#rosula

It feels odd, in a way. She wants to ease herself, convince her soul that they actually like her. Kindness seems like a breath of fresh air, and it deliciously hits her.  How accustomed to rudeness she was! Running errands was a nightmare –always rumors behind her back, always cutting voices coming against her. Words barely uttered in her house, her nose stuck in the same books as always. Rediscovering the sentences as if they were old friends, caressing its worn pages, its old spines as if they were the body of a lover… that was her life before. How distant it all seemed. A place she had dared to call home was dissolving on the horizon – in a blinking, all those memories would be gone as if made of sand. A place she so desperately had tried to make her home disappearing right in front of her… when her home was so c—. No. Or yes? Could it be? Could it be that she had found what she longed with all her heart?

Something was off about it all. Something just didn’t add up. She tried to analyze it, played with the idea even in her most fervent hours… but she hadn’t found anything. She did not have an answer, and there was nothing quite as scary as that. With her books, there were never questions she could not find an answer for. With her books, she had lived a thousand lives, had traveled to every single one of the most faraway places the world had to offer to her. With her books, she hadn’t had to face reality — her own reflection was a mixture of all the things she had discovered she loved the most; fresh flowers, the taste of coffee she had not had on a rainy day in Paris, the touch of a charming prince who would be her very equal, who would love her just as much as she did.

But she no longer had her books with her, and it was painful to finally realize that she knew nothing of life outside her most beloved four walls of her safe and comfortable home. There was a whole world out there, she had always known, had always dreamed of finding it. Now that she had it facing her –yellow eyes that glowed in the darkest night – she was terrified. Love, friendship… she knew about them. She had read about them until falling asleep for years, and yet she flinched whenever tried to come too close, whenever Mary smiled softly at her, whenever Margot mentioned her with pride and delight alike.

Life was just starting for her, really starting — it probably had commenced once she decided to mount her horse and go look after her father; it probably had started the moment she decided to listen to the songs the wind had chanted for only her to hear — and she did not know what that made her feel. Dealing with feelings was a thing she sucked at… just as she did with sewing, and baking, and more so painting. Dealing with feelings was admitting she was feeling things… things that were just as natural as the breaths she takes, as natural as the sunless days. And just like them, it didn’t feel right. Still, they held a solemn wind of certainty, of ‘rightness’ that the most critical part of her couldn’t ignore.

Those were thoughts for another night. She was exhausted; after finishing the second serving she was more than full, and could not even start her dessert, even as Mary, Mr. Thorn and Laurence himself had tried to convince her to do so. She helped with the cleaning, much to Mr. Thorn’s reluctance, and John’s comical attempts at stopping her with his dramatics — A guest of our master! Cleaning! Not on my watch! – And when she told them that she was either helping with the dishes or going to fetch some logs for the hearths they decided that letting her be was easier than dealing with the consequences a visit to the woods would have on her already ill stubbornness.

She softly shook her head.  Walking to her chambers, she smiled softly at herself. They welcomed her. They had her at their table, and shared their food, and asked about her… and were so, so kind to her she almost thinks it cannot be true. She tried to be gracious, act like she was used to that kind of behavior, but how can she, when she finally has found her own paradise? When she is on cloud nine? And her voice trembled, and she couldn’t keep her hands to herself, always playing with her glass or her fork… but they didn’t say a thing. They didn’t make any gestures that could have been taken as an insult. They had smiled at her… encouraged her to talk, even! She listened to what they said with eager eyes, taking in every pause, every breath. And then Chiara sang… and did so beautifully (Y/N) was sure she must be an angel.

The only things that did not go as smoothly were the remarks Jane Winston did. They weren’t even made towards her, but she had tried to offend Margot and Sophie, and there was something in her tone that didn’t sound any right. Bitter and cutting as ice, not even a small trace of gentleness or camaraderie – they were made from hatred. And hatred was something (Y/N) was pretty accustomed to. Her sneer, the cold glance – sharp as a knife, with the hint of a cruel smile in her voice – made her think of the girls at her village that would have ripped her to shreds had they had the opportunity. Girls whose words were poison, and whose smiles would remind her of that of a wolf’s. But they had smiled kindly, too. They had laughed sheepishly when asked about their interests.

They had spoken softer at babies, and their eyes would fill with love and pride in equal parts when they received flowers. (Y/N) had even managed to get a somewhat ‘I-don’t-mind-you-that-much’ kind of smile when encouraging them to talk about what they were passionate when trying to understand. Could it be that Jane Winston was like that? Could they be friends? Beth and Amy were humans – that is, they weren’t just filled with hate. But they weren’t friends. (Y/N) recognized that they were made out of grays rather than black or white, but that didn’t mean that she was any more excited to get to know them. She did not know yet what to think of miss Winston – it was too early still. They hadn’t shared a table before, never crossed words. In all honesty, (Y/N) wasn’t sure she wanted to.

