The Girl Who
Uncovered Rumpelstiltskin’s Name
by Bonnie M Hennessy
Date of Publication:
November 19th 2016
Genre: YA Fantasy
Cover Artist: Andreea
Vraciu
BLURB
An old tale tells the story of how a little
man named Rumpelstiltskin spun straw into gold and tricked a desperate girl
into trading away her baby. But that’s not exactly how it happened.
The real story began with a drunken father
who kept throwing money away on alcohol and women, while his daughter, Aoife,
ran the family farm on her own. When he gambled away everything they owned to
the Duke, it was up to her to spin straw into gold to win it all back.
With her wits and the help of a magical
guardian, she outsmarted the Duke and saved the day.
Well almost…
Her guardian suddenly turned on Aoife and
sent her on a quest to find his name, the clues to which were hidden deep in
the woods, a moldy dungeon, and a dead woman’s chamber.
This is not the tale of a damsel in distress,
but a tenacious, young woman who solved a mystery so great that not even the
enchanted man who spun straw into gold could figure it out.
Not until Aoife came along.
Buy Link: Amazon
Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/3SDfW7PY3wY
Chapter 1
The morning
mist had almost lifted in the village of Stanishire, the farmers and fishermen
were readying the market, women were shouting chores to sleepy children, and
Aoife was on her way to collect her father from the town brothel, where the
painted ladies entertained men’s nocturnal needs.
When she
reached the main street, she dismounted and tied her horse to a hitching post.
She walked around the corner of the brothel where no one could see her,
adjusted her skirt, and ran her fingers through her hair. Practice had taught
her how to jiggle the finicky latch so its reluctant grip released and granted
her entrance. The back hallway was dark and quiet. Maggie, the young girl who
helped cook and clean, was opening windows to release the sweat and
perfume-laced air. Broken glass littered the floor, and cards from unfinished games
lay scattered on tables.
“Maggie,”
Aoife whispered.
Maggie
turned into the dust motes in a sliver of daylight. Over the years, Aoife had
learned to call her gently and not to sneak up on her lest she startle the
young girl as she had done the first time they met here when Aoife was eleven
and Maggie just nine.
“Eeeeef-uh!”
Maggie’s eyes lit up as she called Aoife’s name. She had always over-enunciated
each syllable in what sounded like a sigh of relief.
She took
hold of Aoife’s hand, pulling her around the corner and into the kitchen, one
of the only places in the residence that passed for a respectable room.
“Wait here,”
Maggie said, kissing Aoife on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
Aoife looked
around at the pots hanging on the wall that Maggie kept so shiny. A rolling pin
on the counter was coated with flour and the smell of bread baking in the oven
filled the dimly lit room. In the corner was Maggie’s chair with a basket of
women’s stockings waiting to be darned. Aoife turned her back to the parlor
door and everything that happened there, pretending her visits with Maggie by
the fire were no different than a visit with any other village girl. The sight
of Maggie humming as she patched up stockings always made Aoife think of her
younger sister, Tara, lying under her heavy blankets, sewing away at some
pattern their mother had her working on. Aoife felt that Tara and Maggie would
have enjoyed chatting over their sewing, if only Tara were not stuck in bed
with a perpetual cough and Maggie the progeny of a brothel.
“Aoife. You
look quite bright and alive considering the early hour.”
Aoife jumped
as Maeve strolled over and pulled a leaf from Aoife’s hair.
“I see
you’ve been busy with your studies,” Maeve added.
Aoife
touched her hair, searching for more debris. Maeve’s dressing gown exposed her
cleavage and her long, dark curls draped over her bare shoulders without
apology. Aoife had seen her dressed, powdered, and painted since she was a
girl, and she admired the way her gaze, so piercing, seemed to command respect
from everyone. But what had captivated Aoife the most was something more
powerful and more impressive than Maeve’s beauty. Although crow’s feet now
punctuated her eyes, and her waistline had thickened, the most powerful men
deferred to her, bowing their heads in her direction when she traveled through
the streets.
“I couldn’t
resist the path through the woods,” Aoife replied, knowing she could hide
nothing from her.
