The Sleeper and the Spindle

The young woman said, “Seize her,” in a tone of casual command.

The little men took her stick. “She’s stronger than she looks,” said one of them, his head still ringing from the blow she had got in with the stick, before he had taken it. They walked her back into the round tower room.

“The fire?” said the old woman, who had not talked to anyone who could answer her for six decades. “Was anyone killed in the fire? Did you see the king or the queen?”

The young woman shrugged. “I don’t think so. The sleepers we passed were all inside, and the walls are thick. Who are you?”

Names. Names. The old woman squinted, then she shook her head. She was herself, and the name she had been born with had been eaten by time and lack of use.

“Where is the princess?”

The old woman just stared at her.

“And why are you awake?”

She said nothing. They spoke urgently to one another then, the little men and the queen. “Is she a witch? There’s a magic about her, but I do not think it’s of her making.”

“Guard her,” said the queen. “If she is a witch, that stick might be important. Keep it from her.”

“It’s my stick,” said the old woman. “I think it was my father’s. But he had no more use for it.”

The queen ignored her. She walked to the bed, pulled down the silk netting. The sleeper’s face stared blindly up at them.

“So this is where it began,” said one of the little men.

“On her birthday,” said another.

“Well,” said the third. “Somebody’s got to do the honours.”

“I shall,” said the queen, gently. She lowered her face to the sleeping woman’s. She touched the pink lips to her own carmine lips and she kissed the sleeping girl long and hard.