THE LEGEND OF RAPUNZEL: The Very Beginning

"Everyone knows the girl in the tower," Her voice came out low and raspy, almost like the sound of a page turning. "The one with the golden hair. The witch who climbed up after her. You all know that one."

"Rapunzel,".

"Yes, Rapunzel. A story told in movies or books just like Mulan, or Cinderella, or Snow White."

"But in this story, nobody ever asked who built the tower." she went on. "Or why. Nobody asks what the witch was before she turned into a witch. I knew her. Knew her better than anyone. Want to hear?"

Eleven faces tipped up to her, all bright with firelight and curiosity.

"She wasn't born wicked. She was born a princess. And she had a sister."

"Let me tell you about her last morning as just herself, before anything happened."

It all started with a love triangle between two siblings and two brothers.

Adrian, the eldest brother, always woke up before the bells.

He just did. By the time the first grey light reached the terraces of Arrandelle, the elder prince was already up, dressed because he hated bothering the servants, heading for the training yard where frost still filled the cracks in the stones. He was twenty one, dark haired, wide shouldered, with the worn out eyes of someone who'd figured out young that no one was coming to save him.

He practiced alone. Left guard, right guard, a long thrust. Cold air fogged his breath. His sword arm, the left one, throbbed in that familiar spot along his forearm, a dull ache he never talked about. Without thinking about it, he rolled down his sleeve.

"Early again, Your Highness."

General Marrick waited in the archway, hands clasped behind his back, his big mustache dusted white from the cold.

"Habit, General."

"That's a good habit. Your father notices." Marrick moved closer and lowered his voice. "He won't say it, but he does."

Adrian brought his blade down. "Does he?"

The general hesitated, looked at him. Whatever else he might have said, he let it go. "Work on your left guard," he barked. "You drop it when your mind wanders."

Meanwhile, in the east wing, the younger prince started his day on a different note.

It took three servants to wake him. Fredric slept deep, one arm thrown over his face, and even when the youngest page finally shook him awake, Fredric just sat up with wild hair and muttered, "War?"

"Breakfast, Highness."

"Same thing." He grinned, and the page, who'd dreaded this moment, found himself grinning too. That was Fredric for you. He got away with things before he'd even thought of doing them. By the time he was up and, sort of, neat, a little crowd of maids circled his door with made up errands, the cook had "accidentally" sent pastries to his room, and the stable boys already had a pool going on whether he'd leave the grounds by lunch.

Two brothers. One palace. Completely different mornings. In Arrandelle, no one commented, no one ever did. It had always been like this. One prince earned respect. The other was loved. People never realize how long a whole kingdom can coast on that trade off before anyone counts the cost.

Princess Athalia had already known of these two.

She stood by the window on the third floor, still in her dressing gown, her mug of tea forgotten and cooling in her hands. Nineteen, tall, straight backed, with the kind of dark hair and sharp looks people called "striking" when they couldn't quite say "beautiful." Her father, the late Prince of Corvane, had left her and her sister in King Jeremy's care when he died. Six years and counting. They'd grown up in this palace, rooms next to each other, guests of the crown, which was a polite way of saying they were never really free to leave.

Down in the courtyard, Fredric ambled past with buns in both hands, laughing at a joke one of the grooms had told him.

She watched him. She'd watched him for two years. Never openly. That wasn't how she did anything. Through a gap in the curtain, over the edge of her teacup, hidden in a crowded hall, she watched with a patience that cost her a little more every time. She knew the set of his shoulders when he was happy. Knew he scratched his ear when he lied, often and harmlessly. She remembered her seventeenth birthday, sitting with him on a stone bench in the rose garden behind the chapel, when he told her, clear as day and with no hint of teasing, that she was the cleverest person he'd ever met.

That was it. A gentle, kind thing. Meant for her. But afterward, she'd gone to her room, stared in the mirror, and told her reflection, quietly, to the empty glass, "He's mine."

Stupid. Certain. The most reckless, earnest thing she'd ever said.

She'd never told anyone. Not Arianna, who told her everything. Not the maid who did her hair. A secret like that is a coin you don't spend. You keep it, in the dark, for the right moment.

"You're brooding again," said a voice.

Arianna leaned in the doorway, half her hair pinned up, a black smear of ink on her chin. Seventeen, small, brown eyed, open faced, the sort strangers trusted at fountains. She carried a basket of linen she had no real reason to carry; there were plenty of hands for that.

"I'm thinking," Athalia answered. "It's quieter."

"Looks more like brooding." Arianna dropped her basket on the bed and came to the window, leaning against her sister's side. "Is the tea awful?"

"It's cold."

"Definitely brooding, then. Come eat. Aunt Elizabeth says the Seatopian ships docked, and there'll be oranges."

"I don't want an orange."

"Everyone wants an orange." Arianna glanced out the window, followed her sister's gaze toward the courtyard, and for a moment something flickered across her face. It disappeared so quickly, like a candle shielded by a quick hand. Then she smiled, bright and wide, and said, "Hurry, I'm starving," and disappeared out the door, basket still on the bed.

Athalia stared at the empty doorway.

She'd gotten good at picking up the tiny signals. A glance held too long, a cheerful voice that came in a beat too fast. Arianna was a hopeless liar. That's why it was so strange to watch her try.

All day, Athalia noticed things. Arianna didn't touch her orange. She skipped the afternoon lesson, claimed she had a headache, and wasn't in her room later when Athalia checked. Stable boys fell silent when the younger princess passed, and one, a freckled boy, grinned at his boots until she rounded the corner.

By dusk, Athalia was alone, standing at the gallery window while the setting sun turned the garden copper.

The rose garden's back wall had a gate the gardeners used, always left unlocked. As the first evening bell rang, a small figure in a plain brown cloak slipped through, hood up, moving fast along the hedge toward the stables.

Athalia knew that walk. She'd know it anywhere.

A tall figure stepped from the stable. No cloak. The man took Arianna's hands in both of his and bent his head to hers. From her spot, three flights up in the fading light, Athalia could see him smile.

She didn't move. Her fingers dug into the window ledge so hard that the stone left marks in her skin.

All those years she had kept her secret in the dark, waiting for the perfect day. And her little sister, who couldn't lie to save her life, had walked right through the gate and taken it.

The sun dropped behind the roofline. Below her, Fredric laughed at something Arianna said, soft and gentle.

"No," Athalia whispered. Her voice came out perfectly calm, which scared her more than any scream. "He's mine. I won't let this happen."