Drawtober 2024: Shapeshifter

What happened was that Ella had to go grocery shopping.

While it is true that Ella’s stepfamily subsisted off the blood of mortals, there is nothing to say that such blood should not have a little seasoning to it (except garlic, of course). Being that they did not have much money, Ella used what little they did have to frequent a local grocer who was willing to barter with her.

On the night after the King’s wife died, Ella headed into town. She was grateful to be out of the house. Her stepmother had been in fine form that morning—err, evening—griping that Ella had lit the fire too high and clearly she was plotting to murder them all with those damned flames, the ungrateful girl, didn’t she know any better, they weren’t made of money, and after all firewood was expensive! Ella had only been saved by Lucinda reminding her mother that, as autumn was drawing on, the Countess had ordered Ella the night before to stoke the fires higher to keep the house warmer while the vampires slept (being cold-blooded, they relied upon external heat). In any case, Ella had meekly apologized (though for what, she wasn’t sure) and then escaped to do the grocery shopping.

The grocer’s sat near the main square of the King’s Town, the bustling township that surrounded the palace of the current monarch. Due to the sheer number of monsters living about—many of them undead—the town’s shopkeepers kept a nearly twenty-four hour schedule. Ella slipped through the press of vampires and fiends, ignoring the hisses of disgust that followed her (ghouls do not smell particularly good). It seemed more crowded than usual on that fine evening, the moon a waxing sliver above and the stars shining like glittering eyes in the night sky. Eventually, Ella reached the grocery store. To her dismay, however, an elaborate “Closed” sign hung on the heavy wooden door.

She clenched her hands into fists. It wouldn’t be a problem for her mother and stepsister, she supposed. Someone could always be lured in from the street. But for her, not having a regular supply of red meat was dangerous indeed. And this particular grocer was the only one in town who stocked a supply she liked at a price her stepmother would abide. The idea of going hungry for another night was not appealing.

It was with good fortune, then, that at that moment Peter appeared at her elbow.

Peter was one of Ella’s few friends. He was a slight lad with brown hair and a twitching, upturned nose who worked as a kitchen boy at the palace. He was often sent on grocery errands because he was small and quick and had a good sense of smell. This was mostly because he was a were-mouse.

“Hey!” he said breathlessly, running up to her and tugging at her sleeve. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. Everything all right?”

“Just the usual,” Ella said. This was a standard phrase of hers, and it covered all manner of sins. “The usual” could be normal chores, or it could be abuse from her stepmother. But as “the usual” was what people expected to hear, no one every pried further. “Where’s the grocer gone? And what are all these people doing milling about?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Haven’t you heard? The King’s wife is dead!”

#

It had happened very suddenly. The King had only just remarried perhaps a month ago. His bride was a sweet werewolf woman of noble birth. She took ill a week or so ago, and had died the night before, so suddenly that she was gone before anyone could revive her. The palace had been in an uproar ever since, and Peter was sent into town to see if he could get some additional supplies from the grocer, for of course there would have to be a feast of mourning that night and for several nights after, but since the grocer was not open, he supposed they would have to make do with what they had for tonight at least.

The larders at Ella’s house were not so well stocked. Her stepmother would be exceedingly put out if she returned home with nothing at all.

Steeling herself, she cleared her throat. “Could I borrow…or, rather, could I have some things from the palace larders? Just this once.” She was twisting her hands together so nervously that hone of them snapped clean off the wrist. It took some doing to reattach it.

Peter’s nose twitched while Ella put herself back together. “I’ll do what I can,” he said doubtfully. “But it would be easier if you came with me, so I don’t have to sneak the food out myself.”

Ella readily agreed, and the pair made the long trek up the road to the palace on the hill.

#

When I tell you the King lived in a palace on a hill, I know precisely what your imagination conjures up. Shining white walls, golden spires, perhaps a touch of blue tile just for some color. In such a place, the sun ever shines and the breeze smells of roses and honeysuckle.

Then again, you are an astute reader. So you’ve probably figured out by now that this is not at all what the King’s castle looked like. Indeed, it might be said that the King’s palace in this tale was the exact opposite of the one your imagination supplied. It did sit on a hill, but it was not made of shining white stone, and there was not a sprinkle of gold to be found. Instead, the walls of the King’s castle were a dark, forbidding granite. The towers that rose up from it, like jagged teeth, were capped with black tiles and had plenty of arrow slits. The road up to the castle climbed most arduously, giving anyone approaching plenty of time to contemplate how sharp an arrow is, and how quickly it might fly out of the gloom at them.

No arrows descended upon the heads of Ella and Peter that night, however, and they reached the back door into the kitchens without incident. Inside, servants and cooks bustled to-and-fro, moving between boiling cauldrons of stews and hot ciders, slicing sweet autumn breads, preparing enormous racks of roasted meats, and generally making such a racket that hardly anyone noticed when Peter and Ella slipped by.

Peter led Ella out into the hall, and there told her to wait while he went into the larder to see what he could find. She would have to let him in through a chink in the wall, a small hole that only rats and mice knew about.

“And keep hold of my clothes,” he said. Then, before her eyes, he disappeared. His clothes fell into a bundle on the floor, and a small, gray mouse wriggled free of them. His long whiskers twitched on his pink nose as he stared up at Ella with liquid black eyes.

Ella bent down, a smile on her undead face. “I never get used to that,” she whispered to him, scooping up his clothes and holding out her other hand for him to scramble onto.

