Gwen paused. She had gotten no further in the story with Rosemary and the lost children. She'd been trying to think of an ending ever since she'd started telling the story again, but nothing firm had come from her distracted musings during these past few days.
“Well?” Starkey asked, smiling with an affable curiosity. “What happened then?”
Gwen continued with as much confidence as she could muster. “Margaret May wound the music box again, and found that the music led her to the forest's edge and the cusp of Easten. As the sun set, she walked all the way to the castle and the coronation ball. When she arrived in her gorgeous black dress, she presented the music box to Prince James as a gift from the great-granddaughter of the first king of Westera and an emissary of the forest elves. They danced together all night, and by the end of the ball the young prince had fallen in love with her. His mother crowned him king the next day and he soon married Margaret May and made her his queen. She returned to the forest only twice. First, she went alone to make a treaty with the elves on behalf of Eastan and receive their blessings for her kingdom. The second time, she ventured with several of the court's finest knights to hunt down and capture the old raven witch, who spent her final days in jail and never harmed anyone again, human or elf.”
Starkey's eyes still had a hint of expectation hanging in them, which compelled Gwen to close her story with, “And everyone else lived happily ever after.”
Starkey leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach, letting his smile come to its full fruition now that she had finished. “That's a clever enough story. I can see why Peter and his playfellows keep you around.”
“That's good,” Gwen replied, uncertain whether she should thank him for calling her story clever enough. Her delight at her teacher's approval superseded her nerves, and she felt herself smiling. She appreciated validation from someone who didn't constantly disrupt the narrative and badger her to skip to some favorite part.
“What's the difference between Westera and Eastan?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard. “Oh—nothing really,” she replied. “They're just two kingdoms. I don't imagine they'd be all that different from each other.”
He nodded. “I see—so the important thing was only the space between them, and the young woman who lived in that in-between.”
“Um, I suppose so, yes,” Gwen answered. She wasn't used to being quizzed on the content of her stories. The children always had follow-up questions, but only little curiosities to be addressed in a barrage of tiny epilogues.
“Until she met this charming Prince James, that is,” Starkey amended. “It seems she had no qualms about joining him in his world then, and leaving behind the little inn and enchanted forest where so much magic abounded.”
Gwen felt her cheeks warming as a blush spreading over her face.
“Yes, it was a good story,” Starkey continued, “but I didn't care for the ending.”
She shifted in her chair and tried to ignore the sensation of her reddening face. “No?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, standing up and taking a step toward the edge of his massive desk. His out-dated globe sat on the corner of the desk, and he sent it spinning with a flick of his hand. Without looking at Gwen, he explained, “I don't think this Margaret May girl could so easily walk away from magic. I can't imagine someone adventurous enough to barter with elves, seek out raven trees, and go marching into uncharted woods would ever settle for a simple romance, no matter how regal. It's my experience that individuals like that tend to be very happy, but never quite reach happily ever after. It's a shame to end one's adventure—one's story—any earlier than absolutely necessary.”
Gwen listened, but was loath to give credence to his argument. By that logic, all fairytales had unlikable endings. “I suppose all good pirate stories end with black beards going grey, more scars than wrinkles, and a bloody death in battle?” she asked.
Starkey laughed. “Something along those lines.” The globe's spinning slowed, and Starkey stopped it altogether with a single finger against its painted ocean. His smile dropped away. “I didn't care for your treatment of the raven witch, either,” he announced. “I think you tried too hard to make a enemy out of your villain.”
A look of confusion crossed Gwen's face, but Starkey didn't see it. He continued to eye his globe until she asked, “What's the difference?”
Her old teacher looked back to her. “Quite a lot—often the difference between a bad reality and a good story. Enemies, true enemies, are an unfortunate thing to accrue. There's no fun in someone who hounds you for the sake of hounding you, who hates you and all that live for, who has no understanding or appreciation for the role you play, and no desire to play a role themselves. Enemies are empty things.”
“Then what's a villain?”
Starkey sat down again in his chair, which Gwen appreciated. While he stood and she sat, their conversation felt too much like a classroom lecture. She preferred to sit down with Starkey and speak to him. She might not have been his equal in age or experience, but he had no inherent power over her as a conversationalist when they both sat down to talk.
“A villain's simply an antagonist,” Starkey answered. “Someone with motives and goals that puts them at odds with a hero. Villains are what give stories obstacles and plots texture—and in life, they're what give us the challenges that keep life interesting and adventures plentiful. Without the raven witch, Margaret May's life would have been just another unmemorable link in some unremarkable monarchy. She wouldn't have any story at all. Considering she owed
