Creeping Beauty

by Andrea Portes

Genres: YA Fairy Tales & Folklore; YA Fantasy; YA Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of Anatomy of a Misfit comes a subversive and feminist take on Sleeping Beauty, sure to appeal to fans of Damsel and To Kill a Kingdom. 

The dark and deadly world of Heartless meets the empowering twist of Cruel Beauty in this thrilling, unpredictable, multigenre retelling of one of the most beloved fairy tales: where instead of falling asleep to await her prince, this sleeping beauty finally wakes up.

Bitsy is no one’s ideal princess.

She’s heard it all: that it’s a shame she’s so plain, so lacking in grace. That the best thing for her to do is simply wait (and wait some more) and hope some prince will grant her a happy ending.

Then Bitsy pricks her finger on a spindle and falls down, down, down.

Into a world where cutthroats and con artists are more common than curtsies. Where no one ages and everyone is beautiful. Where an inscrutable evil rests at its core.

A land where Bitsy’s fate and her future are solely in her own hands—and neither are what she expects.

 

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Release date: August 22, 2023

Publisher: HarperTeen

Print pages: 356

Sample

Prologue

A KING’S JOURNAL

What folly!

And yet my beloved wife, the queen, has insisted. She believes it will help me with my temper. Poppycock, I say! But she is my queen, my jewel, my heart. So here I sit, writing in this godforsaken book.

A funny thing: the past two nights, I have had the same odd dream. I can’t quite figure it.

It starts with a feeling of panic.

There is an old man, alone in a clearing in the forest.

The sky is turning to night. Dusk. The worn old man is tending his sheep. He whistles to himself, seemingly without a care.

Then above him, the old man hears something. He looks up to see a swarm of blackbirds, hundreds of them, flying in the sky, their screeches deafening. His eyes widen as he realizes what is to come. He mutters something to himself, dropping his tools, and races toward his humble little stone home.

“They’re coming!” he yells out, rushing to the house. A young woman, pretty, peeks her head out, realizes the danger, and hurries into a hidden storm cellar.

Then the sky turns black above them . . . and the old man looks behind him in terror. He rushes to the storm cellar door, latching it behind him.

As the door shuts, there is a different kind of dread. The feeling that something terrible is about to happen.

WHOOSH.

And that is when the dream ends.

I wake up, each time, in a cold sweat.

A terrified king. A king no one should ever see.

And then, both nights, as the dream ends and I startle awake, for a moment, I see a dark figure at the foot of my bed. Hovering there.

Then I blink, and the entity is gone.

I have not told my wife, because she might think me quite mad.

So, I reserve it for you, dear journal.

A useless thing, I think, a king’s journal.

 

CHAPTER 1

 

NOBODY IN MY world believes me.

About the other place.

They think it’s the raving of a crackpot; the delusion of a child.

But you, in your world. Perhaps you can understand. Perhaps there will be something familiar. Foreign, yes. But familiar.

Like a whisper or a flash or the last glimmer of a thought before falling asleep.

Come.

Come with me.

I’ll show you.

Come, we’ll float down from the sky, a robin’s-egg blue. Lower now, over the tops of the golden king holly trees. Like lollipops: round at the top, gold and green. The trunks like narrow sticks. Then there are the long triangle trees. The pines, tall and spiky. Dark green, sometimes almost blue.

But we’re flying past them now, over the hills and valleys. There’s a brook there, babbling. Cross it. Now the bright green grass is shooting up, the hill is rising, and there—there at the top of it . . .

A castle.

A castle in pastels. Every color represented. Lilac. Baby blue. Periwinkle. Aquamarine. Azure. Lavender. Lime. Mint. Buttercup. Iceberg. Diamond. Peach. Pearl. Seashell. Snow. Sunset. Tea rose. Thistle. Topaz. Vanilla. Wisteria. Volt.

There is even a pastel named after our castle.

Roix blue.

Originated in the region of Roix.

A shade somewhere between azure and aquamarine, with a little dust thrown in.

I quite like it.

It’s on the crest. All over the castle, in each of the four turrets, the entry, and the dining hall.

Now that we’ve landed, you will see there is a blinding light from the morning sun, coming through the arched windows.

In front of that, there, see me? I am standing in my knickers, arms in the air, like some kind of flying squirrel.

All around me buzz the royal dressers, tucking this there, latching that there, and squeezing every extra scone, muffin, and cupcake relentlessly tighter, into this ruthless little thing they call a corset.

This entire operation takes place every morning, exactly at eight. And the entire undoing of this operation takes place every night, exactly at ten, unless there is a ball or a gala of some kind, at which point everything is higgledy-piggledy.