Maeve stared
at her. The affection in her appraisal was always slightly distant, stopping
just short of motherly.
“Seamus is
taking care of things,” Maeve said with her usual calm.
Aoife nodded
and looked again at the shiny pots, trying to focus on anything but Seamus’
highly embarrassing ritual of waking her father, the fairly infamous Finnegan,
from wherever he had ended his evening and saddling him on his horse. Maggie
pulled a loaf of steaming bread from the oven and set out plates, knives, and a
bowl of fresh butter. Each of them took their place around the table as Maggie generously
portioned out the bread. Maeve let her shawl fall over the back of her chair
and straightened up her shoulders, exposing even more of herself. Aoife flushed
and bit quietly into her bread, savoring the flavor and the moment.
There was an
honesty and warmth in this kitchen that she never felt in the presence of her
own mother. Conversation and warm bread was what made coming to get her father
for all these years worth the lashings she used to receive from her mother when
she returned home.
“I hear that your latest suitor was seen
heading out of town yesterday,” Maeve said. “I gather his hasty departure means
that there will be no nuptials?”
Aoife shook
her head and cast a quick smile at Maggie.
“I can’t
imagine why you didn’t want to marry that one,” Maeve said. “Lots of gold, a
manor house to the east with more land than you and your horse could ever
discover, and handsome, too. What more could a girl want than a man with piles
of gold and a good set of teeth?”
“A man who
is blind and deaf and preferably feeble – with deep pockets, of course. Then I
can live my life in peace and never have to worry about his teeth – or mine for
that matter.”
Maggie
giggled, and Maeve raised an appreciative eyebrow, offering her signature
half-smile, half-smirk. Aoife grinned and took another bite of the steaming
bread.
“And what do
your parents say?” Maeve asked. Her features had softened, but her thoughts
remained inscrutable. “I can’t imagine they find your refusals as entertaining
as we do.”
Aoife fell
silent. This was an unexpected detour in the script. They avoided direct
references to Aoife’s family. It made breaking bread between them possible,
since the money Maeve took from Aoife’s father by night was one of the greatest
strains on her family’s resources, reputation, and love. The medicine that Tara
often went without after her father’s reckless trips was reason enough for
Aoife to despise Maeve, but she had learned to avoid dwelling on these
realities. She needed Maeve enough to tolerate her father’s indiscretions,
since rescuing him had now become a means of escaping her life. Discussing her
family jeopardized everything.
“Well, no,
they are not exactly pleased,” Aoife replied, her brashness fading.
Maeve wiped
the corner of her mouth and cleared her throat. Something in the air had
changed.
“You know,
at some point, perhaps sooner than you might expect, they will stop coming.
First, the young ones with stacks of gold and good teeth. They have the most
fragile egos and will seek out friendlier pastures. Then eventually, even the
wrinkly ones, with and without gold, will find calling on you not worth the
effort,” Maeve paused. “The tales of your beauty will be replaced by tales of
new faces with more welcoming smiles. The choices left to you will be slim.”
The bread
balled up in Aoife’s throat. She could have had breakfast in her own home if
she wanted this type of talk. She suddenly felt incensed that Madame Maeve
dared to criticize her.
“My mother
mires me in these traps daily,” Aoife dusted the crumbs from her hands. “She
appreciates neither the risk to my reputation I take coming here nor the fact
that I am the one who has run the farm for years now.”
“This is
true. Your family would be in the poor house and your sister probably with God
if not for your courage and your brains,” Maeve said. “But I’m not talking
about them. I’m talking about you and your future. You must understand that
there are consequences for you, whether you say yes or no to the suitors who
come your way.”
She raised
an eyebrow, which seemed loaded with a warning left to Aoife to decipher. It
had a familiar ring to it, like the warnings her mother made so often about the
consequences of Aoife’s trips to Maeve’s house.
“No
respectable man will ever want to marry a girl who consorts with vile women,
not when he thinks he can pay a few coins for her instead,” her mother would
say.
Her mother
lived in such a dream world she did not recognize that Aoife was trying to
protect the family’s reputation and as much of their finances as was possible.
Her mother worried more about Aoife’s reputation than the food on the table and
Tara’s medicine. And because of that, a chasm had grown between them too deep
to ever cross.
