A/N: This chapter has been revised. This is the fourth book in a series, but can be read as a standalone. It is based on Red Ridinghood and Cinderella. Book one, The Man Once Called Rumpelstiltskin, is currently free on the 'Zon and will remain free until 11/26/20 11:59 PST. Happy Thanksgiving.

Chapter 1–Robert

Duzenburg was too large to be a village and too small to be a city. It was at that awkward adolescent stage, having outgrown its country charm but not yet possessing the culture and society that comes with a vast and varied population. A community that grew so quickly I could walk the streets and be greeted by unfamiliar faces, yet it had not reached the point where I could turn a corner and get lost in the bustle.

I was destined for something more sophisticated, but for now, I'd wait—hoping that the Duzenburg would catch up. I was nothing if not patient.

I exited the carriage and dusted off my hat. The town's unique bouquet of horse manure and sewage greeted me.

"Shall I wait for you here, sir?" Giles asked.

The question might have been innocent, but it irritated me. My father's driver had delivered me to the business district at my mother's urging. I was a puppet—my every moment choreographed by my parents.

I pinched the bride of my nose between my thumb and index finger. "Giles, I never should have traded freedom for creature comforts," I muttered.

A crease formed in the center of his forehead, and he tilted his head to the side. "Is that a no, sir?"

I took a breath. The air had turned from simply unpleasant to suffocating.

A bell chimed, alerting me that a shop door had opened. A woman carrying a baby and holding the hand of a toddler step out onto the porch of a building to my left. Her dress was worn. She looked to be only a few years older than me, except that life had carved deep lines into her face and her chestnut hair was streaked with grey. She glanced to a window that held a help-wanted sign.

In a plaintive voice she said, "The children would stay out of the way. I could work for half as much…"

She was cut off by an older woman who poked her head outside and bellowed, "This is a business, not a charity." The front door slammed closed.

The woman's shoulders slumped forward, and she steps out onto the street.

"I'm hungry," the child walking beside her announced. He was thin. The cuffs of his jacket ended two inches above his wrists.

"The soup kitchen doesn't open until noon," she replied.

Perhaps, I was wrong. At any rate, freedom did not appear to agree with her.

An older couple rounded the street corner and approached from my right. Their attire suggested he owned a shop, or perhaps he was a barrister. The hungry child let out a cry, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Horrified expressions flashed across the faces of the newcomers, and they crossed the road, thereby avoiding any direct interaction with the struggling family.

As the mother bent over to comfort her child, a gust of wind blew by, stealing her hat. I chased down the article. It was simply made and several years out of date. I handed it back to its owner.

"Thank you," she muttered. Her cheeks colored.

Guilt washed over me like an ocean wave. I had contributed nothing to the world, had no responsibility, and had my every want indulged. And yet, I lamented my situation daily. I opened the door to the carriage and said, "There's no need to wait for me, Giles. See to it that this woman and her children are delivered to Anton's. They are serving stew today, and I'd very much like for them to try it."

Her eyes went wide. She opened her mouth to protest.

Before words could escape, I said, "I know the owner of the establishment. He needs feedback on a new dish he is serving, and I promised him I'd find willing subjects." It was a lie, but Anton would see my carriage and understand what to do. I kept a tab at his restaurant for this very purpose.

"But… but we cannot take your carriage," she stammered.

"As a mother of two children, I imagine you engage in more exercise than necessary, while I am never afforded enough."

"Shall I return for you?" Giles asked.

I shook my head. "I will find my own way home, once my business here is settled."

"Sir, you understand that the tailor is on the other side of town?" he asked.

"I am aware."

His jaw tightened. I am certain that he was tempted to try harder to see my mother's wishes fulfilled, but wisely knew his efforts would be wasted.

"Very well," he said, before hopping down and offering the woman his hand.

I placed my hat on my head, tipped the rim, and walked down the road in the direction of the tailor. As I turned a corner, I looked back. The woman and her children were being loaded into the carriage. I paused. Her demeanor was completely changed. She almost looked... relaxed.

"Mama, I've never been in a carriage," the child called out.

I smiled but dared not dally. As far as Giles knew, I was making a quick stop to have my watch repaired. I should, therefore, be safely ensconced inside the shop I had just walked past. I could not afford to linger in plain sight. Giles worked for my father. Should he notice I'd taken a detour, my parents would certainly be informed.

I neared the cobbler's shop. A crowd had gathered around the display window.

"Why, I've never seen anything so lovely," someone said.