Across from me is my mother, who is much better-looking than me, much skinnier, much fairer. Her hair is the color of the noon sun shining on wheat. My hair is dust mop. Her eyes are sparkling blue sea. My eyes are swamp.

It’s not a stretch to say I’m a bit of a disappointment. I always have been, from the minute I debuted before the court at the royal rite of spring. There’s always that look. A look of pity, peppered with amusement. A shaking of the head.

I am not perfect. Not even close. Just a mouse-haired princess with eyes that can’t decide whether to be blue, gray, or green, not as svelte or as beautiful as her mother, the queen.

When I was a baby, my mother held me in her arms for an entire month. The experts told her I was too small and was destined for the grave. They advised leeches and bloodletting. But my mother decided to just hold me . . . for an entire month. And somehow, miraculously, this simple plan was a success and I did not perish. Because, you see, she is perfection.

At present, my perfect, miraculous mother is standing before me, bathed in morning light, lecturing me about something very important I should do. Something I have to do. Something that simply must be done.

“Darling, Bitsy, don’t give me that look . . . it’s time to face it.”

Yes, she calls me Bitsy, short for Elizabeth.

“We must strike while the iron is hot! This spring is perfect. You’ve already had your debut. And the cherry blossoms are about to bloom. We could have the wedding at the summer estate. Just think of it! Cherry blossoms, all around!”

“Can they be my bridesmaids?"

 I nod toward my two royal dressers, Rose and Suzette, who I’ve known since we were little girls, splashing around in the cloisters, making mud pies down at the lake, playing hide-and-seek through the endless labyrinth of the castle corridors.

“Certainly not!” Then, taking into account their presence: “We all love our dear Rose and Suzette quite . . . obviously, but they are not of royal blood and therefore—”

“But why does it matter? I mean, truly?” I ask.

My mother exhales in annoyance. “Bitsy, we’ve talked about this a thousand times. I didn’t make up the rules. Nor did your father. They are passed down through ages and ages. To live in this way, to be a monarch, to have these titles . . . it is a privilege.”

I grumble. “How much privilege is there if I can’t even choose my own bridesmaids?”

My mother contemplates. “Elizabeth Clementine Roix. You are the princess of this castle and you will behave like one. It’s bad enough that—”

She stops herself.

“It’s bad enough that what? That I’m ugly?”

“Ugly! Heavens no! You are a gorgeous little princess who any prince in any of the kingdoms would be lucky to wed.”

“Then why do I feel so hopeless? About everything? As if nothing is either bad or good but just there. Neutral. Unchanging. And that’s the way it will be for all eternity. Flat. Colorless. Just a glass sheet of boredom.”

This stuns even Rose and Suzette, who stop primping and preening, seeming to look to my mother for assurance.

“Oh, my sweet daughter, you are one for drama, aren’t you? But don’t worry, I’ll do whatever I can to find you the right prince. Mayhap, a wise prince who can help you answer some of these existential questions. I had such feelings once, although never quite as bleak . . . but certainly odd. Odd feelings, I suppose.”

“And what changed?” I ask.

“You.” She smiles, coming close to me and tapping my nose once. “Boop.”

I can’t help but smile.

“The very moment I looked into your eyes . . . all of that fell away. It was like looking at a little miracle.” She reminisces. “A day that changed my life. And your name, Bitsy, is my favorite word in all the world. Bitsy. It means light and love and home.”

“Oh, Mother.” I roll my eyes and pretend to be unmoved, but really I quite love it when my mother goes on about me. It’s like a warm cup of tea at bedtime.

She glides toward the door, having succeeded in distracting me from my woe. “Now don’t forget, this afternoon is tea with your cousins, and then

after that—”

“No. No no no no no. Nay. Nyat. Nont,” I protest.

“They are your cousins!” she answers. “Your flesh and blood.”

“But they’re terrible! They’re rude and vain and superficial. All they ever do is have their portraits painted. Portraits in the garden. Portraits in the turret. Portraits by the pond. Did you know they even made over a hundred commoners wait at the foot of Mount Pontmillierre whilst they sat there having their portraits painted in front of the Emerald Falls!”

“Well, no, I hadn’t,” my mother acquiesces.

“Well, it’s true! And it’s not just that,” I continue. “They never even go to the theater or the opera. All they ever want to do is watch the most mindless, short little ditties by whatever vulgar or contrived preposterous troupe is passing through. They laugh at a donkey breaking wind!”

Rose and Suzette stifle a laugh.

“They—they never read. And do you know why they can’t watch an entire three-act play?” I go on. “It’s because they are conceited, superficial, and most of all . . . they’re mean. Mean to each other. Mean to their parents. Mean to their friends and, yes, very much mean to me.”

