intheheart (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
intheheart) wrote2019-09-28 11:05 pm
intheheart) wrote2019-09-28 11:05 pm
Donkeyskin I: Frosty Wind Made Moan
Title: Donkeyskin I: Frosty Wind Made Moan
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Once upon a time there was a little girl named Olivia.
Warnings: depiction of depression, murder of an animal, Yvonne's brand of child abuse.
Notes: THIS FUCKING STORY. OH MY GOD. Many eons ago Kelly prompted me with Olivia in a version of Donkeyskin and I wound up with at least three seperate stories and ALL OF THEM ARE PORTRAITS. Kelly, I hope you're happy. Slightly inspired by "In the Bleak Midwinter."
Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Olivia.
Her father was a rich man, a physician of no little skill, a man known as much for his kindness as for his wisdom. Her mother was a woman of such surpassing grace and beauty that all turned in the streets to admire her as she passed them by. They lived in a prosperous town in a prosperous kingdom, close enough to the capital to enjoy its splendors, but not so close as to come to the attention of the king. Their house was large and airy, with a yard of its very own, her father’s practice was thriving—Olivia and her family never wanted for money, or its benefits.
Most of all, she never wanted for love.
Her father adored her. She was the apple of his eye, his little Sunny, and she worshipped him in return. To her he was a god, far more real than the ones who stood as distant statues in the temples. He would come home, and she would run to him. He would swing her up into his arms, kiss her cheek, and hold her tight, ask how her day had been and tell her of the people he had helped, the children he had cured. She thought, when she was small, that they had prayed for him and he had come, in answer to their pleas. How lucky she was, to be his child! She walked with him in the marketplace, her small hand in his large one, and she knew the other children envied her.
Her mother did not love her, though she did not understand this then. Her mother was too beautiful, too graceful, too well aware of her own blessings to love anyone beyond herself. But there were moments, flashes of interest and an absentminded sort of affection, that Olivia took for love. After all, did not the mothers of her playfellows behave the same way? Such women would kiss their children one moment, fawn over them, and the next hand them over to their nursemaids and send them away. That was just how mothers loved.
Olivia's mother even told her stories, sometimes, of her life before she had married Olivia's father. She would tell of all her suitors, handsome men and strong, of how Olivia's father had not believed himself worthy of her, and so had courted her sister at first, wanting only to be near to her. How she had seen his skill as a physician, and how other people had looked up to him. How she had changed his mind, and taught him to love her as he ought.
Olivia thought it all very romantic, and never once wondered what had become of her aunt.
Those moments with her mother were rare, and she treasured them, but not as much as she loved the minutes and hours and days she spent with her father, on his knee or by his side, watching him perform his craft or showing him the letters she had learned that day in school. Her mother she loved, but her father was everything.
“Papa,” she would ask sometimes, while they sat together in the sunlight, “how long have you loved me?”
“Since the moment I first held you,” he would tell her, smiling down into her eyes. “You were so little then, and red and squirming, but I loved you in that moment.”
“And Papa,” she would say, climbing into his lap and cuddling close, “how long will you love me?”
“Forever, my darling,” he would tell her, and kiss her forehead. “I will love you forever.”
--
Things changed. Things always change. They did not change for the better.
The little girl grew older, old enough to be married, or at least to be thinking about it. She let her skirts down and put her hair up, learned to curtsey gracefully and make polite conversation, spent more time with her mother and less with her father. She was a grown-up girl now, he would say, whenever she asked to go out with him again, to walk in the marketplace with her hand in his. It was not proper. She must stay with her mother and learn to be a lady.
She did not want to be a lady. But if her father said it must be so, then it must be so.
Other things were changing too. When she was very small, her mother saw her as a toy, to be played with and put away as she chose. Now that she was a grown-up girl, a lady who bid fair to be as beautiful and graceful as her mother, she became competition. Her mother watched with jealous eyes as she learned to dance and flirt, to lower her eyelashes and smile shyly up at a man. The time had not yet come when the daughter would outshine her mother, but it was not far off, and Olivia's mother knew it.
She set herself the task, then, of ensuring it never would come. And the simplest way to begin her task was to come between Olivia and her father.
One day, as they sat together in the mother's solar, she began her plan. "My dear," she said, casually, "what are you going to ask of your father?"
Olivia, whose head had been bent industriously over her embroidery, lifted her eyes to meet her mother's, with confusion writ large on her features. "I do not understand," she said. "Why should I ask anything of him?"
Her mother arched her eyebrows upwards. "Why, my foolish little child," she said, and laughed the tinkling laugh so admired by the men of the town. "To see if he still loves you, of course."
"Of course he does," Olivia said, with assurance. "He told me he would love me forever."
"My foolish little child," her mother said, again. "Men say things they do not mean. Do you know he once promised me a dress as shining as the sun?" She sighed, and looked up at the ceiling with dreaming eyes. "Can you imagine how I would have looked in such a dress? No one would be able to resist me."
"They cannot resist you now, Mama," Olivia said politely, for she was a well-brought-up girl, and she knew what her mother wanted to hear. "But did he never get it for you?"
"Never," her mother said, widening her eyes to show that she was sincere. "Never ever. I am sure, though, if he loves you as you say that he does, he will certainly get such a thing for you. You must be sure to ask him, when next you see him."
"I shall," Olivia said, simply to be polite, and bent her head over her sewing again. But in her heart she was troubled, for she had never known either of her parents to lie to her, and she did not know what she should do.
That evening when her father returned home and they all three sat in the parlor together before a roaring fire, she decided to do as her mother asked her. For, after all, did her father not love her? She was certain that he did, and that he would get her the dress just as her mother insisted he would not. Her mother was mistaken, that was all, and she would prove it.
"Papa," she ventured, without lifting her eyes from her embroidery, "may I ask for something?"
She heard his clothing rustle as he turned towards her, and dared to look up at his face. "Of course, Sunny," he said. "You may always ask me for anything."
"Well," she said, and stole a glance at her mother, who was adjusting her dress and smiling. "Papa, I have been thinking. I am growing up very fast now, and I think that I should have a dress like a lady has." She took a deep breath, and before he could speak, she said, "I would like a dress for a lady, a dress that shines like the sun, and then I could hold up my head among the other girls, for I would know that I am just as much a lady as any of them."
Her father was silent for a moment, his eyes on her mother and that quiet smile, then he turned back to her. "I shall see if I can get it for you, my dear," he said, quietly.
