Everything was always so simple to him. It was what was most appealing about the boy, his innate faith that there was always a silver lining, something better just beyond the next horizon. But her aching heart felt hopeless.
She’d not gone back to wearing sackcloth since her return, something her mother was eternally grateful for. But she’d also not left the house. She couldn’t stand to be glared at, to be hated for being nothing other than what she was, what she was born to be. It wasn’t her fault and she wouldn’t be made to feel guilty about it anymore.
If there was one thing her time with Rumpel had taught her, it was that she deserved better.
“Come on, Shayera.” Briley tugged on her hand. “Just come downstairs and let’s talk about it. Uncle Gerard made crepes.”
She perked up. “Lemon ones?”
“Is there any other kind?”
Laughing, she rolled her eyes. “Well, I can’t resist lemon crepes, now can I? Give me a second to shower and dress and tell them I’ll be down.”
He shot off like a little blur down the stairs, yelling that he’d won and she was coming.
Of course they’d sent in the heavy artillery. Mother and Father knew she was helpless to Briley; he was her greatest weakness. Sighing, she hopped off the bed, peeked out the window, and wondered—just as she did every other time she did it—what Rumpel was doing now and whether any of it had been real.
Sometimes it all felt like a dream.
The sky was blue, the sun shining, and there wasn’t a cloud on the horizon. Maybe Briley was right; maybe she did need to talk. Sort through the thoughts in her head. If anyone could help her make sense of the weirdness that was love, her parents could.
Feeling more excited than she had in weeks, she hurriedly got ready and was tromping down the steps when she heard a voice she’d not heard in a while.
“Well, I’ll be. It’s the girl of the hour!” Danika’s dragonfly wings buzzed as she gave Shayera a coy smile. “Good to see I’m still loved.”
Mother and Father glanced up too, and Briley was serving himself a mound of bacon and already had three large, steaming lemon crepes on his plate. He waved cheerily.
“You knew they were down here, already, didn’t you?” She mock glowered at her cousin, who just shrugged and shoved fried pork fat into his mouth.
“Maybe.”
Danika hushed him. “Well, girl, we need to have a talk.”
Mother patted the seat beside her. Feeling strange, like she hadn’t seen them in days even though she’d been living under this roof for nearly a month now, she sat and kissed Mom’s soft cheek.
“What was that for?” Betty smiled, eternally youthful, with only a few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Shayera could see why her father had fallen so madly for her. But more than her outer beauty, her mother was beautiful inside as well.
“Because I love you, Mom, and I don’t think I tell you enough. And you too, Daddy.” She grabbed his hand.
He was drinking from his wife’s teacup—as was their way, they’d shared every meal from the same plate and cup for as long as Shayera could remember. Smiling, he squeezed back. “And I you, little one.” His words were soft, and a touch sad.
Danika nodded. “You’ve decided then, have you?”
The kisses, the smiles, the love… she had decided. Not until this very moment, but seeing them, knowing they all had each other, Shayera knew she’d have to go back to Rumpel.
She had to at least let him know how she felt.
“I’m overwhelmed, and he lied to me. But he confessed the truth in the end.”
Brushing at a crumb on the table, Betty sighed. “I’ll be honest here and say Rumpelstiltskin is never who I imagined for my beautiful, one and only daughter.”
“Mom, but he’s—”
“No.” She held up her hand. “Let me finish.”
Peering deeply into her mother’s warm brown eyes, Shayera nodded for her to continue.
“I was not impressed with him. In fact, I hated him. For what he did to your father, to you, to all of us. Those three months without you were hard. But they would have been so much harder if he hadn’t shown us that you were okay.”
“What?” She looked at her dad. “How?”
Getting up, Betty walked over the bread rack and lifted the lid of a large, square black box that she’d only just noticed. After extracting a thick pile of envelopes that’d been carefully tied together by a red string, she turned around and handed them to her daughter.
“With these. Every morning, a letter would appear on our doorstep. He wrote a note every day, detailing what you’d done the night before. The foods you ate, the clothes you wore, and how many smiles you shared.”
“Wh…what?” Frowning, she yanked on the stack and with fumbling fingers opened the first one.
A scrawling, arching type of handwriting that was both bold and masculine stared back at her.
Today she smiled ten times at me. I told a joke that made her laugh. The blue dress offsets the startling clarity of her eyes. I fear, Betty Caron, that I may be falling madly in love with your daughter, and I vow to you that she will remain safe.