‘I see that they have already given you a dress’, she had said, looking her up and down, studying her as if she was nothing but a toad in a table, ready to be dissected. She had looked her in the eyes: blue so cold it appeared to be covered in ice, but it had burned… it had burned with a hatred she did not know when or how she gained it. Or whatever she did to deserve it. Then, after that, Jane had left the room, leaving her meal untouched.

‘Don’t mind her, she’s a pain in the ass’, had said her brother, not even bothering to lift his gaze from his meal, attacking his meat with all he was worth – as a man of his physique would; he reminds her of Derek, a little. But Derek is not soft; he does not apologize, less if he isn’t the one to blame –. Mary then tensed, smiled as to play it cool, but seemed deeply ashamed. Alphonsine had reassured (Y/N) that Jane didn’t like anyone, and perhaps that was true, but if they were to share a table at every meal, she wanted to at least be comfortable with those around her.

It hadn’t been a problem with the rest. It all flowed as if… as if all those whole parts were meant to be bound together, to blend in as a… as a –. It scares her, how natural it feels to care deeply for them. How easy it is to give in, to want to help them. To share a laugh with them. But it’s too early. Too early. Too damn early.

Truth to be told, she hadn’t allowed herself to think of those changes in the environment ever since the Master saved her; not even about the terrifying sculptures, the grotesque paintings torn by unforgiving claws, not even the rose trapped in crystal that burned as beautiful as the one she had given Sarah. Its color red as rich as that of a ruby, as deep as that of blood. Petals that seemed softer than velvet, moistened by an invisible hand – the hand of a creator that was behind the days and the nights, the dark and the light. A rose bathed in magic and filled with fire.

(Y/N) had tended to the master’s wounds, changed his bandages, came back to her room and did the same to hers. She didn’t allow herself to feel any pain: in a part of her mind, she deserved it. It was, after all, because of her ambition, wasn’t it? She had desired more than she deserved, she had lost her freedom in the process, had tainted her father’s reputation when the poor man had so desperately tried to give her a better life. But she didn’t want to leave just yet.

What was out there for her, anyway? Become a spinster or a wife. Her value was to be always dictated by a man. She didn’t want to lose her freedom in a marriage. Though, in the darkness of her room, she imagined a man from a faraway place that would understand her every ideal –that would question her, put everything she believed in to test as she would put his every thought; a match that would respect her and think of her as an equal. Someone that would make her feel accepted and wouldn’t think of her as weird. And she would accept him, whoever he was, with all his imperfections, with all he had. They would be friends first and foremost, they would be equals. And their lives wouldn’t end the moment they met – oh no, that would only be the beginning! A life full of adventures.

But those were mere dreams, and dreams didn’t come true; they disappeared at morning with the sad lament of the wolf that howls to the moon; they become stardust and are put to rest forever, forgotten as any other lost love – for as they may seem different, dreams are love, and love taints dreams. Dreams lay forgotten and forgotten they shall be. For what are they, anyway? A world that would never be hers. Carried by the dust, they’ll build a castle on the beach, and fill its marbled walls with the opulence her imagination spent tortuous moments imagining, letting herself caress the clouds. A life she would never know.

Dreams do not come true. If they did, she’d be under the sun, with her father, in a cabin so far from here. Nothing to disturb them, not a place to call home but a world that belonged to them. A world full of mysteries to solve, and secrets to learn. A world full of books and flowers, and art – art that will paint her very soul in its treasured tones; art that will transform her to the core, and fill her with a happiness that can only be born by the known fact of one’s smallness in the world. A home. Home, home, just like it was before they parted ways, before their destiny intertwined with those of the castle’s inhabitants’.

How boring her life had been, she now muses, without knowing any of them. How cruel and empty her life would have been had they never crossed paths. Always looking for something, and never getting a grasp of it. Always longing and longing, wasting her years away. And now she was free. She could walk away as she pleased, she could… but would she? She yearns still. Wants something; feels its lack crave a hole inside of her. Will that hunger ever be appeased? She cannot say goodbye. She cannot turn her back to them.

That night she doesn’t dream. The woman with long hair and dead flowers at her feet does not appear— hasn’t appeared since she let her see her father in the mirror. And (Y/N) was lost. In the mirror, there was not her reflection – the woman who had looked back at her, once the image of her father had gone black, was not the naïve girl from the village. What she saw was completely different. (Y/N) used to be full of life, full of wonder – then, she had thought herself finally knowing the maxim by which the world is ruled. Now it all crumbled to pieces, and the wind carried them away alongside ancient songs and wolves howling. She used to be so certain, so confident. In her innocence, she had held tight her happiness. Now, the cloth that covered her eyes had finally fallen. She was wiser, in a way, but oh so unsure.