“Darling. Not everyone in the world is going to be to your liking,” she advises. “Think of it as a way to learn patience. And tolerance. A queen must be tolerant, you know. When a visiting dignitary from a far-off land offers you a delicacy of boiled lizard feet . . . you have to smile and nod. And then pretend to eat it but really spit it out into your table linens and hope no one notices. Not that this has ever happened to me personally—”

“Um. Mother. That is awfully specific for a hypothesis,” I chide.

“Well, perhaps. But the point is that a royal must be tolerant. And such tolerance includes tolerance of idiots. Not that your cousins are idiots.” She notes my expression. “I didn’t say that!”

“Oh, of course. You absolutely did not just call my cousins idiots,” I tease.

“Now, this is not the only thing on your agenda, dearest. As I was attempting to tell you when I was so rudely interrupted”—she scruffs my hair—“is the small matter of this evening. The king’s consul is coming—”

“Oh, heavens no. No. Nont. Nya—”

“Aaaand . . . he will have a list of appropriate suitors, a painting of each, and a sort of summary of their accomplishments, traits, and general demeanor. I know you think this is all quite silly, but it’s important that you pick one. Tonight. We’ll have no more lollygagging, delaying, or excuses. Just try to pick one. And remember, they all snore in their sleep eventually. Maybe you can find one who adores three-act plays, novels, and extremely boring lectures on the ancient techniques of basket-weaving. Allll the things you love and prize.”

She winks, then strolls out, the door closing behind her.

“I wonder if that’s true. Do they all inevitably snore?” I turn to Rose and Suzette.

Suzette frowns, thinking. “Our father snores, so . . . our mother sleeps with us. And our uncle sounds like a dying bear, come to think of it. And don’t get me started on our grandfather; you could hear him in the next village!”

“Ah, so it is true.” I sit down, deflated. “If only I didn’t have to get married. Then I wouldn’t have to listen to anyone snore.”

Suzette chides me. “You know what happens to old maids, don’t you? They grow warts on their noses and hair on their chins and die alone.”

“That can’t be true,” I protest.

Rose chimes in. “Well, it may not be true, but . . . if you don’t wed, well, you won’t ever be a . . . person. Or at least a person of value. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with the entire court whispering about you and feeling sorry for you?”

“Would you feel sorry for me?” I ask them both.

They share a look. And continue cinching me into my clothes.

 

CHAPTER 2

 

PRISSY AND BOLANDA, my two terrible cousins, sit across from me, both of them looking as if they spent five hours in their dressing chambers, ready to attend a coronation. Prissy with her dark brown hair and large eyes, blessed with looks I could only dream of. Bolanda with her auburn hair and green eyes, like some kind of autumnal doll. The green hill behind them sets off both their features. I would not be surprised if they insisted on the table being placed right here—to take full advantage of the backdrop.

“Oh, Bitsy. Did we catch you at a bad time? Perhaps you’ve been out horse riding,” Prissy purrs. “It’s so brave how you go out looking so.”

“Ah, yes. Brave. That’s the effect I’m going for, clearly,” I reply.

“Do you know . . . the funniest thing.” She shares a devious look with Bolanda. “There was a troupe coming through from the Claffordine. And we thought it would be fun to bring them to tea!”

“You mean, here?” I ask. “Now?”

“Of course!” Prissy replies. “Don’t worry, you’ll love them. They are just hilarious. Aren’t they, Bolanda?”

“Yes, yes. Quite hilarious.” She nods.

“Hallo! Halloooo! Over here!” Prissy smiles, waving off into the distance, where a scruffy-looking man drags a wooden easel up the green. She turns to me. “Now, you don’t mind. We’re both having our portraits painted. We thought it’d be fun. Here on the green. You know, a lush, floral, spring kind of thing . . . maybe some flowers in our hair.”

“Yes, yes, flowers in our hair!” Bolanda claps her hands together, jumping in her seat like a toddler. “Someone bring the flowers!”

“We’d offer to have your portrait painted, of course, but . . . look at you!” Prissy laughs.

The put-upon painter starts unpacking his supplies.

“No, not there!” Prissy commands. “It must be this way, as to catch my cheekbones in the light properly.”

She winks at the painter, who doesn’t notice.

Now it’s Bolanda’s turn to wave off into the distance. “They’re here! Oh, look, they’re here!”

We turn to see the Claffordine troupe bounding up the green. One of them wears a giant fake nose and a feather hat. The others twirl brightly colored ribbons, while another trumpets a regal tune.

