She hurries away and comes back a moment later, holding a simple green gown which I know at once will look good with my eyes. Still, I’m hesitant to accept gifts.
“You’re so generous but I don’t know—I don’t want to take any of your gowns,” I hedge, trying to refuse politely.
“Nonsense! It’s a gift—I’m giving it to you freely. I have plenty more like it,” she assures me.
Her words about how it’s a gift she’s giving freely, reassure me somewhat.
“Well…thank you.” I take the gown from her and duck back into the bathroom. I slip out of my clammy, damp shift and hang it over the towel rack. I leave my panties on so I’m not completely bare beneath the new gown and then pull it over my head.
It fits me like a glove and just as I thought, a glance in the chocolate-framed mirror lets me know that the gown looks quite fetching on me. It hugs my curves in all the right places and even has support built in for my heavy breasts. Unfortunately, you can still see where the thorn vines wounded me, but the scratches look less shocking now that all the blood is washed away. They just need time to heal—I hope it won’t take too long because they are painful—especially my wounded left nipple.
When I come out of the bathroom, Dee-dee claps her hands in obvious delight.
“Oh, look at you, Irena! You’re lovely in that gown—just like a princess!”
I start to tell her I really am a princess…and stop. That didn’t do me any good back at The Slaughtered Lamb and I have no way to prove it. Better to just be plain “Irena” here and accept her hospitality graciously.
“You’re very kind,” I tell her, really meaning it. “How can I ever repay you?”
“The gown is a gift—no repayment necessary,” she assures me. “Now come have a little something to eat—you look like you’re starving.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly—” I begin, but she has me by the hand and she’s already leading me back to the dining room. There, on the chocolate table, a feast is laid.
I see the gorgeous plump ham and the block of cheese but also a huge, crusty loaf of fresh baked bread. Beside it sits a pot of golden honey and a small plate that has a square of fresh butter on it. There’s also a jar of fresh wild berry preserves and a pie that smells of cinnamon and apples.
All of it looks so good I can’t stop my mouth from watering, but I know I shouldn’t eat any of it. It simply isn’t safe. If I was a character in a fairytale I was reading, I’d be warning myself to get out now! Because nothing that looks this tempting can possibly be without a price.
I open my mouth to decline again, but Dee-dee is already pushing me into a chair.
“Have a seat, Irena dear,” she says, getting me seated in a chocolate dining chair with scrolled arms and a white marshmallow seat cushion.
“Really, I shouldn’t,” I protest weakly. But I am already being served food.
The platter with the ham has grown tiny feet and legs and it rises up and marches towards me. A knife rises magically into the air to carve it and then delivers a pink, delectable slice onto my plate. Then the other plates and dishes are marching towards me too, the magical silverware dishing out portions onto the plate before me which soon becomes quite full.
Again, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m in the middle of some vivid dream. Where else but a dream or a fairytale would I be served by magical plates and cutlery?
But though I’m tempted to succumb and start eating, the memory of the bramble berries and Old Man Oak are fresh in my mind. In this forest, you don’t take without paying.
“Let me give you something in return,” I say to Dee-dee, who is standing beside me, watching expectantly. “Maybe you’d like one of my hairpins,” I offer, pointing at the hairpins my mother gave me, which are holding my still-damp hair out of my eyes.
“No, no, no!” she exclaims, and do I detect a note of impatience in her sweet, musical voice? “No, you must eat!” she insists.
“But I’m really not hungry,” I protest weakly. It’s an obvious lie and it seems to upset Dee-dee.
“I said, eat!” Her voice is stern and angry and her big brown eyes are no longer quite so calm and kind.
Suddenly, the chair I’m sitting in starts to move. Its scrolled arms twitch and then lengthen. Before I can even gasp, they have wrapped themselves around me, holding me in place. At the same time, the magical knife and fork are cutting a piece off the glistening slice of tender, pink ham on my plate. The fork flies towards my mouth, as though it will force the succulent morsel between my lips.
“No!” I gasp and turn my face, which causes the fork to stab at my cheek. “No, please—I can’t!”
“You must!” Dee-dee’s voice is harsh now and when I glance at her, my eyes widen in shock.
No longer is she a lovely young girl with blonde hair and chocolate brown eyes. As I watch, she is transforming—becoming what I imagine must be her true self.
Her thick blonde hair turns gray and straggly and greasy. Her eyes grow small and beady and her formerly straight nose develops a hump while a large, hairy wart grows on her chin. Her lovely clear complexion is turning an alarming shade of green, and her clean white gown has become a tattered black dress and cloak.
My own new clothes have changed as well—they’re nothing but filthy rags with huge gaping holes in them. The food on the table is no longer a delicious feast. The ham shrivels and goes rotten, and the apple pie withers to dust. The bread is moldy and the butter is rancid. The wild berry preserves are a horrid mass of writhing maggots.
