Puss without Boots: A Puss in Boots Retelling (Fairy Tale Kingdoms Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Moss Forest Orchid

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  To Grandma

  I think you would have liked this cat.

  Puss without Boots: A Puss in Boots Retelling

  Fairy Tale Kingdoms, Book 1

  Copyright © 2016 by Shari L. Tapscott

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Patrick Hodges and Z.A. Sunday

  Cover Design by Shari L. Tapscott

  CHAPTER ONE

  The cat stares at me from his perch on the windowsill. His fluffy, golden tail twitches back and forth like a pendulum, and I squirm under his gaze. Even when I look away, his green eyes never leave me.

  Sunlight shines through slits in the closed shutters, and dust motes dance in the air. It’s daytime; he should be in the mill, catching mice. But, as if he knows Mildred’s dying, he waits with us.

  Before my eccentric aunt fell ill, she would talk to the cat—have real conversations with him. She’d even answer like he was actually speaking to her. It was the strangest thing. Disconcerting and unnatural.

  My brothers, Thomas and Eugene, sit at the table with their hats clutched in their hands as we wait. The village doctor has been in Mildred’s room all afternoon. When we woke this morning and found her barely breathing, we didn’t expect her to make it past noon. It’s nearing evening now.

  The tiny cottage is too still. I’d like to open the shutters and let in the warm spring air, but the darkness feels right for the occasion.

  Needing something to distract me from the cat’s intense stare, I pick up my darning from the basket next to my chair. Eugene, the eldest of us, ripped his best shirt last week. Unlike the old brown rag he wears now, this one hasn’t needed mending yet. Now it will match all the rest of ours.

  My dress has so many patches, it looks like a quilt. With each of my growth spurts, I’ve added another layer to the hem and occasionally let out the waistline. At seventeen, I think I’ve finished growing. Maybe after the harvest we’ll finally have enough money for me to buy material for a new one—if Mildred leaves the mill to us, that is. If she doesn’t, I don’t know what we’ll do.

  Mildred’s door opens, and we all turn. The silence is palpable. The doctor nods. His expression is solemn, remorseful. I let out a held breath.

  It’s over.

  Our aunt was a strange woman, and though I lived with her for ten years, I never knew her well. She kept to herself mostly, tending her garden and letting the boys run the mill. The only company she kept was that cat.

  I glance at him now, morbidly curious to see if he will somehow sense her passing. Perhaps he’ll mourn her loss—maybe he’ll recognize the gloom weighing on my shoulders and wish to comfort me as well.

  As I watch, the cat stretches. After arching his back and bowing low as if stiff from his morning in the sill, he stands on his hind legs and lifts the window latch with his nose. Without so much as a backward glance, he presses the shutters open and jumps outside.

  He’s a very odd cat indeed.

  “To Eugene, Mildred has left the mill and cottage,” the ancient village clerk tells us.

  My brothers and I sit in front of the man’s desk, pretending our entire livelihood doesn’t depend on what he’s going to tell us. When he says the words, we all visibly relax. Though we hadn’t discussed it out loud, each of us worried Mildred had sold the deed back to the baron at some point in the last few years.

  The man owns most of the village, and his rent goes up every summer. With the meager amount our mill brings in, there’s no way we could afford to stay.

  The clerk continues, “And to Thomas, she has left the donkey.”

  I sigh, sitting back in my chair. There’s nothing else. Should my eldest brother decide to take a wife, which he likely will if Sarah-Anne, the butcher’s daughter he’s been courting, has a say in the matter, there will be nowhere for me to go.

  “To Suzette…”

  I suck in a breath, surprised, and sit up straighter. What else did my aunt own?

  “Mildred has left her cat.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Eugene and Thomas share a startled look.

  “I beg your pardon?” I ask, sitting unnaturally still.

  The cat? That’s just an insult.

  The clerk frowns at the paper and adjusts his frames. He shakes his head and then pulls a tiny, jingling coin pouch from his desk drawer.

  My heart leaps. There might not be much there, but it’s at least something.

  “And this”—he holds the money between us—“goes to Master Puss.”

  This time, I look at my brothers. “Who is Master Puss?”

  The clerk clears his throat. “I believe it’s the cat, Etta. And it says here that the money is to be used to buy him a pair of boots.”

  A lump forms in my throat. “Boots…for a cat?”

  Looking uncomfortable, the clerk gives me a sympathetic nod.

  I blink several times as I accept the pouch. Truly, Mildred was mad.

  The clerk goes over a few more legalities with my brothers, but I’m too consumed with humiliation to listen. My aunt, my own flesh and blood, left the last of her earthly savings to a barn cat—for a pair of boots, no less. Boots for a cat when I haven’t had a new dress since I was thirteen.

