Sleeping Beauty, the One Who Took the Really Long Nap Read Free

it down would have been to dismantle the entire wall. Mother grudgingly allowed it to stay, but it had to be covered each time she entered the library.
    The townspeople loved Mother for her unglamorous ways, believing that she dressed in such a plain style to prove that she was not above them. She was the most popular queen since Queen Melinda, a hundred years back. Melinda’s portrait hung in the Great Hall along with all the royal portraits dating back nearly a thousand years — none of them as colorful (and therefore offensive to Mother) as the painting in the library. As an infant, I was brought before them and told by my father that becoming a king is a position one earns, not inherits. When one family tree dies out, then the castle goes to the most deserving young man of the noble families. Queen Melinda and her husband, King Bertram, apparently died without a son to inherit their kingdom, although when I was tucked in at night I was often told stories of an old legend about Melinda’s missing daughter. I never paid much attention. After all, what cared I of princesses who lived a hundred years ago? I would inherit our kingdom when Father passed away, just as he had from his own father. My future was set. All I had to do was remember to stay clear of Mother on the second and fourth Thursdays of the month. How hard could that be?

One day when I was two, Mama and I were skipping through the gardens, enjoying the warm breezes of spring. I had learned to walk early, due to a combination of the fairies’ gifts of gracefulness and intelligence. It seemed obvious to me that I should get around much easier on two legs, rather than crawling on my hands and knees. Thus, by eight months I was as sturdy as a child twice my age. By a year, I could skip and twirl and run.
    So there we were, just skipping along in our matching purple dresses, smelling the roses, when I reached out and grabbed one. “Look, Mama, a rose, the same as me!” (Oh, yes, I could speak clearly as well. I could also tap-dance, sing opera, and play a waltz on the piano, flute, and viola.)
    â€œRose!” Mama yelled in a panic. She held out a trembling hand. “Give me the flower, please.”
    Somehow I had angered Mama. Unused to hearing anything other than praise for my actions, I quickly handed overthe rose. As I did, I felt a slight sting on my thumb. I held my thumb up. I had never seen my own blood before. I had seen scraped knees on the children in town, and once Papa had been wounded when a hawk landed on his head during a hunt, but I had never seen blood this fresh and bright. The red droplet on my thumb both fascinated and scared me. “Look, Mama, I’m bleeding.”
    The color drained from her face. She grabbed me and hugged me so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. A moment later she pulled back and looked at me. “You’re still awake!” she exclaimed. “Oh, thank goodness!”
    I was very confused. “I don’t understand,” I said. I may have been smart, but mostly my intelligence fell into the “book smart” category. Except for the walking and talking, most of my knowledge was of the sort that allowed me to distinguish the varieties of birds that lived on our land, or how many eggs you were left with if you started with ten, ate three, and then the chicken laid two more. The ways of grown-ups were something I could not grasp.
    Mama bent down and took my hands in hers. “Oh, darling, don’t you know about the spindle? Don’t you remember the old fairy’s curse?”
    I nodded. Of course I remembered. The story had been retold to me nearly every day by my nursemaid, Becca.Becca was getting on in years and I never had the heart to tell her I’d already heard the story. “But what has that to do with the rose?”
    Mama kissed my thumb where the blood had now dried. Her warm breath felt nice.
    â€œI feared the first drop of blood would take you