When Rapunzel is eight years old, her mother surprises her with a new book. She's thrilled, because she doesn't have a lot of books, and the ones she does have are so well-worn with age and use that the words themselves have begun to fade.

Gothel presents the leather-bound book with a smile and a warning.

"My darling, this book reveals nothing but the truth about life outside this tower. It's a treacherous world out there, Rapunzel, and I give you this to read only so you may realize how lucky you are to live in such safety."

Rapunzel can only nod vaguely as she stares, open-mouthed, at her newest treasure. Holding it gingerly, she rifles through the pages and gasps in delight: it has illustrations! All her other books have only words. She rushes at Gothel and squeezes her into a one-armed hug (the other arm is busy clutching the book to her chest).

"It's wonderful! Thank you, Mother!"

Gothel smiles down at her golden head and strokes her hair, which drags twenty feet long across the primly swept floor. She frowns as she notices the smallest extra fold of skin between her fingers.

"I love you, too, my dear. Now come: sing for Mummy."

o0O0o

The book quickly becomes Rapunzel's most prized possession. She smuggles extra candles so she might read long into the night by their flickering glow (but when she hears her mother's footsteps, Rapunzel is quick to blow them out and duck beneath the covers, though she hasn't quite yet mastered the art of feigned sleep).

There is truly something magical about the stories she finds herself engrossed in, full as they are of daring heroes and wicked stepmothers and girls with dreams. It's true what her mother says about the danger it reveals; she can't help feeling terrified of the vicious person-eating wolves or children-stealing witches that haunt the brave protagonists. But she'll never admit to Gothel that she's scared, mostly because she doesn't want her book declared too unsuitable and taken away. She just feels grateful that, as her mother has pointed out, she's safe and sound in her tower, and such danger-filled adventures are (for her) but distant lifetimes away.

But she can't help dreaming nonetheless.

Again and again she reads, with fevered wide eyes, her favourite story: the tale of a sad girl with cruel sisters and a mother who makes her do all the chores and beats her with the broom when she doesn't listen. Rapunzel is an only child, and her own mother has never hurt her once in her life (and Rapunzel is sure that she never will). Yet the girl in the story endures her spiteful treatment for many years before she meets a handsome prince, with whom she falls in love. It isn't long before they get married and live happily ever after.

Rapunzel sighs with longing every time she reads this. She feels bad because she knows that she has such a nice life already, but she envies the girl in the story. How wonderful it would be to be a princess! she often thinks to herself.

Even more than the story itself, Rapunzel adores the accompanying illustration. In it, the princess-to-be is taking a break from her chores and gazing through the window toward the distant peaks of the palace. Her chin rests dreamily on her broom handle, and her hair is pinned back and shoulder-length, with gentle curls at its ends. There's a musing smile on her lips. Rapunzel thinks she looks beautiful.

o0O0o

Late one afternoon, Rapunzel retreats to her room. Her mother has just scolded her fiercely for letting a chameleon found curled behind the balcony flowerpots into the tower. Gothel doesn't like animals.

Rapunzel snatches her brush from the dresser, slumps to the floor against her bed, and begins to brush her hair. There's a lump in her throat. She hates arguing with her mother.

Bits of hair swish against her forearms like silk as she brushes out each lock in a slow, methodical way. She feels . . . she doesn't know how she feels. She feels as though somebody has been let down but isn't quite sure who.

Suddenly, she sits up straight and, as if checking to make sure it's closed, casts a long look toward her bedroom door. Scrambling to her feet (and nearly tripping over her hair while she's at it), she flips her brush to the bed and seizes her beloved book from the side table. Perched on the edge of her bed (the lilac quilt tucked meticulously into the frame), she sets the book in her lap and, as if by magic, it falls open to the very page she is looking for. She stares for a bit, lips tight, and makes up her mind.

Resolved, she creeps out the door, tiptoes along the narrow walkway that separates her own room from Gothel's, and enters her mother's room.

It's empty, as Rapunzel knew it would be (she can hear Gothel humming mindlessly as she chops vegetables for dinner now), but she is cautious anyway. From the dresser, she pulls Gothel's multi-tiered sewing box. The hundreds of spools of thread, all various shades of red and pink and purple and nothing else, are arranged in order from lightest to darkest on the top three levels, but it's at the very bottom what Rapunzel covets.

She digs through the box, glancing over her shoulder often (which makes her feel guilty, because she doesn't quite know why she's being so sneaky about all this). She finally gets her hands on her mother's best pair of scissors, stuffs them under her skirt, and scurries back to her room.

After retrieving her book, she heads to the far end of the chamber, where dying embers glow orange on the hearth. She settles on the floor, legs crossed beneath her, and again turns to the illustration of the lonely girl staring through her window at the castle. Rapunzel's fingers brush along the thick waves of the future-princess' ribbon-tied hair; though the picture is in black-and-white, she knows somehow that it would be blonde (just like hers). Taking a deep breath, she raises her mother's scissors, grabs a chunk of her own hair, and -

She can't do it. The scissors fall back to her lap, any sound they might have made muffled by the pastel folds of her dress.

When the door swings open, the first thing Gothel sees is her not-daughter sitting in a pool of golden hair and fingering the cold flat metal of her best fabric shears.

Rapunzel jumps in surprise, and the scissors clatter to the floor. "Mother!"

The first thing Rapunzel thinks as she stares into her mother's livid face is how well Gothel would fit into one of her book's fairy tales - as the villain.

Gothel advances one step at a time, hands rigid and trembling at her sides. "Rapun . . . Rapunzel!" she gasps out. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I was just . . ." Rapunzel falters. What can she say? The truth comes out, because her mother always told her to never lie (lie or cheat or steal, no), and her mother knows best. "I just thought I'd maybe cut my hair a little . . ."

The book is still lying open on the floor. Mother and daughter seem to see it at the same time, but Gothel is faster; she snatches it up before Rapunzel even starts reaching. Her strangled glare shifts from the cowering eight-year-old to the picture of a short-haired maiden who dreams of castles and princes and magic. The room is silent for a moment as Gothel takes this in.

When she pitches the book into the fireplace, Rapunzel screams, but it's already too late. The embers, delighted with such premium fuel, burst greedily into flames.

Rapunzel's squeals of anguish are reduced to terrified whimpers as Gothel moves over her. Her words, slow and dangerous, cut into Rapunzel one at a time.

"Rapunzel. Do not. Ever. Think. Of cutting your hair again. Do you understand?"

Rapunzel swallows bravely. "Yes, but why -"

Gothel slaps her so hard she stumbles back and falls to the ground. Her cheek burns worse than the words.

"Don't. Ask. Questions." As soon as it's said, Gothel's face clears again, as if nothing has happened. She smiles. "Now stay in your room. Dinner will be ready shortly."

Scissors in hand, Gothel disappears out the door before Rapunzel can blink.

She looks back at the fire, which is already dying again, its meagre bout of kindling quickly spent.

This is the first time Gothel hits Rapunzel. It's not the last.

If you couldn't tell, the book is supposed to be a collection of Brothers Grimm fairy tales - which is, obviously, ironic on oh-so-many levels. Review? =]

Tuesday, December 21, 2010