“This was very exciting, and the merchants who frequented the inn brought them little wooden toys and fine, soft fabrics for baby clothes from both kingdoms. The innkeeper and his wife planned to travel to the nearest village in Westera—which of course was still very distant—so they could have a midwife's help delivering their little baby. But the night the baby came did not go as planned.
“A terrfiying storm had come through and washed out the bridge to the nearest village two days day before. The storm still raged, and many travelers who had intended to spend but one night at the cozy inn found themselves trapped by the inopportune weather. The little inn was almost full to capacity when an old woman in a hooded, black cloak wandered to the door. She came with no horse or carriage, and would not say how long she had walked on the long road between kingdoms. She had no money, but offered a shining black, silken feather as a token of her appreciation, and promised that if the innkeeper and his wife showed her kindness, the feather would bring them great luck.
“Unwilling to turn the poor old woman away, the kind innkeeper gave her the last room in the inn. The old woman said little, and none of the travelers from Westera or Eastan recognized her. The innkeeper's wife, who was also kind, gave the old woman some bread for supper that evening, which the woman ate crumb by crumb, her fingers pecking at the hearty loaf. Soon after, the innkeeper's wife went into labor. Fortunately, one of the many travelers stranded between the kingdoms knew the art of midwifery and knew how to assist.
“As fate would have it, that very night the king and queen of Westera were returning from a diplomatic visit to Eastan… and the queen was also on the cusp of giving birth. The royal carriage thundered to a stop in front of the inn. While their coachman boarded the horses in the barn, the king burst into the inn and demanded a room and the assistance of any midwife, doctor, or child-bearing woman who could help his laboring wife. The innkeeper, flustered by the king's sudden arrival, explained that the midwife was already busy delivering a baby and that they had no rooms left in the inn.
“The king, long-accustomed to getting what he demanded, pounded upon a table and threatened to have the innkeeper hanged if he did not fetch the midwife for the queen. However, the innkeeper's wife was having trouble with her baby, and to pull the midwife away from her would have condemned her to die in childbirth.
“At that moment, the old woman spoke from where she sat at the table, nibbling her bread. 'Pardon me, Your Highness and good sir. I, too, am versed in the art of midwifery and I may assist either woman. Furthermore, the king and queen are welcome to my room, so long as I might have a bit of hay and a warm blanket to bed down in the barn for the night. I have seen many years and much worse nights than I would spend in your barn.'
“With this fantastic kindness, they transported the queen at once to the old woman's room, beside the innkeeper's own room where his wife labored. Midway through the night both women delivered babies into the world—healthy, beautiful girls.
“But the king, so grateful to the old woman, had failed to recognize her. She had aged much; her hair had turned white, and her wrinkles had obscured her features. He could not see in her the young raven witch he had banished from his kingdom decades ago.
“But the witch remembered him, and witches are not known for forgiving the slights they are done by men. While the exhausted new mothers rested and the proper midwife went to tell the new fathers, the raven witch swapped the babies so that the kind innkeeper might raise the princess, and the unpleasant king might raise a poor commoner—not even a citizen of Westera!—for his daughter. Both men gave her hearty thanks for her help, but she accepted no payment for the deed and left to spend her night in the barn, taking nothing with her but a blanket and a bit more bread.
“By morning, the tempest had subsided, and the old woman had vanished without a trace. The king and queen left in their carriage, taking their presumed daughter with them to the castle in Westera.
Gwen took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts and trying to read Mr. Starkey. He kept an even, pleasant expression: the same nebulous but encouraging look he always gave students during presentations. She couldn't help but worry about his scrutiny. She felt under pressure, as if this story would determine her final grade for speech class. She continued along, abridging the serial story into a short fairytale she could relate in a matter of minutes. She wasn't used to telling stories without getting bombarded with interruptions and questions.
“And thus the two girls were raised—the innkeeper's daughter as the Princess Gracia and the real princess as a simple peasant named Margaret May. While Gracia's royal parents spoiled her rotten and let her cultivate an unpleasant temperament, Margaret May benefited from her kind and humble innkeeper parents.”
“Many seasons passed and the girls grew into young ladies. One day, the old Queen of Eastan sent out an important proclamation all through the kingdom and beyond, announcing the coronation of her son. She planned a fantastic ball in celebration of the coronation ceremony, inviting every young woman of noble birth from every kingdom on the continent. The messenger carrying Princess Gracia's invitation stopped, of course, at the inn between kingdoms, and gossiped the news to the innkeeper and his family. Everyone suspected that Prince Jay—mes of Eastan would pick a bride from the attendees.”
Gwen, humoring her own fantasies as much as Rosemary's when she first began