"Thank you, Papa," she said, and bent her head to her embroidery again, her heart pounding. He had not said yes. She had been so certain that he loved her, so certain he would say yes. He had not said no, it was true... but he had not said yes.
Perhaps her mother was right.
--
Three days passed, and her father did not mention the dress. Olivia's heart sank further in her chest with every dawn. With every sunset, her mother's voice sounded in her ears. If he loves you as you say that he does, he will certainly get such a thing for you. Certainly, and yet, he had not.
At dawn on the fourth day, she opened her eyes and thought for a moment the sun had decided to come down and sit in her bedroom, for there was a dazzling light at the foot of her bed. She blinked her eyes to clear them and saw that it was not the sun, it was a dress of shimmering gold that caught the light to itself and reflected it out again, so that its wearer would look like a living flame, like the sun's daughter come to walk the earth.
With a cry of joy, Olivia caught up the dress and ran barefoot to her mother's room. She burst through the door and danced 'round the room in her nightgown, twirling the golden dress so its skirts spread out in a wheel of light. "Look, Mama," she cried, "look, he gave it to me, it is true, he does love me!"
"Sit down and be quiet, child," her mother said, crossly, "this behavior is not becoming of a young lady."
Obedient as a good child is, Olivia sat at the foot of her mother's great bed and was quiet, though she could not stop herself from stroking the skirts of the dress as they spilled across her lap and grew bright in the morning sun.
Her mother sat in her great oak bed with the four oak posters and the green silk hangings. It made a perfect setting for her in her white silk nightgown, her golden hair spilling down across the blankets. She looked a princess, even now, with her eyes narrow and hot with unhappiness.
"Child," she said, at last. "It is one thing that he brought you a golden dress, but you are too easily pleased. You said a dress as shining as the sun. I see a dress that could be golden, in the light, perhaps, but spread it in the shade and it is naught but ordinary yellow. He has brought you a token, nothing more." She sighed. "But then, you must make allowances. Perhaps he did only what he could."
Olivia turned her eyes down to the golden dress, which seemed to dim in the darkness to plain yellow. "Then, Mama," she whispered, "how can I be sure he loves me?"
She did not see her mother smile. "Ask him for another thing," she said, her nightgown hissing across her coverlet. "Ask him for a dress as shining as the moon. Then, if he brings it, you will see that he really loves you."
--
So it went with the dress as shining as the moon, which shone in the moonlight like the liquid quicksilver her father kept in his stores, and yet dimmed to mere grey when her mother scoffed at it, the moonstones that bordered its collar changing to mere pebbles, its silver embroidery losing its shine. So it went even with the dress as shining as the stars, an opalescent milky white trimmed with crystals that shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, moving and changing as Olivia moved the fabric. Her mother could not easily dismiss the star-dress-- for a moment even she was overcome, and reached for it with greedy hands-- but in the next moment she composed herself and said that a white dress was appropriate for a young lady such as she was, but hardly as shining as the stars.
"Then what must I do, Mama, to be sure he loves me?" Olivia asked, almost begging, for by now her heart kicked in fits and starts every time she saw the father she had once loved without doubt.
Her mother smiled a strange smile again. "You must ask him for the skin of his donkey, that he loves so well," she said.
Olivia knew the donkey, the sweet little donkey with the soft nose that she patted every morning in the stable beside their garden. She knew its floppy ears and its mild brown eyes and the delicate way its lips brushed against her palm when she fed it a carrot. She was used to ride on that donkey, double with her father when she was small and would accompany him on his errands, or sidesaddle now, alone, when she went to her dancing lessons when her mother could not escort her. "No!" she cried. "I cannot ask for its skin. It is so sweet and lovely, and I am sure he would never give it to me."
"You can," her mother said, "and indeed you must, for how else will you know that he loves you?"
"I am sure that he does," Olivia insisted, "for he has given me three dresses, and if they are not as shining as the heavens then they are at least the most beautiful that he could find. He is my father, Mama, and he told me that he would love me forever. He will not break his word. He loves me."
"If it is as you say," her mother said, "then never listen to another word that I say, I, your mother, who know you and he far better than you can imagine. He claims, my foolish child, that he loves you; why then does he never bring you out with him?"
She shook her head, would not believe it. "It is because I must be a young lady now, and young ladies do not walk in the marketplace like common girls."
"If he truly loved you he would not care what is proper," her mother said, with surprising vehemence. "He would not care what is best. He would do what you wanted, always and forever, and never question a word, because he loved you so dearly he could not bear the thought of your unhappiness. Do you think he will not make you unhappy? He has already done what suits him over what will make you happy. Do you think that is love? Do you?"
Olivia hung her head, and could not speak, for it was all true. There had been times when her father denied her something she wanted, and told her it was for the best. Indeed, she could see now that it always had been for the best, that he had only denied her the thing because it would not be good for her, or because she would no longer wish for it in a day's time. But if what her mother said was true, then perhaps he had not thought of what would be best for her, but only of his own convenience. Perhaps she had been an amusement when she was small, and now that she was grown, she no longer amused him. Perhaps everything her mother said was nothing but the truth.
"Think on it," her mother said, softly. "You know that I am right, but think on it. When you are ready, ask him for the donkey, and you will know the truth, once and for all."
--
In the end, she did as her mother said, because she did not know what else to do.
She knew her father would not give her the donkey, but she hoped otherwise, sitting in the light of the fire and pricking at her embroidery with shaking hands. They were rich, were they not? Every year her father's patients grew more numerous-- now they numbered among them the richest merchants in town. He could buy another donkey to carry him from place to place, or even a horse. Maybe...
He loved her. She knew that. Maybe he would give her the donkey, and then she would know for good and all, and her mother could say what she liked.
"Papa," she said, into the fire-crackled silence of their evening together. "Papa, I am getting older."
"You are," he replied, busy among his bottles and medicines. He did not look at her. She wished he would look at her.
"I would like to visit my friends, now and then," she said, tentatively. "I wish that I had a way to do it."
Her father still did not look at her. "You can walk, can you not?" There was just a hint of unaccustomed irritation in his voice, and Olivia shrank away from the question, biting her lip until she drew blood.
The silence stretched between them, the fire and the clinking bottles the only noise. She could let it go. She could not ask. But her mother, head bent over her embroidery in her seat by the fire, was smiling a little smile, and abruptly she could not bear it.
"It is too far for me," she said, all in a burst like a startled doe. "Papa, may I have the donkey?"
Her father did look up then, his movements sharp, and his eyes keen. "The donkey?"
"Yes, Papa." He had not said no immediately, and she dared to hope a little bit. "I would like the donkey."
