of her family’s colors. Most of it was red, but it was not the cheerful red her father favored, but a deep, uneasy shade mixed with brown and black. At random points were clashing strands of yellow, her mother’s color. When she’d first woven it, she’d been intrigued by the unexpected patterns and strange energy of her creation, but now it just seemed as disturbing as her music. She wished she had created something beautiful like the dress Mama had crafted. Why must everything she did be so ugly and harsh?

  Her mother kissed her gently. “Give them a chance, Jenny—you are as much a part of this town, as much Titania’s daughter as the others, and you will be blessed as they are.” Genevieve fought back her tears and nodded. Mama was right. It was time.

  Chapter Two

  Genevieve and her mother made the short walk to the village green where a throng of girls had gathered, each wearing a shawl with their colors. They were engaged in admiring each other’s designs, shooting looks every now and then at the young men, who stood in their own group twenty feet away. Unlike the girls, the boys wore only one color, that of their craft or profession, though they had choice of the shade. Some chose showy displays with bright scarves or hats, while others were more discreet with just a band on their cuffs or cap.

  Genevieve had no choice but to join the girls, shyly trying to stay on the outside. To her surprise, Sally, an old friend from school, burst out, “Jenny!”

  Several other girls greeted her. She saw nothing but warm smiles when they admired her dress and shawl. Her mother was right—the excitement and hope of the Bridal Week brought out everyone’s most generous side.

  The topic soon turned to the boys who had joined this year. Though girls almost always joined at eighteen, families often preferred their sons wait. Sometimes they needed more training at their chosen craft or to save money to set up their own household.

  It seemed this year the main gossip concerned the presence of Damian Black. It was the first Genevieve had heard his name. Everyone knew
the Blacks were warriors who lived in the great fortress on the hill that overlooked their valley, but she couldn’t remember ever having seen them in the village. Most likely they lived too far to attend the village school, so the children were taught at home. She had an uneasy sense that there had been times when she’d come upon her parents talking about one of the families in the town, and they had suddenly gone silent. She felt certain now that it had been the Blacks.

  “His brothers attended the Bridal Week, Derek three years ago, and Donal two years ago,” one girl was saying, “but they both failed to find brides.”

  Genevieve hadn’t heard that—she’d thought everyone found a partner during the Bridal Week. She wondered if such a thing could happen to her.

  “My sister married three years ago,” another girl said. “She told me that Derek Black scared the daylights out of all the girls. He rarely spoke and glared at everyone. They all said he must have a fearsome temper.”

  “What of their sisters?” Genevieve asked.

  Sally looked at her as if she were crazy. “Jenny you goose—everyone knows the Blacks have only sons.” Genevieve didn’t hide her amazement at this. “It is said because they are warriors, Titania’s most loyal guards, but I don’t know.” Sally shivered. “There must be some reason they haven’t found brides—theirs is the only family this ever happens to.”

  Several of the girls whispered their intention of avoiding Damian Black as much as they could. If they didn’t get to know him, they conjectured, there was no chance that their box would turn to his color.

  “Ooh,” Sally hissed, “there he is, Damian Black himself.”

  Everyone turned at once. He smirked when he noticed their stares, and the girls squealed and quickly turned away.

  Sally whispered in her ear, “Just look at those eyes of his. That is a man who knows how to get his own way, or I am much mistaken. He may be handsome, but you can bet he never forgets for a minute that he’s descended from the Black Prince.”