Who was she, now? All her life she had known what she wanted. She had expected where to find it, even. She had classified people in those who were nice and those who weren’t. But could someone who had taken so much from her give it all back? Could someone who had only shown her despair mend his way? She thinks of the creature sleeping rooms away from her. Of the way in which his horns point to the sky, of the way his fangs could tear apart her body if he wanted. But, does he want to?

With her head spinning and a displeasing pain from the wine she had drunk at dinner storming her senses, she closed her eyes. Laying in a bed of feathers, so soft and gentle against her tired muscles, she could only wish for someone to talk to. And even that felt insolent. Still, her heart yearned.  A mother, perhaps, was that which she most desired. A woman with flowers in her hair and at her feet, like the one that had spoken in the sweetest voice back in those dreams. A mother that would grab her hand and guide her to a mirror; a woman in possession of such beauty she put the moon to shame; a light on her own, an aristocratic bearing despite her upbringings (a queen, truly a queen, despite being noble blood – a rare occurrence, a gentle heart that blossomed even in a golden cradle). A mother that, despite what she looked like, would have loved her with all her heart. Someone she would have trusted with her life.

She thinks that now she has people who’d listen to her… but she doesn’t want to bother them. What would she tell them, anyway? She can’t even put a name to those thoughts that had never left her, but that she had so fiercely tried to shut down. What was that warm feeling in her belly, that lack of fear, that poisonous trust that was growing and she couldn’t stop, couldn’t comprehend?

It’s late, and she’s so tired, and she doesn’t understand a single thing happening around her anymore. She had tried to drown those voices with wine, and it had helped. She had been deaf to them, losing herself on Chiara’s strong, pompous voice that reached the skies and freed the storms. Heaven gates opened, the angels flew to the earth just to hear la primadonna sing. And it had helped, or so had she thought; unfortunately, like wolves, they came alive at night –her wishes, her yearning, her hunger-- in the dark and loneliness of her room. They pried on her, had their feast on her doubting heart, tormented her… she knew no right and wrong anymore.

She’s so tired she doesn’t realize when her mind drifts to the place of dreams, so light and free, no chains to hold her down. Not even the ones she pressed against herself. She doesn’t dream; not anymore. But it’s alright. Her life is slowly becoming even better than that she lives by night, under the stars.

In the morning, she tended to herself. Washed her body, tied her hair in a bow, and dressed in her old, worn out dress. As much as she loved those Sophie and Margot had given to her, she was unsure of wearing them when she faced Mary Winston’s daughter again. ‘She’s gonna see’, she thought, tying the laces of her strays, ‘I’m gonna show her how wrong she is’. For she was not someone who needed to be taken care of, no. Not a useless brat that only stayed to be treated with the considerations she wouldn’t know in her village. And she wasn’t going to let someone intimidate her, for she had nothing to fear.

(Y/N) was the first one to go downstairs. Laurence was finishing his cooking already, but she offered her help anyway.

“Do you know how to cook?”

“A little. I’m a fast learner, though.”

“Then so be it. I already baked the bread… but perhaps you can help me at lunch?”

“Of course! With pleasure.”

“You can even help Chiara with the lighthouse. I suppose Margot has already explained to you how this strange magic works, hasn’t she? –Dear God, it sounds even weirder out loud!—"

“She did. I can’t say I understand it… but I know.”

“And you do not think us crazy?”

“I think there are things science cannot explain. I’m not sure I believe in magic… but I’ve seen the master, haven’t I? And I’ve seen Sophie’s wounds. I don’t doubt you.”

He smiles, small and almost invisible. The warmth from the ovens had made his chubby cheeks red as a raspberry, and he almost seems like a child in a summer day – eating pomegranates and oranges by the river, playing with a dog that would love him lots, and that would sleep by his bedside every single night. She tries to think of him as one of Alphonsine’s clients but fails completely. “Do you… perhaps, know if miss Duval is going to take breakfast at her chambers?”

“Who?” (Y/N) asked.

“Miss Duval… uhm, Alphonsine.”

“Ah, Sophie! No, no. I thought she said ‘see you at breakfast’.”

“Good.”

“So… miss Duval?”

“That’s her last name.”

“And why would you use her last name?”

“Pardon, miss, but I don’t understand what you’re-“

“I was just teasing! I thought you two looked…”

“… Oh my god, I have to put the kettle on!”

“I’ll do it for you! What kind of tea do you prefer?”

“Anything works well for me. I believe Mrs. Winston – Mary, wanted lavender. It’s on the counter.”