He looked then, not at her, but at her mother, in the corner, that secret little smile still on her face. "No, Olivia," he said, at last. "That I cannot do."
Her heart dropped, and her mother looked up, triumph blazing from her face. "Papa," she began, and he raised a hand, his eyes still on her mother.
"No, Olivia," he said, his voice gentle, but resolute. "Go to bed, now. I have to speak to your mother."
"Yes, Olivia," and her mother's voice was mocking, bright and lilting. "Go to bed."
She packed her embroidery away into her work-basket and went upstairs, slowly, her hand trailing along the railing of the staircase, her feet heavy as lead. She paused at the top, heard the voices from the parlor; her father low and angry, her mother high and mocking.
She climbed softly into bed and pulled the covers over her head, closed her eyes, and waited for the morning, so weary and heart-sore that she could not even cry.
--
It was still dark when her mother woke her, a rough hand on her shoulder. Olivia opened her eyes, and raised a hand to shield them against the flare of candlelight. "Mama?"
"You're awake." Her mother got to her feet, and pulled the warm down coverlet off Olivia. "Ah, and you're dressed, good. Get up, we're leaving."
"Leaving?" She blinked the candle-dazzle out of her eyes, and saw shapeless bundles at the foot of her bed, heavy on the blankets and her feet. "Where are we going?"
Her mother ignored her, going into her wardrobe, pulling out the three shining dresses and throwing them across the packs. It gave her a pang to see them, those physical manifestations of her father. "Come, get up. Put your hair up. We'll take the donkey."
"Mama," Olivia began, and the look her mother threw her in the candlelight was so cutting and angry that she shut her mouth and got out of bed. It was not until they arrived in the stable and her mother told her to saddle the donkey that she dared speak again.
"Mama," she said, "where are we going? Where is Papa?"
Her mother went to the head of the stall and patted the donkey's nose, smiling a little smile. "He was called away," she said. "A good thing too. We are running from him."
At this Olivia was so shocked that she stood still, as if she had been frozen, until her mother snapped, "Get to work! Do you want him to find us here?" At that she found she could move again, though slowly and aching.
"Mama," she said, slowly, "why are we running from my papa?"
"Because he no longer loves you or me," her mother said, "and he never wants to see us again. He told me so. Don't cry, little fool," she added, when Olivia began to weep. "He did not love you anyway; he would not give you the donkey. Did I not say it would be so?"
"Yes, Mama," she whispered, and tightened the donkey's girth. "You did."
"Little fool," her mother said. "You'll learn. They never love you. They only like you so long as you are not troublesome. And sooner or later, you are always troublesome."
"Yes, Mama," Olivia said again, and hid her tears in the donkey's hide.
--
Her mother had a place readied for her, in a kingdom nearby, home of the glassblowers and the great glass mountain. Olivia had heard of the mountain and the princess isolated on its top, but she had never thought to see it. Now, her mother told her, she would live atop the mountain, to be the princess's companion, and, Olivia thought, to be out of her mother's way. It was two weeks' journey from their home to this new kingdom, and Olivia had learned much of her mother in those weeks, enough to know that she meant nothing to the woman who had given her birth.
What could she do, though? Her father did not want her. Her home was closed to her. She could do nothing but follow her mother, and so she went up the mountain, with the three dresses clasped under her arm.
She thought that the princess would hate her. What was there to like? Her mother had shown her so many things about herself, in the few weeks they had spent together. Perhaps she had said them with a spiteful tongue, but Olivia could see the truth in them. And the princess, when she met her, was so pretty, all golden hair and graceful movements. She must hate Olivia, ugly and drab and clumsy.
But the princess did not hate her. Olivia thought at first that it was only because all the others atop the mountain were young, eight or nine, and she and the princess were much of an age. But the princess-- Gina, as she insisted Olivia call her-- was sweet and friendly, kind to her in a way that no one else had ever been to her, not even her friends in her home town.
Soon they were always together, doing lessons, sharing a room, whispering secrets atop the highest tower. Gina told her of the sorrows she'd suffered in her young life-- her lost mother, her distant father, the constant isolation and imprisonment. In return, Olivia told Gina of her own father, lost forever through her mother's manipulation, how dearly he had loved and cared for her before she had killed that love. It was the first time someone besides her father had comforted her, the first time someone had told her that her loss was worth grieving.
When the guards came to take Olivia away, she wept harder than she had ever wept in her life.
--
Her mother slapped her for it, afterwards.
She could not help crying, that first night away. She'd lost Gina, the closest friend she'd ever had. She'd lost her father even earlier than that, through her own stupid words, for how could anyone love her after what she had done? She'd lost even her dresses, her beautiful dresses; her mother had taken them when they left, and slapped her across the face for asking why they were leaving.
Her mother was so angry. Olivia did not know what had happened, to get them thrown out of the kingdom-- and they were thrown out, guards escorting them all the way to the border, watching stern-eyed to be sure they did not double back-- but whatever it was it had made her mother so angry that she lashed out at everything, at the donkey, at the world, at Olivia. And when Olivia could not stop crying, she slapped her, and left her cheek stinging.
"Stop whining," she snarled. "You little fool, stop sniveling! If it weren't for you this never would have happened."
"I'm sorry," Olivia said, but she could not stop crying.
Her mother whirled on her and slapped her again, so hard her head snapped to one side with the force of the blow. "How can you be such a child? You whine for your little friend and your foolish fancies. I have lost a kingdom, and you dare set your petty losses against mine? Stop crying or I will show you what it is to cry!"
Olivia stared at the ground, and pressed her hand up against her aching cheek. She said nothing, because there was nothing to say, nothing she dared let from her tongue for fear she would get slapped again. But the tears kept trickling down her cheeks, slow and painful.
Her mother did nothing for a moment, only breathed heavily in and out of her nose, like a bull Olivia had seen once, getting ready to charge. Then she said, very quietly, "Sit down."
Olivia moved to do it, but she did not move fast enough and her mother shoved her down. "Stay there," she snarled. Her voice sounded like rocks clashing, grinding on each other.
Olivia stayed.
Her mother stalked to the donkey, which had dropped its head and begun cropping grass, as it always did. It did not even flinch as her mother went to the packs, and drew out a knife. It did not even flinch as she cut its throat.
Olivia screamed and covered her eyes, ducked away from the spray of blood that spattered across her skirts. She screamed and screamed, screamed until her voice was hoarse, screamed until her mother seized her hair, jerked her head up and slapped her again with a bloody hand.