  I rise when my brothers stand, dip when the clerk gives me a respectful nod, and follow Eugene and Thomas out the door. We startle a goose, who must have decided the entry was a good spot for her afternoon perch sometime while we were inside, and she squawks as she waddles several paces away, flapping her wings with indignation.

  Oh, goose, I feel your pain.

  Around us, the village bustles with activity. It’s a market day, and farmers from the outskirts have hauled in their early spring crops. There are stalls with spinach, radishes, and all kinds of lettuce. The tailor’s young son and daughter have even set up their own makeshift stall and are selling asparagus that they must have picked near the large creek that runs outside of town.

  The vegetable grows with profusion this time of year. I can’t see a reason to pay for it when I can gather it myself, but there are people
more benevolent than I am. Or, rather, people with money to waste. How I’d love to have a few coppers in my apron pocket to give to the girl and boy. I’m sure they’re hoping to make enough to visit the new chocolatier who’s just opened his shop in the main square.

  It’s very fancy—a little too fancy for our quaint village, truth be told.

  Still, I hope the young man does well. He wears finely-tailored coats and has a hat to match each pair of boots he owns. Though I would never admit it to Eugene or Thomas, I like to look at him. Like to imagine that someday he might look back.

  “Etta, where’s your mind?” Thomas laughs like I’ve done something humorous.

  I jerk my head toward him. “What?”

  He’s a year older than I am, a year younger than Eugene, and he’s as ornery as the donkey he inherited. And right now, he’s grinning at me. “You just stepped in goose droppings.”

  I groan as I pull my skirt aside so I can examine the slipper. Disgusting greenish goo is smeared along the thin leather bottom. With one foot in the air, I stumble and then hop backward a few times to regain my balance.

  Eugene’s eyes go wide, and he holds out a hand. “Suzette—”

  The warning is too late. I’ve already backed right into someone. I leap forward and whirl around. “I’m so sorry…”

  The words die on my lips, and I gulp. At first horrifying glance, I mistakenly think it’s the young man from the chocolate shop, and I freeze in mortification.

  But, no. This man is a stranger. His hair is corn silk blond, and his eyes are blue. But like the chocolatier, he wears a fine coat with well-cut breeches, and his boots are made of expensive leather. Along with a dagger, a rapier hangs from his baldric and rests at his hip.

  With the way he’s dressed, he must be a lord’s son at the very least, perhaps even the offspring of a duke or an earl.

  And, right now, his eyes are laughing at me.

  My face flames, and for one brief moment I consider darting down the street to hide.

  The young man bows. “Good day, mademoiselle.”

  Let me die right here on the street.

  I dip in a curtsy and lower my eyes to the cobblestones as I mumble, “To you as well, monsieur.”

  I’m extremely conscious of my skirt with all its patches and my goose-dropping-smeared slipper. Never has such a fine man addressed me. Not once, not ever.

  “Perhaps you can help me,” he says. “I’m looking for the bookshop.”

  “It’s just around the corner,” Eugene offers, obviously embarrassed for me—or possibly of me. “The first building on the right.”

  The man looks at Eugene and nods his thanks, and then, just as he’s about to step away, he hesitates. Turning to me, he says, “Do you think you could show me?”

  “Me?” I blurt out before I can think better of it.

  Eugene cringes and Thomas, trying to keep himself from laughing, bites his bottom lip so hard it turns white.

  “Yes…yes, I’d love…of course,” I stutter, feeling like even more of a fool than I did before.

  Giving me a polite, refined sort of smile, the man offers me his arm. Practically trembling, I accept. He nods to my brothers, wishes them a good day, and leads me away.

  I stand at the tailor’s window, arms at my back, and look across the cobblestone street. Without turning, I ask, “Who’s the girl?”

  The tailor, a man of middle years with a mess of red hair, lifts his lenses, glances up from the table he’s working at, and squints out the window. “Do you mean Etta?”

  “The one standing there with the three men.” Two of them wear the simple clothing that most of the men of the village favor. They belong. One of them, with his fine doublet and self-important, puffed-up noble appearance, does not. The man looks vaguely familiar, but since I’ve only been in Glenridge for a season, I can’t place him.

  Anderson nods and looks back at his project. “Yes, that’s Etta. She lives in the mill.”

  “Where is that?” I ask absently.

  The dress she wears, a strange thing that looks like it’s been mended and lengthened a dozen times, doesn’t do a thing for her. But the moment she smiled at that man, instantly besotted with him, her cheeks turned pink, and something caught in my chest. Now, inconveniently, I can’t seem to take my eyes off her, off her bright eyes and the rich, light brown tendrils of hair that have escaped her bun.

  And now I’m waxing poetic like a fop.

  “Just outside town, not far from the road to Rynvale,” Anderson answers. “The two to her right are her brothers, Eugene and Thomas. Their aunt just passed. I’m sure they’re sorting the will out.” He looks up, his face set in a somewhat pinched expression. “If Broussard doesn’t already own everything.”