“Right.”

“Laurence, it smells amazing.”

“Good morning, Jane. Thank you!”

“Good morning.” (Y/N) greeted Jane, without turning her back from the stove.

“M-…morning.”

“Shall we start, ladies?”

“Right away, Laurence.”

“Okay, let’s see… (Y/N), can you help me set the table? On those shelves, you’ll find the dishes and napkins, and the cutlery can be found-… Jane, why don’t you help her with that?”

“I’m afraid I’m feeling a little bit… indisposed. I’ll retire to my chambers and shall take my breakfast there. And lunch, perhaps. Care to send it to me with my brother, please?”

“But are you…-are you okay?” Laurence frowned, finally leaving a cloth he was using to clean the table.

“I’m sure I just need a little space.”

“Do you want me to boil some tea for you? Chamomile, perhaps? I’m sure (Y/N) can take it to your room if your brother is l-“

“No, thanks. That will be all, Mr. Laurence. Miss.”

“What is her problem?! What did I ever do to her?!”

“Don’t take it personal. She just… doesn’t like strangers.”

“But I…!”

“Is anything wrong, miss?”

“Oh, Mr. Thorn! Good morning. No, no. Everything’s fine, thanks for your concern. Is your shoulder better in any way?”

“In fact, yes, yes, it is! But you know how stubborn those old wounds are. The Great War was so long ago… and yet, I still carry its damned consequences!”

“We shall find a way to lessen them, then. I’ll speak to Margot about it; perhaps I can grow something at the lighthouse that can help you with it.”

“Do you…?”

She quickly shook her head. “Please, sir. I’m no witch – this I can assure you. My grandfather was a man of science and I learned from him.”

Their kind smiles warmed her cheeks, and a blush crept onto her face.

“Had I known your father was a physician too I would have asked for help sooner! Did he teach you?”

“My father isn’t, unfortunately. He prefers the arts – he sells toys and music boxes at the capital.”

He didn’t say a thing, but it was printed all over his face the question he dares not to ask. ‘Then, why was he robbing them?’ She shifted uncomfortably, occupying her hands in something different than twisting and intertwining her fingers. Proud as she was, and ashamed as she felt, (Y/N) couldn’t dare to face the truth, not yet at least. And looking at Mr. Thorn’s solemn face twisting in confusion, the incriminating question written on his eyes, was a challenge she wasn’t prepared to face.

Mr. Thorn was discreet enough not to pressure her into telling anything compromising. And Mrs. Winston’s lovely voice caught her from her reverie.

“Ma petite, can I talk to you for a bit?” she asked, entering the room.

“Sure, Mrs. Winston,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to apologize.”

“For what?”

“My daughter’s behavior has been—“ It looked as if it was taking everything in her to apologize for a behavior that left her cheeks to redden with anger.

“Oh, no, please don’t! You’re not to blame, Mrs. Winston. It’s alright.”

“She’s not… I promise you she’s not that bad. I’m so ashamed! I will have a word with her, and she shall listen!”

“Don’t be. Honestly, it’s fine. You can’t get along with every single person on Earth. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I don’t think talking to her would do any good. I just hope it doesn’t get awkward, for I would hate if she had to take her meals at her room every single day.”

“I’m so sorry, little one.”

“You did nothing wrong, Mrs. Winston. I have been treated with nothing but utter respect from you, and for that I thank you. Please, don’t let it disturb you. I’m fine. And hopefully she is, too.”

She kept avoiding her, but (Y/N) didn’t care. She had endured worse than that, and a spoiled girl was not something new. Still, she felt bad for Mrs. Winston, who seemed mortified every single time Jane acted unproperly.

 Hours blended into days, and days into a week. Harry was used to that as he was used to breathing – in a blinking, everything changed. Time wasn’t real, and it passed and passed and passed, flying like a bird to look for another soul to torment. What does it matter the passing of time for a creature that will know eternity? A year is merely a second. With all hope lost, he now met the surprising calmness that accompanied the storm. To hell with the curse, to hell with the witch, to hell with everything! He was tired, and wished only to sleep. And sleep he did.

For over two weeks, he barely woke up. Who cared anyway? Perhaps sleeping he’d set them free – at least as free as they could be, prisoners as they were inside the castle walls –. Perhaps, in dreams, he would be free. Nightmares filled his nights and days alike – time isn’t real, and without a star rising in the east day and night were just the same – and Harry welcomed them like the old friends they were. He’d stir on his sleep, and as the cold, dead fingers of the enchantress presented a bloodied rose to him, as he felt his muscles stretch and his bones bend and break, fangs slitting open his guns in an excruciating pain, fangs as big as his fingers… elegant fingers that once wore rings that were art by themselves, elegant fingers that became broken, hideous figures covered in thick, coarse fur, curved in the fashion of a wolf’s. He felt it all – the way his blood had tangled his fur, had attracted the flies. The way his skull had been ripped, the way those terrible horns had grown… he had never felt that kind of pain in his life. It was like being stabbed by thousands of thousands of knives, each one sharper than the other.