Just as she was standing, a pair of skeleton guards rounded the corner. Ella froze, momentarily hoping that they might not see her (as they had no eyes). But see her they did. And regrettably for our heroine (but luckily for our story), they started towards her.

Panicking, Ella turned and ran. Cupping her hand around a squeaking Peter and bundling his clothes tight against her chest, she raced away from the guards. Her heart did not pound, for it had ceased to beat some time ago, but she was very frightened nonetheless. The King was not known for his kindness, and she did not wish to end up on the wrong side of a spear for trespassing. It most likely wouldn’t kill her, but it would hurt a great deal.

If you have every been forced to run through a large place that you do not know very well, especially with a rodent in one hand, then you know how easy it is to become lost. Ella ran past forbidding locked doors, dodging down hallways when she heard anyone else coming. Peter squeaked like mad, nipping at her fingers, but Ella did not stop until she found an unlocked door and threw herself through it, slamming it behind her. Belatedly, she realized she needn’t have run. Peter could have changed back and defused the situation. In Ella’s experience, however, explanations usually went unheeded.

In any case, Ella found herself in a very large, very resplendent study. Dark bookshelves climbed up two stories against the far wall, with a sliding ladder of black wood leaning against them. A fire crackled in an ornate fireplace with a wing-back chair set before it, and desk large enough to seat two or three at it easily sat near the door, a mess of papers and books atop it.

“What is this place?” Ella murmured, stepping further inside. Her own home was so spare in decor that she was overawed, and a part of her longed to touch all the finery—to run her hands over the velvet of the chair and the wood of the desk. For ghouls in particular, sensations are duller than they are for the living, and so something has to be very fine indeed to elicit a strong reaction.

At that moment, the doorknob into the room began to turn. Ella looked around for a place to hide, then felt Peter nipping her fingers again. The little mouse was pointing frantically to the desk, which had ample space to curl up in the shadows beneath.

Ella dove beneath the desk just in time, as the door opened and two men walked in. One was clearly a steward of some kind—he word a starched white shirt beneath a stiff black tailcoat. A thin, pencil mustache decorated his upper lip. The other man was taller and dressed much finer, though also in black. He had dark brown hair, just flecked with gray at the temples, and a thick beard. Ella recognized him at once from his profile—she’d seen it stamped on many coins of the realm.

This was the King.

“How quickly can the scribes work, then?” the King was asking, his voice impatient.

“A week?” the steward replied. “Perhaps two? I do not wish to advise Your Majesty on matters of state—”

“Then don’t.”

“—but, as this is a matter of the household, I must say that to send out such a volume of invitations, at such a time as this, with the queen only just in her grave—”

The King, who’d been moving restlessly through the space, suddenly struck the desk. The crack was loud enough to make Ella jump and Peter squeak softly with alarm.

“I am not interested in your recommendations as to my private matters, Reginald,” the King bit off. “You will see that the scribes have one thousand of these made by the end of the week.” Ella could no longer see the King, but she heard the rustle of paper as he picked up something from his desk and held it up.

The other man—Reginald—stammered out an apology and acceptance. The King, meanwhile, strode around the desk. Ella pressed her hands to her mouth, trying not to make a sound as he opened a drawer, set something inside, and then shut the drawer with a click.

“I’m glad you see things my way.” When the King spoke again, his voice had lost its ragged edge. It had smoothed over with cordiality. “Now that we have that matter sorted, why don’t you show me what the kitchens recommend for the feasting tonight?”

“O-of course,” Reginald replied. They left the room, door closing behind them, and Ella slumped to the floor in stunned relief. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t caught her. She would have to tell Lucinda—

No, Lucinda would be out tonight. Her stepmother had begun carting her daughter around to nearby eligible families in hopes of securing a prosperous marriage.

Picking herself up off the floor, Ella looked around for Peter. The little mouse had scampered away from her as soon as the door was shut, and now she found him standing atop the desk. He’d picked up a cheese knife from somewhere and was trying to wedge it into one of the drawers, presumably to pry it open.

“Peter,” Ella hissed. “What are you doing?”

Peter merely squeaked at her. She knew what he was doing, of course. Being a weremouse was not particularly dignified—you weren’t fearsome, like werewolves, or useful, like werehorses. But weremice were cunning. And Ella had unwittingly brought Peter into the King’s study, and Peter wanted to know what the King had been speaking about with his steward. Doubtless he wouldn’t leave until he’d gotten the drawer open, and then Ella truly wouldn’t have anything to bring home for supper.

Sighing, Ella gently plucked the cheese knife from his little paws and fit it into the lock of the drawer. With a deft twist, she felt the mechanism give. The drawer slid open, and Peter hopped down inside with chattering delight.

Ella’s eyebrows rose into her slightly mouldering hairline. The parchment inside was an ornate invitation, the calligraphy bold and swirling and sprinkled with gold leaf. You, reader, know what it said of course. It was an invitation to a ball, two weeks hence, for all the eligible young ladies in the Kingdom. And at the end of said ball, the King was to pick his new bride.

Frowning, Ella picked up the invitation and smoothed it onto the table top. Peter scuttled on top of this, squeaking at her furiously.

“I know, Pete,” she said. “It’s too soon.” It was far too soon. The queen had just died last night. Such merry-making when she was not yet cold in her grave would be the height of impropriety.

Peter, who’d dived once more into the drawer, squeaked one more time. Ella looked down to what he’d found. Her blood ran cold. Well, colder.

For sitting at the bottom of the drawer, bound in a dark leather whose provenance she dared not guess, was a book of spells.