“My choices
are just as narrow as every other girl’s. I know that,” Aoife said standing up
abruptly. Her shawl dropped to the floor, its power to protect her no match for
the storm brewing in the kitchen. “But I’d never compromise myself – or give
men control over my body for money like you do. Of that you can be sure.”
“I wasn’t
suggesting that,” Maeve replied, completely unruffled. “But it’s interesting
that you did. And, Aoife, no matter what choice you make – your husband’s
house, my house, or the nunnery – you are exchanging control over your body for
money. Of that you can be sure.”
“I have
given half my life already to protecting my family. Everyday, whether I’m
seeing that fields are reseeded and sheep are sheared or carting my father home
from here, I am picking up the pieces of my family’s fortune that my father has
broken apart,” Aoife said with less command of her voice than she would have
liked. “And now, after I’ve done everything I can to save this family, they –
and you – expect me to sell myself off to the next buyer, supposedly to protect
them? I can’t do it.”
Aoife knew
there was no way for a woman to survive in the world without the protection of
a man, yet the security they offered was never guaranteed. Her father’s choices
still chipped away at the pieces of what was once her mother, Bronagh. Still
bedecked in the jewels of their courtship, she found her only solace and
comfort in embroidering ornate and regal designs and patterns by the night
fire, awaiting his return from Maeve’s as if her delicate hands could somehow
stitch back together the girl he had unraveled and the lives he had torn apart
at the seams. Bronagh would not even consider selling her tapestries or
needlework to help support her family, for that would have been beneath a woman
of her status. Aoife, however, was not built to sit and sew while their fortune
and Tara’s health deteriorated at the hands of her father. She needed to be on
her feet fixing the problem, not decorating the home they were sure to lose if
no one intervened.
Bronagh had
traded away her soul for a broken promise of safety and love, and she expected
Aoife to do the same. But now Maeve, too? Her advice was nothing less than a
betrayal.
“For women
not made to curtsey obediently through life, there is no easy choice.” A subtle
urgency belied Maeve’s calm. “However, refusing every suitor is not a means of
controlling your life, but rather giving over control to whatever or whomever
is left over.”
“So I should
marry the next man who comes along or end up in a whore house like you?” Aoife
said, wincing at her angry words.
She was
angry that Maeve had taken her mother’s side, but she did not relish wounding
the one person who had always been a source of strength and understanding.
Despite her words, Maeve’s features revealed not even the slightest hint of
hurt.
“What I am
saying is that you ought to turn away any option which would leave you without
hope of peace and contentment,” Maeve replied. “But do not fool yourself into
waiting for a perfect choice to present itself, because it never will.”
Aoife felt
her stomach lurch. She needed to get away from this house, this woman, and the
truth. Turning around, she marched outside where her father was standing. She
walked to her horse and looked to see if he needed assistance. The legacy of
too much mead weighed on his haggard figure as Seamus helped him to his horse.
“I’m so
sorry to have inconvenienced you this morning, my sweet Aoife,” her father’s
worn voice eschewed sadly.
“I know,
father,” she replied. “You’re always sorry.”
He swayed
precariously in either direction and then took Aoife’s hand suddenly.
“You’re too
good to me, Aoife,” he whispered. “You should be reaching for the–”
“Stars,” she
finished. “I know, Father.”
He closed
his eyes and pressed her hand between his.
“My hand’s
grown since we spent our nights stargazing.”
He nodded
and Aoife felt a pang of nostalgia sweep over her. She missed the way he used
to pick her up from her mother’s side by the fire and take her out of doors to
look at the moon and stars. The memory of the polished scent of him from her
childhood came back over the stench of mead that clung to him now. He had been
a good father once upon a time. She looked up, searching for any fragment of
the man who tossed her high in the air as a little girl. The sparkle of a tear
danced at the corner of his eye. There he was. She kissed his forehead tenderly
and he sighed with the soft smile reserved only for Aoife. His favorite.
Buy Link: Amazon
MY INTERVIEW WITH
BONNIE M. HENNESSY
What
mindset or routine do you feel the need to set when preparing to write (in
general whether you are working on a project or just free writing)?