He didn’t know, blinded by his pain, but steady, motherly hands tried to calm him. Caressed his forehead as if he was still a little boy… and his mother appeared and looked at him. And ran away scared, leaving him. Leaving him. She always left – chose to abandon her son with him. Chose to say goodbye. Chose to never come back. He always woke up whenever the stern face of his Royal Highness Anthony Charles Henry Edward of M…, all white hair meticulously styled, the newest fashion just brought from Paris. Steel eyes that looked at him with nothing but pure ire, a smile on his rouged lips only confirmed what he feared the most: in his darkest hours, in his most unbearable pain his father had found his rejoice, and would never bother to hide it from his stupid son’s eyes.

It infuriated him — how he still woke up weeping like a child, biting hard against his snout until he could only taste his own blood. He would pretend to be asleep, and no one ever noticed. And if they did, they chose to do nothing. Just like they did when his father was alive — just like they did when he would end up covered in bruises, the family crest imprinted on his cheeks with the bloody strength his father’s hand had beat him with. How he hated that bloody ring.

The first days after the wolf attack, Harry had been unconscious and suffering from a terrible fever. Mary was by his bedside as much as she could, and when she wasn’t, (Y/N) patiently did her work, out of gratefulness rather than duty. As unconscious as Harry was, he felt it. The way she had touched him… with so much care, so gentle – the way girls like her shouldn’t touch a beast. She hadn’t flinched, nor ran away. She had stood her ground, defied him. And he found himself almost amused at the thought, once his ire had passed. What would a girl like her do against a creature like himself? Had he wanted, with just a trace of his claws she would have—but no. He did not want to, and the thought only serves as another reminder of just how careful he must be around her. He could taint her; a man of his reputation with a naïve girl of blushed cheeks. No, she shouldn’t touch a beast, nor live under his roof.

But under her hands, surrounded by candlelight, she had tended to his wounds. It had hurt, but the warmth that irradiated from her had made it worth it. What a bliss to be touched again, after all those years. He’d lie if he said he hadn’t thought of the pleasure of the flesh, of faceless lovers that had thrown themselves to him. But he didn’t deserve it. He had lost that right so long ago. Thinking of her that way would be just… wrong. Nonetheless, she was beautiful. Beautiful in a way he wasn’t used to. Her face wasn’t pale, as the ones from courtiers who shielded from the sun, when there was a sun to begin with. He noticed a few freckles on her nose, thick lashes that caressed her cheeks. Cheeks so rosy they seemed like… like rose petals. It made him sick, and it drove him mad – how much he wanted to smell it.

But how, how on earth could he think of her as that? She was the daughter of a common thief! A prisoner that became a guest. Someone who had saved him, yes, but someone who had tried to run away from him. That had been so close to damn them all for her stupid curiosity. She was going to disappear once she felt better. And all hope will leave with her.

She can’t set him free – let the world be done with him. He’d been ready to say goodbye, that night under the wolf’s attack. Had almost tasted death’s lips, embracing her as a threat and a lover, someone who made his knees go weak and his blood pathetically run cold… someone who could offer him what he most wanted. Freedom. Redemption. A merciful ending.  Perhaps, if he died, the staff would have been finally free. Perhaps. But she didn’t let him; she touched him and with her warm fingers she had brought life back. Her light was blinding, and he could barely stand to look at her.

Why her? From all people –why someone like her? Someone so different from him? She didn’t deserve it. He couldn’t -wouldn’t dare to force her.

And if he knew naught about love, if he couldn’t love her… what would he have? ‘You’d have a friend’, a voice whispered from afar. He almost snorted. A friend! What a foreign concept! He had never had friends before. He had cared for Joseph and his footman, John. But they had all stood by while he had suffered from his father’s cruelty. They had given him their backs when he needed them most –those weren’t friends, no matter how much he had tried to convince himself. They choose their jobs over him. They choose his father and his wooden cane, ire-filled strokes that left crimson droplets on expensive rugs. Friends were supposed to work together, to fight together – to understand each other. Was he being delusional, wishing he could call her a friend? It was all he could aspire, for love was forbidden. A maiden like her, so fair and kind, could never love him. He didn’t desire it, he was no fool. But wasn’t friendship too much? He hoped it wasn’t for he found himself waiting for her visits, wanting her company. Hearing her witty remarks, seeing her lips curving ever so lightly when she thought she was right – it was all becoming a habit.