"Shut up," she hissed. "You wanted something to whine about, here it is." And she threw the donkey's bloody skin into Olivia's lap. "Wear this. You'll get nothing else from me."
Olivia clutched it in her lap and wept, silently, until her mother stalked away with a huff of disgust.
--
She waited until her mother fell asleep before she ran.
It was something Gina had said, just before they were pulled apart. You are so wonderful, she'd said, weeping. I will miss you so much. Come back to me, when I am queen; you will always have a place with me.
Her mother said she was worthless, stupid, a sniveling brat. Gina said she was needed, wonderful, loved. Gina held her while she cried, whispered secrets to her in the dead of night, braided her hair and laughed with her. Even if her father didn't want her anymore-- and oh, how that thought still hurt, a pit in the depths of her stomach-- Gina would take her in. Her mother...
Well.
She took the dresses with her, because they were hers, not her mother's. She took some food, because she needed it. And she took the donkey's skin as well, because it was the only warm thing that she had, and because it too did not belong to her mother. She could not leave the poor thing, dead or alive. She wrapped it around her shoulders and ran into the night.
Days and nights melted into weeks and her food ran out. She was lost and she knew it-- what girl of her station learned to navigate in the wild? But she could not stop, and she could not go back to her mother, even if she wanted to, so she kept trudging onwards. Sometimes she passed a tree heavy with fruit, or a clear, bubbling stream; it kept her alive, but fall was pressing on to winter, and she knew there would be no more succor soon.
She kept walking, because what could she do? She kept walking, and soon she met the man.
He was sitting beside a fire, roasting some kind of small bird-- it was the smell that drew her to him, drifting on the wind. She hesitated when she saw him, for he was a very big man and rather intimidating, with bushy brown hair standing out about his head like a bear. He must have heard her approach, though, for without looking up, he said, "You may as well come closer. I will not hurt you, and it is getting cold."
He was right, so she stepped forward, shyly into the firelight, and ducked her head when he looked up and smiled at her.
"Well," he said. "I was not expecting someone like you. Are you lost?"
"Yes," Olivia said, for she had been raised to be honest. "Are you?"
"No," he said, "or rather, I am not lost in that I know where I am. I do not know where I should be, though." He smiled, an expression half sadness that she had seen more than once on her father's face. "That, I suppose, is lost as well."
"It's the very opposite of me," she said, shyly. "I know where I should be... or..." She faltered. "I know where I want to be."
He cocked his head. "Then perhaps we can help each other. Sit down, and tell me what you seek, and why you wear that." He jerked his chin at the donkey skin that she still wore wrapped around her shoulders.
She flushed, and sat down across the fire from him. "It is a very long story," she said, quietly. "And not a happy one."
He shrugged, and gestured at the bird. "Dinner will take a long time to cook," he said. "And I have unhappiness of my own. Consider it payment for your part of the bird, if you like."
She nodded, slowly, and while the bird roasted and the fire flickered between them, while the sky overhead darkened slowly into night, she told her story.
He listened without interrupting, and when she finished speaking, he was quiet for a time, turning the bird, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them. "I too have lost my family," he said to her at last, his great brown eyes dark with sorrow. "I had them once, but it was so long ago... I hardly remember."
On impulse, Olivia reached out over the flames and patted his arm, as she had done to her playfellows so long ago when they wept. "I am sorry," she offered, and she was, for she at least had the memories of her father, of his hand in hers and his arms around her. What must it be like to have the hole in yourself and not even a memory to fill it?
He sighed, then looked up at her, and gave a small smile. "You say you want to go back to your friend, but I am afraid that may not be possible. Her kingdom has--" He stopped, shook his head. "It is no longer hers. But I can give you another choice."
Olivia said nothing, only sat still and small. She could not remember having a choice since... since.
"I know where your kingdom is," he went on. "If you like, I can take you there. I can find your father and bring you home. If you tell me but his name I will find him anywhere, in the furthest corners of the earth. Would you like me to do this?"
She clutched her bundle to her chest, the bundle with the three dresses folded tight inside, held the donkey skin tighter around her shoulders, and asked, "You would do that? For me?"
"For you," he said, "and for myself, and for everyone who has lost their family. Yes, I would do this, if you ask it."
If she asked it. If she asked it, she could go home. If she asked it, she could see her father again. She wanted and feared it both, wanted to see his dear face and feared what he would say... but what choice did she have?
But then again, it was her choice.
"Please," she whispered, and held her bundle tighter.
--
The man's name was Lars, and he could change his skin for that of a bear. Apart from that he was a very fine travelling companion, and even the bear shape was useful, for running during the day, and sleeping warm at night. As it happened she had wandered very far in the wrong direction, so the first snow had fallen by the time they arrived in the town of her birth.
How he knew the right town to go to, Olivia did not know, for she had never known the name of it, only that it was home. He knew it, though, and took her to the very edge of its warm circle of firelight, to the outer ring of wooden houses dusted with sugar-lace snow, and bade her get down in the deepening twilight to stand in the drifts, nearly home and yet so far.
"I must leave you here," he told her, when she had got down and he had changed his skin back to a man's. "You must go in alone."
She looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. She did not know him at all, but for his name and his lost family and his changing skin, but he was still the only thing she did know in this suddenly alien town. "You will not go with me?"
He shook his head, solemn. "I may not," he said, and would not explain who forbade him. "Go, little one. I think you will find there is less to fear than you think."
It was easy enough for him to say. Easier still for him to change his skin again and run off into the snowbound woods, the rising moon casting purple shadows on his white fur. She was alone, and frightened, and she clutched her bundle to her chest and the donkey's skin around her shoulders, staring into the town.
Her father lived at the very center of the town, in a tall gabled house. It was a small town but not that small, and it would still take time to walk there, time to mount the steps, time to knock at the door and wait for him to see her, time she could not bear to face. Second guesses and her mother's voice filled up her mind, made her head spin so that she sat down suddenly in the snow.
He doesn't want to see you, her mother had said. He'll never want to see you. You're nothing to him, to me, just a pestilent brat. The only thing we share is the wish that you had died at birth. Who would ever love you?
You're horrible, had said her own voice, ugly and hateful. Why should he still love you? You asked and asked and gave nothing back; of course he stopped loving you. Anyone would.
I'm sorry-- even Gina, though she hadn't meant it the same way. I'm sorry he did that, I can't imagine anyone turning their back on a child. I can't imagine that someone could just stop loving you.
But at the center of the maelstrom, a still small voice, one she knew so very well.
Forever, my darling. I will love you forever.
