Waking Ugly

By Kez Sharrow

Waking to a kiss sounds romantic. I mean, I had no problem with the kiss itself—soft lips, tickle of a mustache, faint licorice flavor. But, oh my goodness, people, what was a man doing in my bedroom?!

I sat bolt upright. My forehead smacked against his.

Ouch.

He staggered back from my bed, holding his head.

Curly brown hair, tall frame. “Chiswell?”  My betrothed had sneaked into my bedroom? Dad would have a fit. I snatched the bedspread to cover my nightdress and inhaled dust.

“Actually, I’m Phillip. Chiswell’s my great—”

“Don’t care how great a friend you are of Chiswell’s.” This Phillip was sort of cute in a slicked-back-hair, needed-a-shave-yesterday kind of way, and I felt bad about the red spot between his eyes, but still. “Do you know what guys who come into a girl’s bedroom and kiss her while she’s sleeping are called?”

“Heroes?”

“Stalkers.” I sneezed.

“Bless you.” Phillip wore a dazed expression, like someone who’d expected a kitten and gotten a fire-spitting dragon instead.

“Guards!” I yelled, flinging off the covers and snatching up my robe.

A long scrape sounded outside, then a muffled thud.

“I think they’re—” Phillip stepped toward me.

“Don’t come any closer!” I raised my hand.

Good grief, what happened to my fingernails? Overgrown, they curled like a storybook witch’s. I stepped out of bed. Instead of fluffy slippers, my feet touched a thick pile of dusty straw. I stood and felt a tug on my scalp. Eek! That straw was my hair.

I took a step, but the weight of my hair yanked me back. I pulled forward. Dust rose from the coiled locks, but the hair itself didn’t budge.

“I’m like that girl with the unfortunate name,” I wailed. “Parsley? Radish?”

“Rapunzel?

“That’s the one.” I strained forward, scalp burning. Ugh. The hair was winning.

“May I?” Phillip flipped a knife from his belt.

I jumped. He was armed!

“For the hair…”

“Oh, right.” I took the knife and sawed at the hair. Mizzi would be horrified. Where was she, anyway? I scanned the room. The drapes were gray, the rugs a mottled brown, and everything on my dresser in dire need of scrubbing.

“How did you get in?” The door was obviously shut.

“Through the window.”

“You couldn’t possibly. The tower’s half a mile of smooth stone straight up.”

“I climbed a hedge of thorns partway, then used a rope and grappling hook.”

I sawed through the last strands and handed back his knife. “You can go back the way you came, or out the door like a normal person, but I’m going to find out what on earth’s the matter with the maids and guards.” I yanked the door handle.

It didn’t budge.

I pulled again.

“Wood’s swollen, probably,” Phillip tapped around the doorframe.

“It worked fine yesterday.” I’d swooshed out in my shimmery rose ballgown, ready for feasting and dancing.

Then what’d happened?

I shook my head to loosen sleepy thoughts. “Will you help, please?”

Phillip nodded. “On the count of three.”

On three, we pulled together, and the door flew open, flinging me against Phillip’s chest. Face hot, I pushed off him and hurried out of the room.

Two guards leaned against the wall, yawning. Their long beards flowed over rusty armor. When they saw me, they grabbed at their spears.

“When your shift has ended, prioritize haircuts, polish your armor, and clean yourselves up.”

Phillip eyed me.

“And… have Mizzi draw a bath and fetch the royal manicurist.” I swept down the corridor, coughing as my robe kicked up dust.

Phillip’s booted footsteps echoed behind me, and my unease grew as I passed unlit torches and benches covered with grime. Garlands of birthday ribbons hung from the banisters, their royal purple faded to an insipid lilac.

“Where are we headed?” Phillip touched my arm, seemingly unfazed by the whole silent-as-a-grave castle thing.

“To my parents’ chambers, though you might want to make yourself scarce. The dungeons are designed for maximum discomfort and, no offense, you don’t look the fighting-off-the-entire-royal-guard type.” His clothes were way too shiny.

“I fought a dragon—”

“Save it, you’ll need all the help you can get with Dad.”

We turned the corner. Relief rushed through me as my parents hurried from their bedchamber, arms outstretched. “Rory, you’re all right!”

I buried my face in Dad’s chest, feeling like myself for the first time since waking. “Everything’s so strange—”

“Your royal highnesses, thank goodness! Everything’s worked out just as we hoped.” Flora, my favorite fairy godmother, flitted down the hallway. “The prince has rescued the kingdom after a hundred years.”

“We certainly owe you, young man.” Dad stretched his hand toward Phillip.

“Hold on, Dad.” I stepped between them. “He was in my bed—Wait a minute. Did you say a hundred years?”

Flora laughed nervously. “We were just trying to counteract the curse, dear. When you pricked your finger, you were supposed to die, but we put you to sleep instead, until—”

“I’ve been asleep for a hundred years?”

“And the whole kingdom with you.”

I sucked in air. Phillip slid a bench over, and I sank into it. “I’m 116.”

“Only sort of,” Phillip shrugged.

“What about Chiswell?”

“I was trying to tell you. Chiswell’s my great-great grandfather.”

Dead. I swallowed. We never even held hands.

“His descendant has done us a great service. Young man, I hope you’ll consider my daughter’s hand suitable recompense.” Dad pumped Phillip’s hand.

Flora and Mum applauded.

Phillip grinned, until he looked at me.

I stood. “Celebrating, people? I’m 116, my betrothed’s dead, and you want me to marry some man we found in my bedroom?”

Round eyes stared back.

“No offense, Phillip.” I patted his arm. “I’m sure you’re a nice guy when not sneaking into bedrooms, but…”

Awkward silence.

Suddenly it was all way too much, way too soon after waking up. I spun around, shaggy hair swishing.

“I’m going back to bed.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kez Sharrow is an emergent unicorn living in Wuhan. By day she dabbles in the alchemy of human transformation as a leadership coach. Early mornings and weekends, she creates worlds out of smoke and dragon’s breath. Kez belongs to the tribe of the uprooted and transplanted, those who live between cultures, and she writes stories of travelers in fantasy worlds.

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