But could he love her? He wasn’t sure. Love was something he had never heard enough, a mere whisper behind lacey fans, muttered between lips covered in rouge and a cruel smile. A concept that had driven his father mad. A betrayal that costed Monsieur’s head – all for the love of a woman. And that witch wanted him to love…! To love! What good has love ever brought? Love killed his mother. Love damned him. There wasn’t anything left to love.

But who could ever learn to love a beast? the enchantress had asked in a sarcastic-filled manner – humor in her every move. He was cursed, he was damned, he had lost.

“Master, let me change the bedding. You’ll sleep more comfortable in clean sheets.” Harry jumped on his bed. Even after years of living under John’s care, the maître d’ always managed to startle him with his cat-like steps.

“John! What happened to you? I haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”

“I apologize if my absence made matters more difficult to you, master. I was confined to my bed by a sickness that did not want to leave me. Fortunately for me, Laurence cooks the best chicken soup I’ve ever tried. The girl helped, too,” replied in his usual nonchalant manner.

“She did?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He wasn’t interested in the girl at the very last. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t right.

“I… I suspect that you already know we gave her a room. If you’re looking for someone to blame, that is me. I will accept the punishment you consider better fits the crime.” It was almost comical –how he put his hand over his heart and stood tall awaiting his sentence.

“Will it change a thing?” Harry said with a tired sigh. John had the decency to look ashamed, even behind his heroic façade.

“I…”

“I’m not trying to reprimand you, John, though I expect you won’t keep disobeying me at any given opportunity. I want to inform you that she’ll be here from now on as a guest, and not as a prisoner. I trust she has been eating correctly?”

“I… is this a trap?” John finally managed to mutter, choking on his own saliva.

“Did you disobey me in that, too?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. That I did, master.”

“Perfect. I suppose I cannot be treating guests as bad as I threatened to, since that was what put us in this unpleasant situation in the first place. As I said, I won’t hold it against you, but I trust you’ll be prudent furthermore.”

“Is the master implying what I think he’s implying?”

“I trust your judgment better than I trust mine, and if that doesn’t tell you how fucked I am then I don’t know what will.” At this, John laughed. Harry did too, much to his chagrin. He loved his best friend, could have given his life for him. Even now, he’d do so without much thinking. But it had been hard… growing up. And there were wounds that did not heal with time. “Mr. Thorn is too stern, I’m afraid, and though he wants to be compassionate his politic training gets the best of him. From now on, I want you to be my advisor too. And if the enchantment ever breaks… will it be too forward of me to think you’ll desire to keep your new position?”

“It’ll be an honor, Your Highness. May I ask… why the sudden change?”

“I cannot keep living as I was living. I want to—I believe I can still mend my ways. I owe that to all of you.”

John didn’t say a single thing, for though the politer thing to do was told him how he didn’t owe them anything, he couldn’t find it in himself to lie like that. Harry applauded him for that – it reminded him why they were friends in the first place. Though those days seemed too far away.

“Does… does Mrs. Winston know about this?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Harry said, looking at the painting in the room. A young, charming prince looked back. Eyes so cruel Harry was still unsure how no one had cursed him any sooner. Eyes so cruel they did not deserve to be looked by someone like (Y/N). Taking a deep breath, he said: “I want to ask you another thing.”

“I’m listening,” John said, studying him in silence.

“Tend to her needs, please.”

“Whose?”

“The girl.”

“Master, she’s been treated with nothing but respect and we have all tended to her the best way we can. I must add that she won it all by her own means.  And thus, she shall be treated for as long as she’s here with us,” John answered, a small smile on his lips. “How long will it be?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

“Master, pardon me for being so forward but… Isn’t it amazing?! We couldn’t have a better opportunity! The rose has lost almost all its petals, and this girl wants to be here willingly. You must charm her, indeed! Seduce her with fine words under candlelight, dance with her and…”

“The Enchantress said ‘love’, John. I don’t know anything about it! I know lust, and I know seduction. But love? How on Earth someone triggers that?” Harry laughed, though the sound did not reach his eyes.

“It happens naturally.”

“You see, that’s why I’m afraid. What if…”

“You don’t think you could love her?”

“Of course I could! She’s gorgeous. Talks way too much, but she… I don’t know. She seems nice, but-“

“Enough ‘buts’, master. You said it yourself, you could. Why don’t you try to get to know her? Perhaps you’ll be surprised.”

“I don’t like surprises. I like to know what I’m getting into, but with her is impossible! She defies me at any given opportunity, she fights back, and somehow, she is still gentle! She tended to my wounds even after what I did to her father! What the fuck is wrong with her?”

At this, John snorted. “So you’re angry at her because you can’t figure her out.”