Olivia took a deep breath, tugged her donkey skin closer 'round her shoulders, and took the first step forward into the town.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Once upon a time there was a little girl named Olivia.
Warnings: depiction of depression, murder of an animal, Yvonne's brand of child abuse.
Notes: THIS FUCKING STORY. OH MY GOD. Many eons ago Kelly prompted me with Olivia in a version of Donkeyskin and I wound up with at least three seperate stories and ALL OF THEM ARE PORTRAITS. Kelly, I hope you're happy. Slightly inspired by "In the Bleak Midwinter."
Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Olivia.
Her father was a rich man, a physician of no little skill, a man known as much for his kindness as for his wisdom. Her mother was a woman of such surpassing grace and beauty that all turned in the streets to admire her as she passed them by. They lived in a prosperous town in a prosperous kingdom, close enough to the capital to enjoy its splendors, but not so close as to come to the attention of the king. Their house was large and airy, with a yard of its very own, her father’s practice was thriving—Olivia and her family never wanted for money, or its benefits.
Most of all, she never wanted for love.
Her father adored her. She was the apple of his eye, his little Sunny, and she worshipped him in return. To her he was a god, far more real than the ones who stood as distant statues in the temples. He would come home, and she would run to him. He would swing her up into his arms, kiss her cheek, and hold her tight, ask how her day had been and tell her of the people he had helped, the children he had cured. She thought, when she was small, that they had prayed for him and he had come, in answer to their pleas. How lucky she was, to be his child! She walked with him in the marketplace, her small hand in his large one, and she knew the other children envied her.
Her mother did not love her, though she did not understand this then. Her mother was too beautiful, too graceful, too well aware of her own blessings to love anyone beyond herself. But there were moments, flashes of interest and an absentminded sort of affection, that Olivia took for love. After all, did not the mothers of her playfellows behave the same way? Such women would kiss their children one moment, fawn over them, and the next hand them over to their nursemaids and send them away. That was just how mothers loved.
Olivia's mother even told her stories, sometimes, of her life before she had married Olivia's father. She would tell of all her suitors, handsome men and strong, of how Olivia's father had not believed himself worthy of her, and so had courted her sister at first, wanting only to be near to her. How she had seen his skill as a physician, and how other people had looked up to him. How she had changed his mind, and taught him to love her as he ought.
Olivia thought it all very romantic, and never once wondered what had become of her aunt.
Those moments with her mother were rare, and she treasured them, but not as much as she loved the minutes and hours and days she spent with her father, on his knee or by his side, watching him perform his craft or showing him the letters she had learned that day in school. Her mother she loved, but her father was everything.
“Papa,” she would ask sometimes, while they sat together in the sunlight, “how long have you loved me?”
“Since the moment I first held you,” he would tell her, smiling down into her eyes. “You were so little then, and red and squirming, but I loved you in that moment.”
“And Papa,” she would say, climbing into his lap and cuddling close, “how long will you love me?”
“Forever, my darling,” he would tell her, and kiss her forehead. “I will love you forever.”
--
Things changed. Things always change. They did not change for the better.
The little girl grew older, old enough to be married, or at least to be thinking about it. She let her skirts down and put her hair up, learned to curtsey gracefully and make polite conversation, spent more time with her mother and less with her father. She was a grown-up girl now, he would say, whenever she asked to go out with him again, to walk in the marketplace with her hand in his. It was not proper. She must stay with her mother and learn to be a lady.
She did not want to be a lady. But if her father said it must be so, then it must be so.
Other things were changing too. When she was very small, her mother saw her as a toy, to be played with and put away as she chose. Now that she was a grown-up girl, a lady who bid fair to be as beautiful and graceful as her mother, she became competition. Her mother watched with jealous eyes as she learned to dance and flirt, to lower her eyelashes and smile shyly up at a man. The time had not yet come when the daughter would outshine her mother, but it was not far off, and Olivia's mother knew it.
She set herself the task, then, of ensuring it never would come. And the simplest way to begin her task was to come between Olivia and her father.
One day, as they sat together in the mother's solar, she began her plan. "My dear," she said, casually, "what are you going to ask of your father?"
Olivia, whose head had been bent industriously over her embroidery, lifted her eyes to meet her mother's, with confusion writ large on her features. "I do not understand," she said. "Why should I ask anything of him?"
Her mother arched her eyebrows upwards. "Why, my foolish little child," she said, and laughed the tinkling laugh so admired by the men of the town. "To see if he still loves you, of course."
"Of course he does," Olivia said, with assurance. "He told me he would love me forever."
"My foolish little child," her mother said, again. "Men say things they do not mean. Do you know he once promised me a dress as shining as the sun?" She sighed, and looked up at the ceiling with dreaming eyes. "Can you imagine how I would have looked in such a dress? No one would be able to resist me."
"They cannot resist you now, Mama," Olivia said politely, for she was a well-brought-up girl, and she knew what her mother wanted to hear. "But did he never get it for you?"
"Never," her mother said, widening her eyes to show that she was sincere. "Never ever. I am sure, though, if he loves you as you say that he does, he will certainly get such a thing for you. You must be sure to ask him, when next you see him."
"I shall," Olivia said, simply to be polite, and bent her head over her sewing again. But in her heart she was troubled, for she had never known either of her parents to lie to her, and she did not know what she should do.
That evening when her father returned home and they all three sat in the parlor together before a roaring fire, she decided to do as her mother asked her. For, after all, did her father not love her? She was certain that he did, and that he would get her the dress just as her mother insisted he would not. Her mother was mistaken, that was all, and she would prove it.
"Papa," she ventured, without lifting her eyes from her embroidery, "may I ask for something?"
She heard his clothing rustle as he turned towards her, and dared to look up at his face. "Of course, Sunny," he said. "You may always ask me for anything."
"Well," she said, and stole a glance at her mother, who was adjusting her dress and smiling. "Papa, I have been thinking. I am growing up very fast now, and I think that I should have a dress like a lady has." She took a deep breath, and before he could speak, she said, "I would like a dress for a lady, a dress that shines like the sun, and then I could hold up my head among the other girls, for I would know that I am just as much a lady as any of them."
Her father was silent for a moment, his eyes on her mother and that quiet smile, then he turned back to her. "I shall see if I can get it for you, my dear," he said, quietly.
"Thank you, Papa," she said, and bent her head to her embroidery again, her heart pounding. He had not said yes. She had been so certain that he loved her, so certain he would say yes. He had not said no, it was true... but he had not said yes.
