I was locked up with the princess. There was something about her delicate features, her small mouth slightly open in sleep, and her breath slowly rising and falling, that stirred a deeply protective instinct like I had never felt before.
Will
I haven’t been the same man since the King of Torina sent me to fight in his pointless, bloody war. I came home with a limp and bad memories of my friends dying in my arms, but now the king has offered Princess Evaline’s hand to anyone who can figure out why her slippers are worn out in the morning. I accepted out of revenge. But as soon as I saw her, I knew I wanted to capture her heart fair and square. First, I’ll have get past the King of the Revels…
These Wicked Revels is a standalone fairy tale retelling of the Twelve Dancing Princesses for those who like an unabashedly adorable happily ever after with a side of serious steaminess! (Even the trees are naughty in this one. You've been warned.)
Evaline
On my sister’s wedding day, my mother permitted her to wear white. Alexandra had never looked so beautiful, the snowy color like a beam of light in our midst.
My mother still wore gray, and so did I. I was fourteen years old, and it was my first year fully dressed as a grown woman. I still wasn’t used to the long skirt, the high collar, the stiff corset, the long lace shawl that covered my hair.
As a child, I only knew my own limited world. I thought every princess, in every kingdom, must wear gray dresses and shawls and pray every morning and every night. I thought every princess must be forbidden from reading novels and going to the theater and the balls. But one by one, my sisters came of age, and something happened to them.
I was the youngest of the twelve of us.
In fact, I was the half-sister of the other eleven. Their mother had died. My mother had replaced her. They didn’t care for her, but they did care for me. I was four years younger than Alexandra, and sixteen years younger than Beatrice, who was the oldest—she married when I was only three. I was their darling. Growing up, there was always someone to braid my straight black hair and explain a troublesome bit of schoolwork. Always someone to exchange a private grin with when the priest droned on, and someone to laugh with when we were supposed to be sleeping.
One by one, they went away to new kingdoms, new husbands.
When Alexandra got married, I would be alone.
I grew up in a swirl of bittersweet celebrations. I carried flowers at Beatrice’s wedding when I was little. I was in the procession for Tatiana’s. I watched my older sisters marry handsome princes, and a few ugly ones too. There were only so many princes to go around. I admired their beautiful white gowns and the piles of flowers, wishing I had such beauty in my life more often. I waved their carriages goodbye, knowing I might never see them again, as they went away, scattered to kingdoms all over the realm.
As Alexandra said her goodbyes, she leaned close to me and said, “Eva, I must tell you a secret. Some day, you will understand. Listen closely, all right?”
I nodded.
“Never give your mask away.”
I nodded like I understood. “You mean, never let my guard down?”
“Someday you will know exactly what I mean. Have a wonderful time, but don’t get too caught up in it. But this is a secret. So just remember that.”
“Does it have anything to do with your worn-out dancing shoes?”
“Shh.” She squeezed my shoulders. “You’re too young to talk about such things. Just promise me.”
“I promise,” I said solemnly, although my interest was already piqued. Masks? Was I going to find out the secret of the worn-out dancing shoes?
“My poor little dove.” Alexandra hugged me. “I’ll miss you so much.”
But she would be glad to leave.
All my sisters were.
My mother was very religious. She was from the tiny kingdom of Ondalusia, which was isolated by mountains and somewhat behind the times. The women of Ondalusia always wore a lace shawl over their head and a demure dress. They didn’t believe it was proper to wear bright colors, and in fact, to be on the safe side, maybe it was better just to give up colors altogether. It was hard to tell the royalty from the nuns, they said. When my father married her, she imposed her ways on his kingdom. Torina was also quite small, a fairly inconsequential kingdom—to my father’s chagrin—and had changed hands more than a few times. The people were adaptable to the whims of the new queen.
It was funny to think of my mother imposing anything. She was so very quiet. She always told me to be quiet too. But silence is imposing in its own way.
I think my mother was very content in her religious devotion. I admired her, in the sense that she never wavered from her personal path. She was very small and fair and delicate. My father was certainly in love with her. Everyone said she looked like a painting, casting her huge blue eyes to the ceiling when she prayed, sometimes weeping prettily. She also had a beautiful singing voice, and she used to sing me to sleep when I was a little girl.
Maybe that was where I came to my love of music. From a young age, music called to me. But it wasn’t just my ears that took delight in the church organ. The music went straight to my feet.
I dreamed of dancing, even though I knew it was an indulgent sin.
My mother didn’t go to the balls, and we were all strictly forbidden. If we dared to sneak down to the ballroom, just to catch a glimpse, she would lash us and make us pray for forgiveness. The only reason my father the king held balls, she said, was because the court—the decadent, corrupt court!—expected them, and Father had to keep them happy. She said that dances were something that the faeries had started, a long time ago, as a way to woo and ‘indoctrinate’ human girls.
But something curious happened to each of my sisters, when they reached their eighteenth birthday. Every morning, their slippers would be worn out as if they had danced the night away. Their door was locked; guards posted outside…nothing made a difference.
My mother would question them, and they denied everything. She could never find anyone who had seen them at the ball. And yet, without fail, the worn shoes kept appearing.
She started obsessing over it until my father offered rewards to any man who could figure out what happened to his daughters’ shoes. First it was a horse from the royal stables, and then it was gold and then more gold.
But no one ever figured it out.
My sisters never answered my questions, although I couldn’t help but notice that they seemed happier when their shoes were worn out. They glowed with an inner light, as if they had seen something marvelous.
Where were they going?
Sure enough, when I turned eighteen, the invitation came the very next day following my birthday. I had just put my head down on the pillow when I felt something stiff inside the pillowcase.