The following short story is fiction.  It is a retelling of a Grimm Fairy Tale.  It was selected from a list of Grimm Fairy Tales with a random number generator.  You can find the original story here.  

This is Part Three.  If you haven’t read Part One and Part Two, the following story won’t make a lot of sense to you.  Click here to read part one.  Click here to read part two.

Abby’s eyes were rough and her throat tasted foul, probably from the late night coffee she’d down just before going to sleep.  She rolled her tongue in her mouth hoping to generate some moisture.  Still only partially conscious, she stretched out with her right hand, plodding the end table with her palm, searching for the blaring alarm clock.  Her fingers connected with the plastic black box and, relying on muscle memory, she flicked the switch.   Burying her face in the soft, fluffy pillows, she pondered staying in bed longer.  Her hands found the covers and she tried to yank them up over her head, but they tangled in her legs.  The pull left her right foot cold and exposed.  She sighed and sat up.   No use fighting it now.

Before going downstairs in search of breakfast she slid into her robe and white, cushy slippers.  She could hear commotion coming from below.  It sounded like there was a construction crew in the kitchen.  ”What’s Daddy up to now?” she thought.

“Abigail dear,” her father called from his study as she passed the second floor.  ”Come in here for a minute, Sweets.”  She was irritated to be derailed.  She hated being summoned, especially in the morning.

“My dear,” he said in his thick Louisiana accent. “I’m sorry to slow you, but you can’t go down stairs just yet.”   Abby leaned against the door frame and stared at him with apathy, communicating with a role of her eyes that she didn’t have time for this delay.

Even though it wasn’t yet seven in the morning, Abby’s father was already in a suit.   She rarely saw him outside of one.  As was his typical style, the black coat was draped across the back of his large leather chair, his red tie was loosened at the neck just a tad, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.  His head of security, Michael something-or-other, was sitting across from him.

Abby never bothered to learn the helps’ names.  They were her father’s toys.  No concern of hers.  In moments of honesty she would admit that they made her angry.  There was never a modicum of privacy with all of them flitting about.

“Miss Abigail,” the security man said, nodding to her with a tight smile.  He wore a well-tailored grey suit and white shirt.  He wore no tie and expensive looking black dress shoes.   His jaw was strong and his hair cut tight.  She hated that he would dare look at her.  Who exactly did he think he was.  In reply, she didn’t look at the security man, but instead raised one eye brow with disgust at her father.

Reading the impatience of her body language, her father spoke again.  ”Dear, do you have somewhere to be?  What is the hurry to go downstairs?”

“I’ve got work today, Daddy,” she said with exhaustion.  Then adding with opportunistic, artificial innocents, “But if the kitchen is closed I’d be more than happy to go back to bed and blow off the shop today.”

Her father leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.  He was a fit man, but not large or muscular.  Nothing about him was visibly imposing.  ”But Abigail,” he said with a smile, “what would people think?”

She grinned, “Maybe that a rich kid like me didn’t need a job?”

Her father smiled back.  This conversation was a game they played routinely.  Like studied chess masters, they both knew the coming moves.  ”But what about the plan, dear?” he said.  Then he repeated each word with deliberate pause, “What about the plan?”

“I know, daddy,” she with a playful replied.  ”The plan is important.  The plan must be kept.”

“And what is the plan, Sweets?” he asked as if he’d never heard it before.

“Council, mayor, governor, president,” Abby chanted.

Her father repeated the words back slowly, with calculated purpose.  ”Council.  Mayor.  Governor.  President.”  Looking to his security guard he said, “Now Mr. Wellesley, don’t you think that is an excellent plan?”

“Yes, sir,” the security man snapped back.  ”An excellent plan.”

“And Sweets,” her father said leaning forward in mock confusion.  ”When exactly did this plan start?”

“Why, it started yesterday, Daddy,” Abby replied with a grin.  She enjoyed this verbal play with her father.  The answer was always “yesterday.”  It was something her father had taught her when she was a little girl – always work like your playing catch up, especially when you’re killing the competition.

“Then you should absolutely go to work,” her father said smacking his desk with his hand.  ”Or what would the voters think?”

“This is why, Dear Father,” she said standing up straight like a soldier coming to attention, “I was heading downstairs.  In order to arrive at work on time and impress the future voters who are already watching my every move, I must have a hearty breakfast.”

“Ahhh,” her father said, waving two fingers at her like he always did when he was making a point.  ”And there is the rub.  You see, last night three very terrible men attempted to break into our kitchen.  Thankfully the brave Mr. Wellesley was here to stop them.”

The security guard beamed with pride.

“Unfortunately,” her father continued in a disappointed tone, “he made quite a mess doing so.  Thus our kitchen is unavailable until the cleaners are through.”

Abby laughed to herself as the security guard visibly deflated.

Curiosity raged in her gut.  There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask.  Who were they?  Did they know who her father was?  Did the security man fight them off hand-to-hand?  What time was this at?  How did she sleep through all the excitement?  But she knew her father would give her nothing, so she didn’t bother interrogating him.  On the outside she maintained her composure.  She decided to try and get something out of the situation.  ”Well if I can’t go into the kitchen,” Abby said,  ”Then I’m going to have to stop for some coffee and a danish at Spoons.”

“I guess that is true,” her father said, clearly curious at where this was headed.

“Sadly,” Abby said sticking her bottom lip out in a pout, “I do not have any cash.  What is a future President of the United States to do?”

Her father laughed and then looked at Mr. Wellesley again and said, “Can you believe this?  Just a few years ago she was a sweet little thing without a care in the world.  Now she’s an eighteen-year-old shark, using blood and tragedy to her advantage.”  He reached into his back pocket and produced two twenties.  Extending them to her he said, “Have fun, Sweets.  But make sure you get to work on time.”

“Thanks Daddy!” she said taking the cash and then happily walking back toward the stairs.

“Oh and Sweets,” her father called behind her.  ”You’ll be taking Mr. Wellesley with you today.  If these children were brazen enough to come in through my kitchen window, then they’re brazen enough to try and snatch my baby girl off the street.”

Abby groaned and hung her head in frustration, but she didn’t reply.  She knew there was no use arguing.  Her father’s men didn’t answer to her.  The security guy would follow her regardless of what she said.

To be continued…