Perhaps her mother was right.
--
Three days passed, and her father did not mention the dress. Olivia's heart sank further in her chest with every dawn. With every sunset, her mother's voice sounded in her ears. If he loves you as you say that he does, he will certainly get such a thing for you. Certainly, and yet, he had not.
At dawn on the fourth day, she opened her eyes and thought for a moment the sun had decided to come down and sit in her bedroom, for there was a dazzling light at the foot of her bed. She blinked her eyes to clear them and saw that it was not the sun, it was a dress of shimmering gold that caught the light to itself and reflected it out again, so that its wearer would look like a living flame, like the sun's daughter come to walk the earth.
With a cry of joy, Olivia caught up the dress and ran barefoot to her mother's room. She burst through the door and danced 'round the room in her nightgown, twirling the golden dress so its skirts spread out in a wheel of light. "Look, Mama," she cried, "look, he gave it to me, it is true, he does love me!"
"Sit down and be quiet, child," her mother said, crossly, "this behavior is not becoming of a young lady."
Obedient as a good child is, Olivia sat at the foot of her mother's great bed and was quiet, though she could not stop herself from stroking the skirts of the dress as they spilled across her lap and grew bright in the morning sun.
Her mother sat in her great oak bed with the four oak posters and the green silk hangings. It made a perfect setting for her in her white silk nightgown, her golden hair spilling down across the blankets. She looked a princess, even now, with her eyes narrow and hot with unhappiness.
"Child," she said, at last. "It is one thing that he brought you a golden dress, but you are too easily pleased. You said a dress as shining as the sun. I see a dress that could be golden, in the light, perhaps, but spread it in the shade and it is naught but ordinary yellow. He has brought you a token, nothing more." She sighed. "But then, you must make allowances. Perhaps he did only what he could."
Olivia turned her eyes down to the golden dress, which seemed to dim in the darkness to plain yellow. "Then, Mama," she whispered, "how can I be sure he loves me?"
She did not see her mother smile. "Ask him for another thing," she said, her nightgown hissing across her coverlet. "Ask him for a dress as shining as the moon. Then, if he brings it, you will see that he really loves you."
--
So it went with the dress as shining as the moon, which shone in the moonlight like the liquid quicksilver her father kept in his stores, and yet dimmed to mere grey when her mother scoffed at it, the moonstones that bordered its collar changing to mere pebbles, its silver embroidery losing its shine. So it went even with the dress as shining as the stars, an opalescent milky white trimmed with crystals that shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, moving and changing as Olivia moved the fabric. Her mother could not easily dismiss the star-dress-- for a moment even she was overcome, and reached for it with greedy hands-- but in the next moment she composed herself and said that a white dress was appropriate for a young lady such as she was, but hardly as shining as the stars.
"Then what must I do, Mama, to be sure he loves me?" Olivia asked, almost begging, for by now her heart kicked in fits and starts every time she saw the father she had once loved without doubt.
Her mother smiled a strange smile again. "You must ask him for the skin of his donkey, that he loves so well," she said.
Olivia knew the donkey, the sweet little donkey with the soft nose that she patted every morning in the stable beside their garden. She knew its floppy ears and its mild brown eyes and the delicate way its lips brushed against her palm when she fed it a carrot. She was used to ride on that donkey, double with her father when she was small and would accompany him on his errands, or sidesaddle now, alone, when she went to her dancing lessons when her mother could not escort her. "No!" she cried. "I cannot ask for its skin. It is so sweet and lovely, and I am sure he would never give it to me."
"You can," her mother said, "and indeed you must, for how else will you know that he loves you?"
"I am sure that he does," Olivia insisted, "for he has given me three dresses, and if they are not as shining as the heavens then they are at least the most beautiful that he could find. He is my father, Mama, and he told me that he would love me forever. He will not break his word. He loves me."
"If it is as you say," her mother said, "then never listen to another word that I say, I, your mother, who know you and he far better than you can imagine. He claims, my foolish child, that he loves you; why then does he never bring you out with him?"
She shook her head, would not believe it. "It is because I must be a young lady now, and young ladies do not walk in the marketplace like common girls."
"If he truly loved you he would not care what is proper," her mother said, with surprising vehemence. "He would not care what is best. He would do what you wanted, always and forever, and never question a word, because he loved you so dearly he could not bear the thought of your unhappiness. Do you think he will not make you unhappy? He has already done what suits him over what will make you happy. Do you think that is love? Do you?"
Olivia hung her head, and could not speak, for it was all true. There had been times when her father denied her something she wanted, and told her it was for the best. Indeed, she could see now that it always had been for the best, that he had only denied her the thing because it would not be good for her, or because she would no longer wish for it in a day's time. But if what her mother said was true, then perhaps he had not thought of what would be best for her, but only of his own convenience. Perhaps she had been an amusement when she was small, and now that she was grown, she no longer amused him. Perhaps everything her mother said was nothing but the truth.
"Think on it," her mother said, softly. "You know that I am right, but think on it. When you are ready, ask him for the donkey, and you will know the truth, once and for all."
--
In the end, she did as her mother said, because she did not know what else to do.
She knew her father would not give her the donkey, but she hoped otherwise, sitting in the light of the fire and pricking at her embroidery with shaking hands. They were rich, were they not? Every year her father's patients grew more numerous-- now they numbered among them the richest merchants in town. He could buy another donkey to carry him from place to place, or even a horse. Maybe...
He loved her. She knew that. Maybe he would give her the donkey, and then she would know for good and all, and her mother could say what she liked.
"Papa," she said, into the fire-crackled silence of their evening together. "Papa, I am getting older."
"You are," he replied, busy among his bottles and medicines. He did not look at her. She wished he would look at her.
"I would like to visit my friends, now and then," she said, tentatively. "I wish that I had a way to do it."
Her father still did not look at her. "You can walk, can you not?" There was just a hint of unaccustomed irritation in his voice, and Olivia shrank away from the question, biting her lip until she drew blood.
The silence stretched between them, the fire and the clinking bottles the only noise. She could let it go. She could not ask. But her mother, head bent over her embroidery in her seat by the fire, was smiling a little smile, and abruptly she could not bear it.
"It is too far for me," she said, all in a burst like a startled doe. "Papa, may I have the donkey?"
Her father did look up then, his movements sharp, and his eyes keen. "The donkey?"
"Yes, Papa." He had not said no immediately, and she dared to hope a little bit. "I would like the donkey."
He looked then, not at her, but at her mother, in the corner, that secret little smile still on her face. "No, Olivia," he said, at last. "That I cannot do."
