“RAPUNZEL, RAPUNZEL, LET DOWN your hair, that I may climb your golden stair!”
The twelve-year-old girl giggled as she looked down from the fairy house her father, the king, had the gardeners build for her on her eighth birthday. The small home was high in the tree so she could feel like she was flying, just like a fairy. There were two ladders made of rope that led up to the charming wooden abode, but Prince Jonathan liked to tease her. Her hair reached past her feet, and he would say that if she braided it and hung it over the edge, he could climb it instead of the ladders.
“Never! Come up like a true gentleman, or do not come up at all!” she called down to him.
“You are such a spoilsport.” He grinned as he clutched the nearest rope and began to climb up.
“’Tis a good thing you decided to show yourself. I have pastries from Cook up here.” She taunted him with one as she took a large bite, crumbs tumbling to the ground past him. Some even landed on his head, putting chunks of white in his brown hair.
“Princess Rapunzel, I will now eat two for such boorish behavior,” he called up.
“With as slow as you are, they will be all gone before you get here.” She took another bite and quickly ducked inside when he increased his speed up the fifteen rungs or so of the ladder. Opening the small door to the house, she beamed a smile at him as he climbed onto the porch. “Welcome!”
“Ha!” Jonathan brushed his hands upon his trousers. “So, where is mine?” he asked as he looked pointedly at the pastry in her hand.
“Right here.” She took another bite and then giggled when he chased her inside the little place. It was about six feet by eight feet. It had just enough room for two small chairs and a table, a fine old rug, and a collection of older pillows. On the table was the basket with the pastries.
He dug in and began chewing on one while holding up another. “See?” he said around a mouthful. “They are both mine. You cannot claim them.”
“I can, if you continue to drop as many crumbs as this upon my newly cleaned floor!”
“You sound like a fishwife!” He took another bite and plopped down on a cozy section of pillows.
“Me? A fishwife?” She pretended to act scandalized as she sat down next to him, her white skirts spread prettily around her.
“Whot?” He grinned. “Do you not think royalty can act like commoners, then?”
She rolled her eyes. “I do not think the two should ever be compared.”
“Fine.” In an odd moment of seriousness, he straightened his features and said, “Forgive me.”
She waited for the coming quip. Something about him being mistaken—she was not a fishwife, she was more of an ogre—but it never came. Her smile fell and she leaned back, looking into his darkened eyes. “What is it, Jonathan? Is something wrong?”
He shook his head slightly and sighed. “When is anything wrong with me?” He did not look away.
“Never. You are always in perfect spirits.”
“Precisely. So why do you assume something is bothering me now?”
“What is it? Tell me, please.”
He blinked and looked away.
“Jonathan?”
“Would you like another pastry?” he asked.
“No. I would like you to speak to me. Jonathan, ’tis not fair. I share all my secrets with you.”
His gaze met hers and he stared at her for what felt like several minutes. She waited. For once in her chattering existence, she wanted to know, really know, what he had to say. And she did not dare ruin the moment by speaking over him.
Finally, she was rewarded for her persistence.
“I have to go away to school.”
“What?” She felt as though a load of rocks had fallen upon her chest. “When? Why? For how long?”
“I have one week before I am sent off.”
“Jonathan!” She reached for his hand, something she had never done before. She could not bear losing him.
He squeezed her fingers. “I had to come and tell you. I made Father bring us here so I could say good-bye
The twelve-year-old girl giggled as she looked down from the fairy house her father, the king, had the gardeners build for her on her eighth birthday. The small home was high in the tree so she could feel like she was flying, just like a fairy. There were two ladders made of rope that led up to the charming wooden abode, but Prince Jonathan liked to tease her. Her hair reached past her feet, and he would say that if she braided it and hung it over the edge, he could climb it instead of the ladders.
“Never! Come up like a true gentleman, or do not come up at all!” she called down to him.
“You are such a spoilsport.” He grinned as he clutched the nearest rope and began to climb up.
“’Tis a good thing you decided to show yourself. I have pastries from Cook up here.” She taunted him with one as she took a large bite, crumbs tumbling to the ground past him. Some even landed on his head, putting chunks of white in his brown hair.
“Princess Rapunzel, I will now eat two for such boorish behavior,” he called up.
“With as slow as you are, they will be all gone before you get here.” She took another bite and quickly ducked inside when he increased his speed up the fifteen rungs or so of the ladder. Opening the small door to the house, she beamed a smile at him as he climbed onto the porch. “Welcome!”
“Ha!” Jonathan brushed his hands upon his trousers. “So, where is mine?” he asked as he looked pointedly at the pastry in her hand.
“Right here.” She took another bite and then giggled when he chased her inside the little place. It was about six feet by eight feet. It had just enough room for two small chairs and a table, a fine old rug, and a collection of older pillows. On the table was the basket with the pastries.
He dug in and began chewing on one while holding up another. “See?” he said around a mouthful. “They are both mine. You cannot claim them.”
“I can, if you continue to drop as many crumbs as this upon my newly cleaned floor!”
“You sound like a fishwife!” He took another bite and plopped down on a cozy section of pillows.
“Me? A fishwife?” She pretended to act scandalized as she sat down next to him, her white skirts spread prettily around her.
“Whot?” He grinned. “Do you not think royalty can act like commoners, then?”
She rolled her eyes. “I do not think the two should ever be compared.”
“Fine.” In an odd moment of seriousness, he straightened his features and said, “Forgive me.”
She waited for the coming quip. Something about him being mistaken—she was not a fishwife, she was more of an ogre—but it never came. Her smile fell and she leaned back, looking into his darkened eyes. “What is it, Jonathan? Is something wrong?”
He shook his head slightly and sighed. “When is anything wrong with me?” He did not look away.
“Never. You are always in perfect spirits.”
“Precisely. So why do you assume something is bothering me now?”
“What is it? Tell me, please.”
He blinked and looked away.
“Jonathan?”
“Would you like another pastry?” he asked.
“No. I would like you to speak to me. Jonathan, ’tis not fair. I share all my secrets with you.”
His gaze met hers and he stared at her for what felt like several minutes. She waited. For once in her chattering existence, she wanted to know, really know, what he had to say. And she did not dare ruin the moment by speaking over him.
Finally, she was rewarded for her persistence.
“I have to go away to school.”
“What?” She felt as though a load of rocks had fallen upon her chest. “When? Why? For how long?”
“I have one week before I am sent off.”
“Jonathan!” She reached for his hand, something she had never done before. She could not bear losing him.
He squeezed her fingers. “I had to come and tell you. I made Father bring us here so I could say good-bye
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