Quiet. Tea. View.
I have two kids and a dog so finding a quiet
space where no one can bark for pancakes or a walk is paramount. This is a huge
part of why I get up around 5:30 in the morning to write. I even fill my ears
with hemisync music just to drown it all out. Ear buds + music = no breakfast
or walks from mom.
Whether I’m sipping my tea, holding it,
sniffing it, or warming it in the microwave, I’m sinking deeper into the zone,
the zennish zone from which ideas come to me. I have been accused more than
once of having the bad habit of leaving half-finished cups of tea all over the
house. I would counter that by saying I leave half-filled cups of ideas all
over the house that are waiting for me to pick them up again!
Looking out the window at the leaves, admiring
my Christmas tree on the other side of the room, or watching my doggy sleeping
next to me are all signs that I’m working. These focal points also function
somehow as blank canvasses upon which I imagine my stories.
Do you
take your character prep to heart? Do you nurture the growth of each character
all the way through to the page? Do you people watch to help with development?
Or do you build upon your character during story creation?
Before I write a story, I tend to journal a
lot. I free write about the characters and the dilemmas they face. I start the
process with very little direction. It is just a free association, which often
becomes very tangential as I think of other characters and conflicts that they
may soon find in their path. A lot of times the characters and plot change when
I actually start typing the story, but the genesis of them is always left
behind in those journals. I have a hope chest filled with doodles about the
characters in my books. They somehow end up feeling very personal, and I can’t
find the will to throw them out.
Have
you found yourself bonding with any particular character? If so which one(s)?
If I could visit my made up world of
characters, I would love to share a cup of tea with Maeve. I love how
unapologetic she is about her life. She is the madam of a brothel and she owns
it. She is not afraid of anyone, and very little bothers her. I’m much more
sensitive to criticism and people’s opinions than I like to admit. I always
want to make everyone happy, which is such an impossible task that I am often
left feeling like I’ve failed others. I respect a woman who can be herself and
not blink at her own reflection.
Do you
have a character that you have been working on that you can't wait to put to
paper?
Yes! I have been teaching a lot of mythology
and recently during our discussions I realized that there is a mythological
character whose story I am dying to write. I won’t reveal which character it is
yet, because I don’t want to jinx anything!
Have
you ever felt that there was something inside of you that you couldn't control?
If so what? If no what spurs you to reach for the unexperienced?
I love feeling like I’ve let myself go and
let inspiration in. I don’t think I ever experienced that until Twisted. The first time it happened I was writing
the scene where Aoife goes back to Rumpelstiltskin’s house for the first time.
I had it all planned out in my head as to what would happen in the chapter and
even the whole outer frame of the story. Then suddenly, the story turned. The
characters did not and would not do what I had planned for them. After a
reluctant moment, I took a breath and stopped thinking about the plan and let
the scene between them unfold, allowing them write their own dialogue, describe
their emotions, and choreograph their movements. When I finished, I knew
something special had just happened. I remember telling my husband, “Now I know
I’m a writer because I didn’t write that chapter by myself.”
Author Info
Bonnie grew up a shy, quiet girl who the
teachers always seated next to the noisy boys because they knew she was too
afraid to talk to anyone. She always had a lot she wanted to say but was too
afraid to share it for fear she might die of embarrassment if people actually
noticed her. Somewhere along the line, perhaps after she surprised her eighth
grade class by standing up to a teacher who was belittling a fellow student,
she realized that she had a voice and she didn’t burst into flames when her
classmates stared at her in surprise.
Not long after that, she began spinning
tales, some of which got her into trouble with her mom. Whether persuading her
father to take her to the candy store as a little girl or convincing her
parents to let her move from Los Angeles to Manhattan to pursue a career at
eighteen as a ballet dancer with only $200 in her pocket, Bonnie has proven
that she knows how to tell a compelling story.
Now she spends her time reading and making up
stories for her two children at night. By day she is an English teacher who
never puts the quiet girls next to the noisy boys and works hard to persuade
her students that stories, whether they are the ones she teaches in class or
the ones she tells to keep them from daydreaming, are better escapes than
computers, phones, and social media.
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