“That sounds dumber aloud than it did in my head.”

“Is just normal, master. Don’t worry.”

“I want to do something for her.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something to repay what she did to us. Margot told me she helped Alphonsine, as she helped me. Why is she doing all of this? Why can’t she be just, like… I don’t know!”

“Flowers!”

“Oh, no! no more of those hideous roses, please!”

“Chocolates? No, no. She has pastries every night… What does she like?”

“Why do you ask me? I don’t know!”

“Well, ask her!”

“But how?!” Harry frowned, crossing his arms.

“Just ask her. Lead the conversation to her likes and dislikes… and just do it. What do you know about her so far?”

“She likes reading… She likes reading!”

“Then you already know the answer!”

“But I cannot take her to the library just yet. And she has awful taste in books.”

“Well, I can look for a book for her if you want me to.”

“Actually, I’d like that, yes.”

“Ask and I shall obey,” was his snarky remark, followed by a curtsy.

“Thank you.”

John is taken aback by that, blinking slowly. Has he heard correctly…? Harry bit his lips, and did not look at him, playing with the new duvet.

“You’re welcome,” John replied, as warmly as he could. Harry didn’t miss the hint of his smile and found himself smiling too.

“May I presume you know where she is right now? She was supposed to come in and check my wounds, but she has been nowhere to be seen.”

“Is the master worried about her?”

“As any master would regarding his guests.”

“Very well. I believe she wasn’t feeling right at breakfast. I suppose she has confined herself to her room.”

“Was it something she ate?”

“I believe it comes from the night of the incident.”

“She hasn’t been taken care of?”

“Of course she has! But as the master so kindly put it, she’s stubborn. And we can barely do a thing.”

“Then I must demand you to do so. She shall not leave her chambers until she’s fully recovered.”

“Perhaps it will be better if the master could take the affairs into his own hands.”

“Whatever are you suggesting?”

There’s a beast running wild in an endless forest that stands tall, reaching the clouds. Its appearance couldn’t be any more hideous: running in 4, its claws entering the snow under him —as they trace a disheveled path— long and pointy, covered in blood. Its breath is fast, erratic as if it’s taking everything he’s got to even bother in such a task. From his snout, a pool of thick, sticky saliva fell, and a red substance drifting through his fangs is falling in small drops, coating the immaculate white snow with the evidence of a crime. Paws so big they seem like the head of a man. 

He’s running, running so fast he seems like floating. 

How strange, the girl thought, how strange that an enormous creature such as that could move as graceful. How it knows the woods despite the faintest moonlight, the darkness of the endless sky, clearer than ever. 

“No!” screams a woman behind her, running as fast as she can. Her cheeks are as red as her nose, robe torn from the careless grip of the trees and thorns in the forest. Ophelia looks at her, wild hair escaping from what must have been a fine coiffure... she does not stop, she runs and runs, and screams for someone to ‘torn from the careless grip of the trees and thorns in the forest. Ophelia looks at her, wild hair escaping from what must have been a fine coiffure... she does not stop, she runs and runs, and screams for someone to ‘step back! Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!’... But then, the hideous creature lets out a hellish roar that vibrates on her body. That shakes the ground underneath them. 

He falls, falls so hard it’s like he’s lost conscience. But it is not the case —his aggressor doesn’t give him that mercy. Another arrow flies straight to the center of his back, and the monster roars again, his spine arched in a painful angle... with this, a third figure hidden in a dark, dirty cape appears.

“Don’t hurt him, please! I beg you! I’ll do anything!”

But the man only answer is stabbing the fallen monster with a sword. Blood spurts from its figure like rose petals. He looks at her... really looks at her, and his eyes are more human than those of the man that has just grabbed the woman by the elbow. Green, like the forest... —green, like those from his long-forgotten cousin. They look without looking, appears to be pleading ‘do something, do something. Help me, please!’ they seem to scream... until they are silenced. Until they no longer can express a single thing; the faint glow of his life still there. Even as he exhaled his last breath.

  The woman screams, and punches the cloaked figure—the man does not stop, does not flinch, and only laughs, shoving her against a tree. He, then, murmurs something in her ear, pressed against her body. She cries again, tries to stop him —nothing works. Nothing works, nothing works. Ophelia thinks she can hear the woman’s heartbeat. Hear the tambourines there, the trembling, the shattering. The snow stops cut violently like the beast that lays dead in the dirt. The cloaked figure —a man, now she notices, when he pushes the hood away from his face— walks to the monster, a proud smile on his twisted face. 

Ophelia is but a shadow, a muted existence that cannot say and cannot move; watches, and has to witness the crime.