Her heart dropped, and her mother looked up, triumph blazing from her face. "Papa," she began, and he raised a hand, his eyes still on her mother.
"No, Olivia," he said, his voice gentle, but resolute. "Go to bed, now. I have to speak to your mother."
"Yes, Olivia," and her mother's voice was mocking, bright and lilting. "Go to bed."
She packed her embroidery away into her work-basket and went upstairs, slowly, her hand trailing along the railing of the staircase, her feet heavy as lead. She paused at the top, heard the voices from the parlor; her father low and angry, her mother high and mocking.
She climbed softly into bed and pulled the covers over her head, closed her eyes, and waited for the morning, so weary and heart-sore that she could not even cry.
--
It was still dark when her mother woke her, a rough hand on her shoulder. Olivia opened her eyes, and raised a hand to shield them against the flare of candlelight. "Mama?"
"You're awake." Her mother got to her feet, and pulled the warm down coverlet off Olivia. "Ah, and you're dressed, good. Get up, we're leaving."
"Leaving?" She blinked the candle-dazzle out of her eyes, and saw shapeless bundles at the foot of her bed, heavy on the blankets and her feet. "Where are we going?"
Her mother ignored her, going into her wardrobe, pulling out the three shining dresses and throwing them across the packs. It gave her a pang to see them, those physical manifestations of her father. "Come, get up. Put your hair up. We'll take the donkey."
"Mama," Olivia began, and the look her mother threw her in the candlelight was so cutting and angry that she shut her mouth and got out of bed. It was not until they arrived in the stable and her mother told her to saddle the donkey that she dared speak again.
"Mama," she said, "where are we going? Where is Papa?"
Her mother went to the head of the stall and patted the donkey's nose, smiling a little smile. "He was called away," she said. "A good thing too. We are running from him."
At this Olivia was so shocked that she stood still, as if she had been frozen, until her mother snapped, "Get to work! Do you want him to find us here?" At that she found she could move again, though slowly and aching.
"Mama," she said, slowly, "why are we running from my papa?"
"Because he no longer loves you or me," her mother said, "and he never wants to see us again. He told me so. Don't cry, little fool," she added, when Olivia began to weep. "He did not love you anyway; he would not give you the donkey. Did I not say it would be so?"
"Yes, Mama," she whispered, and tightened the donkey's girth. "You did."
"Little fool," her mother said. "You'll learn. They never love you. They only like you so long as you are not troublesome. And sooner or later, you are always troublesome."
"Yes, Mama," Olivia said again, and hid her tears in the donkey's hide.
--
Her mother had a place readied for her, in a kingdom nearby, home of the glassblowers and the great glass mountain. Olivia had heard of the mountain and the princess isolated on its top, but she had never thought to see it. Now, her mother told her, she would live atop the mountain, to be the princess's companion, and, Olivia thought, to be out of her mother's way. It was two weeks' journey from their home to this new kingdom, and Olivia had learned much of her mother in those weeks, enough to know that she meant nothing to the woman who had given her birth.
What could she do, though? Her father did not want her. Her home was closed to her. She could do nothing but follow her mother, and so she went up the mountain, with the three dresses clasped under her arm.
She thought that the princess would hate her. What was there to like? Her mother had shown her so many things about herself, in the few weeks they had spent together. Perhaps she had said them with a spiteful tongue, but Olivia could see the truth in them. And the princess, when she met her, was so pretty, all golden hair and graceful movements. She must hate Olivia, ugly and drab and clumsy.
But the princess did not hate her. Olivia thought at first that it was only because all the others atop the mountain were young, eight or nine, and she and the princess were much of an age. But the princess-- Gina, as she insisted Olivia call her-- was sweet and friendly, kind to her in a way that no one else had ever been to her, not even her friends in her home town.
Soon they were always together, doing lessons, sharing a room, whispering secrets atop the highest tower. Gina told her of the sorrows she'd suffered in her young life-- her lost mother, her distant father, the constant isolation and imprisonment. In return, Olivia told Gina of her own father, lost forever through her mother's manipulation, how dearly he had loved and cared for her before she had killed that love. It was the first time someone besides her father had comforted her, the first time someone had told her that her loss was worth grieving.
When the guards came to take Olivia away, she wept harder than she had ever wept in her life.
--
Her mother slapped her for it, afterwards.
She could not help crying, that first night away. She'd lost Gina, the closest friend she'd ever had. She'd lost her father even earlier than that, through her own stupid words, for how could anyone love her after what she had done? She'd lost even her dresses, her beautiful dresses; her mother had taken them when they left, and slapped her across the face for asking why they were leaving.
Her mother was so angry. Olivia did not know what had happened, to get them thrown out of the kingdom-- and they were thrown out, guards escorting them all the way to the border, watching stern-eyed to be sure they did not double back-- but whatever it was it had made her mother so angry that she lashed out at everything, at the donkey, at the world, at Olivia. And when Olivia could not stop crying, she slapped her, and left her cheek stinging.
"Stop whining," she snarled. "You little fool, stop sniveling! If it weren't for you this never would have happened."
"I'm sorry," Olivia said, but she could not stop crying.
Her mother whirled on her and slapped her again, so hard her head snapped to one side with the force of the blow. "How can you be such a child? You whine for your little friend and your foolish fancies. I have lost a kingdom, and you dare set your petty losses against mine? Stop crying or I will show you what it is to cry!"
Olivia stared at the ground, and pressed her hand up against her aching cheek. She said nothing, because there was nothing to say, nothing she dared let from her tongue for fear she would get slapped again. But the tears kept trickling down her cheeks, slow and painful.
Her mother did nothing for a moment, only breathed heavily in and out of her nose, like a bull Olivia had seen once, getting ready to charge. Then she said, very quietly, "Sit down."
Olivia moved to do it, but she did not move fast enough and her mother shoved her down. "Stay there," she snarled. Her voice sounded like rocks clashing, grinding on each other.
Olivia stayed.
Her mother stalked to the donkey, which had dropped its head and begun cropping grass, as it always did. It did not even flinch as her mother went to the packs, and drew out a knife. It did not even flinch as she cut its throat.
Olivia screamed and covered her eyes, ducked away from the spray of blood that spattered across her skirts. She screamed and screamed, screamed until her voice was hoarse, screamed until her mother seized her hair, jerked her head up and slapped her again with a bloody hand.
"Shut up," she hissed. "You wanted something to whine about, here it is." And she threw the donkey's bloody skin into Olivia's lap. "Wear this. You'll get nothing else from me."