  Monsieur Broussard. Not the most pleasant man I’ve ever met. The widower baron lives on a hill just outside the village, his estate positioned to overlook everything he owns, which is a good portion of Glenridge. With no interest in living as a tenant, I bought my newly-opened shop from him outright. He certainly charged me enough for it—not that it hurt me any. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’ll make my money back when I leave. That’s a skill I learned well enough from my father.

  “An odd woman, their aunt,” Anderson continues, and then he grimaces. “May she rest in peace.”

  I frown instead of asking about the peculiar nature of the woman because the third man, the pompous one, offers the girl his arm. She flushes an even brighter red, tucks her hand at his side, and walks off with him with stars in her eyes and a smile on her lips, completely oblivious to Anderson’s dog, who’s just leaped from the stoop and is barking like a mad thing. I watch them until they turn the corner.

  Only once she’s gone do I pull my gaze from the street. Vaguely disconcerted, I turn away from the window.

  “I’m Kerrick,” the man says after a few quiet moments.

  My eyes are trained on the street in front of me. A sheep has gotten loose from a farmer’s pen, and a boy of about eleven tries to chase it back to the market stalls. The tailor’s dog, who moments ago was napping in the shade of a tree, now runs after the pair and yaps with canine glee.

  Trying to look casual, I glance at my companion. Does he know he looks so very out of place here?

  “Suzette,” I answer, though very few people call me by my given name.

  “Do you live in Glenridge, Suzette?” he asks. “Or are you here for market?”

  I swoon a little when he says my full name in that cultured way of his. His voice is just perfect—medium in deepness and smooth.

  “I live on the outskirts of the village.” I hesitate. “In the cottage beside the mill.”

  I hope he’s not familiar with it. It’s rundown and shabby, and our own field hasn’t done well in years. If it weren’t for local farmers needing us to grind their wheat, we’d practically be beggars. Unfortunately, in the last few years, many have built their own small mills and no longer need ours.

  “And what brings you to Glenridge?” I ask, pretending that I stroll with members of the nobility every day.

  “The man who runs your bookshop is said to have a variety of rare fiction. My father’s birthday is next week, and I’m hoping to find him something he doesn’t already have.”

  Judging from Kerrick’s clothing, I imagine that’s a difficult task.

  “He likes to read?” I ask, and then I feel foolish.

  Of course the man must like to read. Why else would Kerrick be looking to buy him a book?

  “He’s fond of stories of adventure.” He waits a beat. “As am I.”

  I finally work up the courage to glance at the man at my side. He’s impossibly handsome, his face almost cherubic in its beauty. If I were to guess, I would say he’s only a year or two older than I.

  We reach the bookstore in less than a minute. I pause outside the door and motion him toward the sign. “Here you are.”

  He turns and looks at me—really looks at me—and then he smiles. “I’m h
appy to have met you, Suzette.”

  An idiotic grin toys at my lips, but I manage to give him what I hope is a demure smile. “And I you.”

  With one last nod, he turns into the shop.

  My stomach can’t decide if it’s light with butterflies or churning with another sudden bout of melancholy. The short walk was easily the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. Now it’s over, and I’m sure nothing this wonderful will ever happen again. I’m the orphan niece of the newly-deceased miller’s widow, and the only belongings I have in the world are a cat and enough gold to buy him a pair of boots. Even I’m not enough of a daydreamer to pretend I’ll see the man again.

  With a sigh, I walk down the street. The cobbler’s sign hangs just three buildings down. I might as well get it over with. He’s going to laugh at me. Who has ever heard of a cat with a pair of boots? How is the mangy creature supposed to wear them?

  He’ll most likely yowl his fool head off when I try to pin him down long enough to slip them over his paws.

  I’m standing outside the entry, staring at the sign, when the cobbler opens the door.

  “Etta?” he asks, surprised to see me on his step. “Can I help you?”

  I draw the pouch of coins from my satchel, glance at my threadbare, stained slippers, and make a hasty decision. “I’d like to buy myself a pair of boots.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The boots are sturdy and made of sumptuously soft, supple leather. They are the most extravagant thing I’ve ever owned, and I’ve hidden them in the back of my corner of the loft where my brothers won’t find them. It’s been a month, and yet every time I look at them, I’m consumed with guilt.

  My dying aunt had one final request, and I was too selfish to honor it. Not only that, but the money could have been used for something more practical—like food or repairs to the mill.

  This morning, my brothers are planting the field, and I’m inside, scrubbing the dredges of the last week of pottage out of the old cast-iron pot. Every night, we eat a little of the grain-based porridge, and every morning, we toss in a few vegetables. Sometimes we add a few scraps of meat if we have them (and we rarely do). But I’ve had enough today. It’s time to start fresh.