"How can he make his stitches so tiny?" another asked.

This must be the shop I'd read about in the papers. It was the latest sensation in Duzenburg. The cobbler had been called a genius—a protégé. I wouldn't be surprised if they soon began proclaiming him a God. They had all gone mad, but at least this mob would provide adequate camouflage. I buried my way into the crowd and waited for Giles and the carriage to pass.

Once he was gone, I crossed the street and walked a few blocks until I was standing in front of a familiar brick building. I glanced up. It wasn't necessary. I knew precisely where I was, but I never could resist the view. That sign always brought a smile to my face—Rigby Printing. Surely, any town with a printing press was destined for greatness.

As I pushed the door open, I called out, "Rigby?"

I had not even taken a step across the threshold when I caught a whiff of something. I turned at the waist, searching for the source.

"Robert? What are you doing here?"

It was Rigby. He'd entered the main office from one of the storage rooms. He stood along the wall opposite me carrying papers in his left hand and a cup of tea in his right. I stepped inside and closed the door.

"Just now, I was trying to identify what had caused that heavenly smell. It almost masked the stench."

He continued to his desk and set the cup down. "A new bakery opened up nearby. This time of day, she makes bread. She delivers it after her shop closes and then makes more before opening.''

I lifted an eyebrow. "She?"

"Yes." He tapped the paper he'd been carrying, forming an orderly stack, before placing them in the corner of his desk. "Not only a female, but an unmarried one."

I lifted one eyebrow and set my cane next to the front door. "Hmm. It is not so uncommon, I guess. There has always been a place in business for those women not blessed with enough wealth or beauty to secure a husband."

He looked at me over the brim of his spectacles. A bemused smirk rested on his lips. "Oh. I assure you, that particular baker has an over abundance in at least one of those categories."

"Really?" His expression left no doubt she was a beauty. "She's caught your eye then?"

He chuckled. "Not me. You know that I'm married to my work." He lifted the top sheet of paper from the stack.

I looked out the window. There was no sign of the shop. "In that case, perhaps, I should pop over and buy a loaf of bread."

He lifted his head and stared at me. "No. You should come by in the afternoons. She makes cookies then. Her bread is excellent, but her cookies are divine." As he returned to reviewing the page in his hand, he mumbled, "They are almost good enough to make me reconsider my future with this place."

I ran a finger along a shelf and gathered a clump of grey dust on the pad of my middle digit. One flick of my thumb sent offending residue to the floor.

Rigby flopped down into his chair, returned the page to the stack, and took off his spectacles . "But enough of the bakery. Those enticing scents did not reach you at home, which means you are here for something else. Do you have it?"

"You know me so well. I do indeed." I walked toward him, reached into my inner breast pocket. "Has it occurred to you that you could use a cleaning woman?"

He glared at me. I cleared my throat.

"Anyway," I said, withdrawing several sheets of paper and holding them out. "Here is an account of my latest adventures."

He snatched the pages contains my story out of my hand, unfolded them, and began to read. His eyes moved down the page. Once they reach the bottom, the pages fell from his fingers. His eyes bulged out of their sockets and his mouth hung open.

"But you did not do these things yourself? You interviewed someone, surely."

I could hear the reverence in his voice.

"And where would the fun be in that?" I asked, enjoying his shock and admiration.

"But a waterfall? You could have drowned, or broken your neck."

Oh. It seemed, I'd misread him.

"But I didn't," I explained. A draft of tomorrow's news sheets lay on the edge of his desk. One of the headlines caught my attention. I lifted the sheet and read. "Enormous wolf stalker locals? That's terrifying isn't it?"

He shook his head and took the paper out of my hand. "When you started this, you wrote of silly pranks. Taking a pear from a fruit bowl while touring a grand estate, or slipping into a lecture hall without an invitation. Your tales were amusing but not dangerous. I have said nothing as you continued to escalate things, but I can no longer remain silent. This has become ridiculous. You cannot continue behaving in such a reckless manner. What would your family say?"

"My public demands it, and my family must never find out. I'd be disinherited. You know how mother frets." I pulled a chair out from under a second desk and dragged it closer to Rigby. "Speaking of my public, how many of last month's pamphlets did we sell?"

"Six-hundred, but that isn't the point. If you continue like this, you will be killed soon enough, and we will have no new pamphlets at all." He waved his arms around as if doing so would help illustrate his point. "Why don't you just make it up?"

I sat down. "Write about fake adventures? Don't be absurd."

"People do it all the time. It's called fiction."