Olivia clutched it in her lap and wept, silently, until her mother stalked away with a huff of disgust.
--
She waited until her mother fell asleep before she ran.
It was something Gina had said, just before they were pulled apart. You are so wonderful, she'd said, weeping. I will miss you so much. Come back to me, when I am queen; you will always have a place with me.
Her mother said she was worthless, stupid, a sniveling brat. Gina said she was needed, wonderful, loved. Gina held her while she cried, whispered secrets to her in the dead of night, braided her hair and laughed with her. Even if her father didn't want her anymore-- and oh, how that thought still hurt, a pit in the depths of her stomach-- Gina would take her in. Her mother...
Well.
She took the dresses with her, because they were hers, not her mother's. She took some food, because she needed it. And she took the donkey's skin as well, because it was the only warm thing that she had, and because it too did not belong to her mother. She could not leave the poor thing, dead or alive. She wrapped it around her shoulders and ran into the night.
Days and nights melted into weeks and her food ran out. She was lost and she knew it-- what girl of her station learned to navigate in the wild? But she could not stop, and she could not go back to her mother, even if she wanted to, so she kept trudging onwards. Sometimes she passed a tree heavy with fruit, or a clear, bubbling stream; it kept her alive, but fall was pressing on to winter, and she knew there would be no more succor soon.
She kept walking, because what could she do? She kept walking, and soon she met the man.
He was sitting beside a fire, roasting some kind of small bird-- it was the smell that drew her to him, drifting on the wind. She hesitated when she saw him, for he was a very big man and rather intimidating, with bushy brown hair standing out about his head like a bear. He must have heard her approach, though, for without looking up, he said, "You may as well come closer. I will not hurt you, and it is getting cold."
He was right, so she stepped forward, shyly into the firelight, and ducked her head when he looked up and smiled at her.
"Well," he said. "I was not expecting someone like you. Are you lost?"
"Yes," Olivia said, for she had been raised to be honest. "Are you?"
"No," he said, "or rather, I am not lost in that I know where I am. I do not know where I should be, though." He smiled, an expression half sadness that she had seen more than once on her father's face. "That, I suppose, is lost as well."
"It's the very opposite of me," she said, shyly. "I know where I should be... or..." She faltered. "I know where I want to be."
He cocked his head. "Then perhaps we can help each other. Sit down, and tell me what you seek, and why you wear that." He jerked his chin at the donkey skin that she still wore wrapped around her shoulders.
She flushed, and sat down across the fire from him. "It is a very long story," she said, quietly. "And not a happy one."
He shrugged, and gestured at the bird. "Dinner will take a long time to cook," he said. "And I have unhappiness of my own. Consider it payment for your part of the bird, if you like."
She nodded, slowly, and while the bird roasted and the fire flickered between them, while the sky overhead darkened slowly into night, she told her story.
He listened without interrupting, and when she finished speaking, he was quiet for a time, turning the bird, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them. "I too have lost my family," he said to her at last, his great brown eyes dark with sorrow. "I had them once, but it was so long ago... I hardly remember."
On impulse, Olivia reached out over the flames and patted his arm, as she had done to her playfellows so long ago when they wept. "I am sorry," she offered, and she was, for she at least had the memories of her father, of his hand in hers and his arms around her. What must it be like to have the hole in yourself and not even a memory to fill it?
He sighed, then looked up at her, and gave a small smile. "You say you want to go back to your friend, but I am afraid that may not be possible. Her kingdom has--" He stopped, shook his head. "It is no longer hers. But I can give you another choice."
Olivia said nothing, only sat still and small. She could not remember having a choice since... since.
"I know where your kingdom is," he went on. "If you like, I can take you there. I can find your father and bring you home. If you tell me but his name I will find him anywhere, in the furthest corners of the earth. Would you like me to do this?"
She clutched her bundle to her chest, the bundle with the three dresses folded tight inside, held the donkey skin tighter around her shoulders, and asked, "You would do that? For me?"
"For you," he said, "and for myself, and for everyone who has lost their family. Yes, I would do this, if you ask it."
If she asked it. If she asked it, she could go home. If she asked it, she could see her father again. She wanted and feared it both, wanted to see his dear face and feared what he would say... but what choice did she have?
But then again, it was her choice.
"Please," she whispered, and held her bundle tighter.
--
The man's name was Lars, and he could change his skin for that of a bear. Apart from that he was a very fine travelling companion, and even the bear shape was useful, for running during the day, and sleeping warm at night. As it happened she had wandered very far in the wrong direction, so the first snow had fallen by the time they arrived in the town of her birth.
How he knew the right town to go to, Olivia did not know, for she had never known the name of it, only that it was home. He knew it, though, and took her to the very edge of its warm circle of firelight, to the outer ring of wooden houses dusted with sugar-lace snow, and bade her get down in the deepening twilight to stand in the drifts, nearly home and yet so far.
"I must leave you here," he told her, when she had got down and he had changed his skin back to a man's. "You must go in alone."
She looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. She did not know him at all, but for his name and his lost family and his changing skin, but he was still the only thing she did know in this suddenly alien town. "You will not go with me?"
He shook his head, solemn. "I may not," he said, and would not explain who forbade him. "Go, little one. I think you will find there is less to fear than you think."
It was easy enough for him to say. Easier still for him to change his skin again and run off into the snowbound woods, the rising moon casting purple shadows on his white fur. She was alone, and frightened, and she clutched her bundle to her chest and the donkey's skin around her shoulders, staring into the town.
Her father lived at the very center of the town, in a tall gabled house. It was a small town but not that small, and it would still take time to walk there, time to mount the steps, time to knock at the door and wait for him to see her, time she could not bear to face. Second guesses and her mother's voice filled up her mind, made her head spin so that she sat down suddenly in the snow.
He doesn't want to see you, her mother had said. He'll never want to see you. You're nothing to him, to me, just a pestilent brat. The only thing we share is the wish that you had died at birth. Who would ever love you?
You're horrible, had said her own voice, ugly and hateful. Why should he still love you? You asked and asked and gave nothing back; of course he stopped loving you. Anyone would.
I'm sorry-- even Gina, though she hadn't meant it the same way. I'm sorry he did that, I can't imagine anyone turning their back on a child. I can't imagine that someone could just stop loving you.
But at the center of the maelstrom, a still small voice, one she knew so very well.
Forever, my darling. I will love you forever.
Olivia took a deep breath, tugged her donkey skin closer 'round her shoulders, and took the first step forward into the town.