Introduction

A Library Journal Best Book of 2014: Historical Fiction

The amazing power and truth of the Rapunzel fairy tale comes alive for the first time in this breathtaking tale of desire, black magic and the redemptive power of love

French novelist Charlotte-Rose de la Force has been banished from the court of Versailles by the Sun King, Louis XIV, after a series of scandalous love affairs. At the convent, she is comforted by an old nun, Sœur Seraphina, who tells her the tale of a young girl who, a hundred years earlier, is sold by her parents for a handful of bitter greens...

After Margherita’s father steals parsley from the walled garden of the courtesan Selena Leonelli, he is threatened with having both hands cut off, unless he and his wife relinquish their precious little girl. Selena is the famous red-haired muse of the artist Tiziano, first painted by him in 1512 and still inspiring him at the time of his death. She is at the center of Renaissance life in Venice, a world of beauty and danger, seduction and betrayal, love and superstition.

Locked away in a tower, Margherita sings in the hope that someone will hear her. One day, a young man does.

Award-winning author Kate Forsyth braids together the stories of Margherita, Selena, and Charlotte-Rose, the woman who penned Rapunzel as we now know it, to create what is a sumptuous historical novel, an enchanting fairy tale retelling, and a loving tribute to the imagination of one remarkable woman.

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Excerpt

A Sprig of Parsley

The Rock of Manerba, Lake Garda, Italy – May 1599

These three things were true:

Her name was Margherita.

Her parents had loved her.

One day, she would escape.

At the worst times, when the walls of the tower seemed to press upon her ribcage, Margherita would repeat these three things over and over again, like sorrowful mysteries muttered over a rosary.

She had been locked away in this one small stone room at the age of twelve. Fifty-one full moons had passed since then, shown by the scars on her wrists. If she did not escape soon, surely she would die.

Venice, Italy – April 1590

Margherita first met the sorceress on the day she turned seven.

Ordinarily, on the way home from market, Margherita would have been skipping along, singing at the top of her voice, or walking precariously along the narrow edge of the canal, arms spread wide.

Today, though, she walked slowly, her tongue curled sideways and set in the gap where her front teeth used to be – a sign of intense concentration. Margherita was carrying a small, warm, precious cake in her hands. It smelt fragrantly of cinnamon and sugar. She lifted it to her nose, then quickly licked the edge of the cake. The taste was an explosion of sweetness and richness in her mouth.

It was hard not to cram the whole cake into her mouth, but Margherita’s mother had trusted her with its purchase and safe return. Last year, Margherita’s birthday had been in the middle of Lent, and she had not been allowed to eat any meat, or milk, or eggs, or anything delicious at all. This year, her birthday fell on the day after Easter Sunday, so her mother, Pascalina, had decided to hold a special feast for her birthday. Margherita resisted temptation, revelling in the warmth between her hands and the fragrance in her nostrils.

The canal beside her was murky green, its undulating skin glinting like scales of silver, reflecting ripples of light all over the stone walls on either side. Far above the flapping lines of washing, the narrow slice of sky was misty blue.

As Margherita turned into the narrow calle that led to her father’s studio and shop, a woman stepped out of a shadowy doorway in front of her. She seemed to shine in the gloom like a candle. Her dress and cape were of cloth of gold, worn over a sheer chemise with a high ruffled collar that framed her face like a saint’s halo. She was tall, taller than Margherita’s father, taller than any woman Margherita had ever seen before.

‘Good morning, Margherita,’ the woman said, smiling down at her. ‘Happy birthday.’

Margherita stared up at her in surprise. She was sure she had never seen this woman before. It was not a face that would be easily forgotten. The woman had skin as smooth and pale as cream, and her hair was almost as red as Margherita’s. She wore it hanging loose like a maiden’s, though so artfully curled and coiled and plaited it must have taken an hour to create. On the back of her head was a small cap of golden satin, sewn with jewels and edged with gilt ribbon. Her eyes were exactly the same colour as her hair. Like a lion’s, Margherita thought. Lions were everywhere in Venice, standing proud on pillars, carved in bas-relief around doors, or painted on the walls of churches. Lions with hungry golden eyes, just like this woman who knew Margherita’s name.

‘I have a present for you,’ the woman said. As she bent towards Margherita, her heavy perfume overwhelmed the fragrance of the little cake. It seemed to smell of hot exotic lands. Margherita took a step away, suddenly afraid, but the woman only smiled and slipped something about Margherita’s neck. She saw a flash of gold, then felt an unfamiliar weight on her chest. She squinted downwards and saw that a golden pendant was now lying upon the rough brown fabric of her dress.

‘But . . . who are you? How d’you know my name?’

The woman smiled. ‘Why, I’m your godmother, Margherita. Has your mother not told you about me?’

Margherita shook her head. The woman touched her nose affectionately. ‘Well, we shall soon be getting to know each other much better. Give your mother my regards, and tell her to remember her promise.’

‘Si,’ Margherita answered, though it came out sounding like ‘Thi’ because of the gap where she had lost her two front teeth.

‘Run along home now. I will see you again very soon,’ the woman said.

Margherita obeyed, breaking into a run in her eagerness to get home and show her mother her present. She looked back over her shoulder as she went and saw a huge man in a dark robe step out of the shadowy doorway. He held out his arm to the mysterious woman in cloth of gold, and she laid her own hand on it, accepting his help to negotiate her way over the uneven cobblestones, her other hand lifting her wide skirts so that Margherita had a quick glimpse of the extremely high chopines she wore.

For a moment, the man and woman were silhouetted against the light at the end of the alley. The man was dark and massive, head and shoulders taller than the woman. He must be a giant, she thought with a painful jerk of her heart, and her steps quickened. The next moment, she tripped and fell. The cake flew from her hands and smashed on the cobblestones. Margherita began to cry. She bent to pick up the pieces of cake, trying to squash them back together again. She cast a look of appeal back towards the end of the calle, but the woman and the giant were gone. There was only the dazzle of the sun on the canal, and the high walls of stone, punctuated by doorways and window frames and shutters. Margherita was alone. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Were you surprised to realise that most of the dramatic events of Charlotte-Rose’s life really happened?

Why do you think Selena locked up those little girls in the tower? Do you think she really loved them?

Why do you think the name of Charles Perrault has been remembered when the names of the females in the French fairytale tradition have all been forgotten?

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