I shook my head. "And what would the readers think of me if they found out? They love me because I am bold and daring. You want to turn me into some boring writer who hides away all day and imagines what it must feel like to live life. You worry like a little girl. You always have."

He folded his arms and grumbled something under his breath. "Far better to be a boring writer who is alive, than a daring adventurer who is not." He said quite clearly. He leaned toward me, and fixed me with his gaze. "This is your life we are speaking of. Why do you care what they think of your Captain Barver? No one associates him with you. And even if they did, how would they have any way of find out whether or not you had actually done these feats? Half of the readers probably already assume it's all fiction."

"They may not know my name or face, but I know the identity of the Captain. You cannot imagine how thrilling it is to sit at a tavern and overhear strangers speak of him. He is a legend. It would crush me to hear them call him a fraud."

Rigby removed a pipe from his desk drawer.

"But these stunts are getting too dangerous." He stroked his chin. "Your obsession with popularity is unhealthy and pointless. Any respect or admiration gained through this publication is directed toward a fictional man."

"You are mistaken. I am the Captain."

"Forcing yourself to assume and act the role of someone you are not, does not change who you are."

"I do not force myself to do anything. I am a man of adventure."

"You cannot fool me, Robert. We have known each other far too long. Ignore the dangers you are subjecting yourself to if you must, but you cannot hide from reality, even by creating this false persona."

I pointed to the pages I had handed him earlier. "Seven."

"What?"

"Print Seven hundred of that story there. I will see that we grow our following."

"Unbelievable." He closed his eyes and exhaled. "You refuse to discuss this?" His eyes opened, and he looked at a large box of printed cards. "This doesn't have anything to do with Michael, does it?"

I gritted my teeth. "What? No. Why would anything I do ever be because of him?"

Rigby sighed. "You needn't lie. I can see right through you."

"Yes. I am aware," I snapped. I calmed myself before continuing. "I may have voiced some sort of resentment or jealousy toward my brother years ago. If so, you must forgive me. I ways a child then and have since grown up. Now, I no longer think of him."

Rigby stood up and crossed the room. Out of the box be had been eyeing earlier, he withdrew a card. "I'm glad to hear it. There really isn't a need to compare yourself to him. He was born first. Naturally, he would be the first to reach certain milestones."

He dropped the card in my lap before reclaiming his seat. I read it twice. It was an invitation to a ball in my brother's honor. Heat crawled up my neck. I looked at the date. "This is scheduled for next week. He's coming home? And you knew?"

"Of course. Your mother mentioned it to mine a month ago. I assumed you did as well."

"No," I snapped. "Clearly, I did not." I stood up, knocking the chair over in the process. I paced, staring at the floor. "So that is why she insisted I get fitted for a new suit," I mumbled to myself. "Everyone must look perfect for the golden child—the brave war hero."

"You are meant to be at the tailor?" Rigby pulled out his pocket watch. "He is across town, and he closes..."

"I am well informed on businesses hours, Rigby."

"You are certainly on edge for a man who never thinks of your brother..."

"I don't," I snapped. "But if he is going to return home and be paraded about as if he is a deity, I don't have a choice, now do I?"

Rigby clapped me on the shoulder. I stopped pacing and stared at him. How had he snuck up on me like that?

"Have you ever considered why Michael receives so much attention?"

I scoffed. "I assume that attractive features coupled with intelligence is less important to my parents and society at large than ignorance, shallowness, and grace?" I asked in mocking tones.

"No. While you scale buildings and jump from waterfalls, he fights in war..."

"He doesn't fight. He is in charge of ordering goods."

"I did not mean to imply he is brave, nor do I want to encourage your rash behavior, but if you insist on taking risks, ignore decorum, and go against your family's wishes, you could at least try to do things that might make a difference in the lives of those around you."

"I see. I must do something to prove I am better than Michael. And, if I find myself in a dangerous position but manage to escape, my family will accept it—provided I have improved their lives."

Rigby cocked his head to one side. "Um. Well, not exactly. If you act with purpose, say enlisted in the military, you might be able to share some of your experiences with those who matter most to you. Maybe, having earned their respect, you will find the fulfillment you need and can at last be content living a balanced life."

I heard his words, but did not process them. I was too busy formulating a plan. I would kill the wolf, save the village, impress my parents, and earn their blessing to pursue fame full time as Captain Barver. "I understand your meaning," I assured him.

"Good." He looked at his pocket watch. "If you want to make it to the tailors..."

"Say no more." I opened the door and walked outside.