“You will absolutely adore them.” Prissy turns to me. “They are just beyond hilarious. But don’t worry, I told them not to make any jokes about how plain you are.”

“Oh, I am most grateful,” I reply. “But you see, I cannot tarry. Tutor and I—”

“Dear Bitsy! How I admire the way you persist with your books and maps and whatnot!” Prissy trills. “And when nothing you study will be of use to you as queen.”

Bolanda chimes in, “I don’t see how you have time for your tutor when you have so many important dress fittings and appearances—oh, look! They’re beginning! What fun!”

The troupe has set up a makeshift stage. Behind it is a colorful landscape painted on canvas, held up by two poles. One of the troupe members is extraordinarily small and one is extraordinarily tall.

“Isn’t it cute? The little one?” Prissy says, gesturing to the small man.

“Oh, precious!” Bolanda explains.

“It?” I ask. “Surely you mean he.”

The painter inquires, “Should I wait until the end of the festivities, then? So you will be able to pose in a still manner, otherwise it might be quite difficult to—”

“Oh, I suppose.” Prissy sighs. “Why don’t you just find some flowers for our hair or something.”

The painter smiles through gritted teeth, walking off toward the rose garden.

Before the festivities have even begun, the large man leads an enormous pig, dressed as a horse, in front of the brightly painted backdrop

Now he blows a little whistle and a tiny monkey, dressed as a knight, comes hurtling out from backstage, jumping up on the large pig’s back.

“Oh heavens, just heavens!” Prissy and Bolanda clap and laugh as if they might die.

The hefty pig walks around, the monkey still on its back, now juggling an apple.

“I just . . . I might perish from the amusement!” Prissy exclaims, holding her stomach as she laughs. Bolanda snorts and dabs the corners of her eyes as though the spectacle has brought tears.

And this is when I decide: I will sink into the green behind me . . . and creep backward, undetected. Creeping is a trick I learned playing years upon years of hide-and-seek in the castle with Rose and Suzette. We are, all three of us, expert creepers. Our exits and entrances undetectable! First, I fade behind the topiary. Then I slide backward, silently, toward the trellis of the rose garden. Bolanda and Prissy are still guffawing with witless abandon. But I am sneaking away, invisible to their eyes. From behind the rose trellis to the castle walls. Now the trickier bit. I slither myself sideways, toward the castle, where a delectable novel about the ancients awaits me in my study . . . one my stellar tutor has gifted me, one I can’t seem to put down. My tutor is quite controversial, entre nous, always inspiring me to be curious, to analyze, to reach conclusions whether they align with those of previous scholars or not.

“Oh, do it again! Do it again!” I hear Prissy commanding in the distance. “I believe this monkey has magical powers. Yes, yes, indeed!”

“But if he’s a magic monkey, is he a minion of the dark arts?!” Bolanda suddenly seems filled with fear. “Oh, Prissy. This monkey may be a warlock!”

It’s clear Prissy and Bolanda are not students of my tutor, or any tutor.

“Get this evil monkey away from me!” Bolanda howls. The troupe members scurry about to remove the offending animal, who, of course, has done nothing more or less than what he has been trained to do.

I have a pang of sympathy for the tiny creature.

I manage to creep all the way up the turret stairs, up to the landing above. From my vantage point, I see that outside the window below, the painter seems to have passed out in the petunias.

Farther off, Prissy squeals with laughter as Bolanda runs, screaming bloody murder, whilst the demonic monkey, who has escaped from his handler, chases her into the fountain.

At last, something this afternoon worth seeing.

 

CHAPTER 3

 

AFTER DINNER, AND long after Prissy and Bolanda’s harried departure, my father, the king, takes the opportunity to scold me once more about my lack of manners. He is, indeed, a professional scolder with his natural gravitas, posture, olive skin, and enormous onyx eyes . . . eyes that can eviscerate worse than any dagger. Luckily, those sharp looks aren’t usually aimed in my direction, as he happens to have a soft spot for me, his only child.

“Bitsy, you cannot just abandon your cousins in the middle of tea! It is rude. When they finally noticed you were gone, I think they were quite hurt. You cannot insist on sitting all day with your face in a book whilst the world passes you by! You cannot wander aimlessly around here your entire life. Tradition is the plan. You follow, because you are a royal. You have been given great privilege. You don’t make a fuss.” He sighs, then continues. “My dearest, I know it can be scary. This idea of growing up, of marrying. But you cannot give in to fear. Fear leads to misgivings, misgivings to confusion . . . confusion to—”

“—confusion to madness,” I chime in, as I’ve heard this a hundred times.

“Darling. You must marry. You are of age. This is just what’s done. ...