Rapunzel, the One With All the Hair by Wendy Mass Read Free Book Online Page A

its night outside, my birthday dress still smells like Father’s old socks. It is a good thing I am too young to marry, for no one wants to marry a smelly girl. Or one locked in a tower, for that matter.
    To take my mind off the tantalizing yet out-of-reach trapdoor, I entertain myself (and I use that term loosely) by using the sooty ends of my old matchsticks to trace the pattern of the sun as it travels the length of my floor. Sir Kitty is down here with me, pouncing on the line as soon as I drawit. All day I am on my knees marking the shadow as it grows larger until finally the whole room is in shade. In my own special way, I am connecting with nature. Father would be proud. He always told me the reason he loves tending the garden is because he never feels closer to the source of life than while helping something grow. (Of course, now I know that what he was helping grow has brought my downfall!) After I am done with the floor, I move on to the wall. With my last two used matchsticks, I draw the outline of the cottage where, until this week, I had rested my head every night of my life. I draw the window that looks into Mother’s sewing room and add a wisp of smoke out the chimney. Fittingly enough, the ash on my last matchstick runs out as I am about to draw the garden where my abduction took place.
    I have decided to keep the mirror with me at all times so I can learn more about the door and rope system. With the mirror titled backward in my hand, I bide my time at the window. It is dusk now, and the forest has quieted. Even the ever-present blackbirds have gone to their nests for the night. Suddenly I realize there is a reflection in my mirror, and it is moving quickly! I watch, fascinated, as the witch shinnies down the rope, much faster than I ever imagined she could move. She reaches the ground and bends over to place a tray of food on the rug. That’s when I notice it:
    THIS IS NOT THE WITCH!!!
    I almost drop the mirror but manage to tighten my grasp just in time. Whoever this is, he is much smaller than the witch, with a bald head and pale green skin. GREEN SKIN! I am terrified to move a muscle, so I wait until the creature climbs back up the rope. He pulls it back up in the blink of an eye and shuts the door. All of this was in complete silence. My ragged breathing is the only thing I heard the whole time.
    I race over to the center of the room and stare up at the ceiling. My legs are shaking, so I sit down on the rug before I fall over. What WAS that? I finally collect my wits enough to look at the food. Meat pie, two hard-boiled eggs, one jellied pastry, a mug of cider, and another bowl of milk. This is my best meal yet! As I reach hungrily for the plate, my eyes land on a small white bag tied with a drawstring. I lift it up and it gives off a sweet scent. I undo the drawstring and peek inside. It is a ball of soap! Instead of lavender, though, it is scented with pine, just like the breeze outside.
    Suddenly it all makes sense. A fog clears like a veil being lifted and I can finally see. This creature has been bringing me the gifts. The bowls of milk, the oil lamp, and now the soap. The witch knows nothing about it! How can I let this creature know how much I appreciate his kindness? I hurryover to my trunk and pull out a piece of vellum, my quill, and the ink. In my neatest penmanship, I write:
    Dear Little Green Creature,
    Thank you well and truly for the milk and the lamp and the soap. I am deeply in your debt. I am certain this was a risk for you, and I am grateful. Please talk with me next time instead of leaving so hurriedly. I am desperate for company and should like to thank you in person.
    With much sincerity,
Rapunzel, tower prisoner
    I fold the note in half and slip it under the plate. Then I dig into my meal with both hands. No need for manners here.

I have almost fully recovered from yesterday’s lessons in regal bearing. I have had a neck rub from the royal masseuse, and the local