There, looking the monster’s green eyes, Ophelia knows deep in her heart, that the true monster is the one standing in front of her, not the one laying in the snow, coating it with petal flowers that spurt from his body like blood from the mortal wound, the velvety liquid melting the winter away.

 In the horizon, the sun appears proud, hopeful, and joyous. There is nothing proud, hopeful or joyous in the scene: a monster sleeping to never open his eyes again, a mourning woman that sobs as if her heart has been taken out of her chest. It seems like, for her, the world has stopped. The sun cannot be shining, is her beast is dead. 

The man then lets out a sigh full of relief. “We are saved! The curse has been broken! The sun has come back!” the woman does not share his happiness... and instead falls in the green grass, caressing the dead monster as if he was made of the finest china. She weeps and weeps, tears falling from her face like cold rain, icicles forming from her now broken heart. Traveling down her face, they fell to his corpse, and his warmth melts them away.

She needs to do something. She needs to, she needs to— He cannot, he cannot die just like that! He needs to...he needs to...!

“I DID IT! I SAVED US ALL!”

It’s then when she sees it —a horrendous shadow setting itself in the woman’s wet eyes. A wish to kill and avenge her beast. The young lady, proud face and shy beauty, clenches her fists. A hand goes to her side, and the blade of a sword is presented, lit by both the moon and the sun, her faithful companions. There’s a fire around her… she weeps, chokes down her sobs; face and shy beauty, clenches her fists. A hand goes to her side, and the blade of a sword is presented, lit by both the moon and the sun, her faithful companions. There’s a fire around her… she weeps, chokes down her sobs; she won’t grant him that pleasure. 

The sound that comes from her mouth is a cry of war. 

“Princess Ophelia, open your eyes, please!” she’s brought back from her dreams, her bedchamber maid shaking swiftly her shoulders. “Good lord, you were screaming, Your Highness! Was that dreadful dream again, my princess?” 

She finally blinks, her chest rising and falling at a dangerous rate, her breathing erratic. Able to finally answer, Princess Ophelia shuts her eyelids tight. “Yes.”

“Shall I call the royal doctor? Maybe he can offer you something to calm your nerves, my princess, and ease your sleep —Perhaps a cup of tea?” the young maid asked, raising one of her arched, thin brows. Concern was written in the youthful features, softness and delight in chubby cheeks. It all paired with a small nose and almond shaped eyes. 

“Thank you, Victoria. But I’m afraid nothing can do.” There hasn’t been a single remedy she had not tried before. The dreadful nightmares always found their way back to her.  A name long forgotten always threatening to run from her sharp tongue. 

“Will your highness perhaps benefit from my humble presence, then?” Victoria asked, smiling apologetically at the princess that now seemed like a child bathed in moonlight. She's nothing but a mess of blond hair and heavy lids.

“I could use the company of a friend, please.”

“I'll gladly comply. Must I alert Her Majesty?”

“No!” the princess asked, shaking her head. Softer, she added “no, please don’t. I will talk to her tomorrow morning.”

“Then so be it, Your Highness.”

“Ophelia. Call me Ophelia, please. I cannot resist being called like that when I just...” she stopped mid-sentence, biting harshly against her lower lip.

“As you wish, Yo-... Ophelia,” she quickly corrected herself with a small bow.

“Victoria, you met my uncle, yes?”

“Prince Charles?” at the quick nod that the princess gave her as confirmation, Victoria took a long breath. “Yes.”

“Was he as bad as everyone makes him be?”

“He was worse, Your-... Ophelia”, she said at the princess raised brow. Composing herself, she took a deep breath. “He was not someone you felt pleased to be with.”

“They said that my father was like him, after he...”

“After he met Her Majesty, yes. It is true, so I’ve heard. So I’ve seen. But I wouldn’t call that change Her Majesty’s doing.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“I believe love can only transform us when one is decided to. If one lets it do so.”

“Do you think love can transform a good man into a monster?”

“I suppose it can work backwards,” she shrugged. Princess Ophelia let out a sigh, frowning.

“Isn’t it terrifying?”

Victoria snorted. “Yes, yes, it is. It’s not for cowards, that’s for sure.”

“Am I a coward? I just... I’m afraid I’m going to meet my husband only to find that I do not hold any special feeling for him. And I am equally terrified of loving him... What if he does not feel the same? What if it cannot last? It should, and I will have to make it work. It’s my responsibility. Still... I’m afraid I’m not ready. And I don’t want to put a kingdom before my own happiness” she admitted, looking at her friend with an apologetic gaze. “I know I must, but why can’t I try to find a balance?”

“No one can force a marriage into Your Highness.”

“But they can try.” She sneered, and for a moment Victoria was reminded of their younger days. 

“Why don’t you give him a chance? He might not be that bad after all.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you stand up to your family and council, following Elizabeth I of England’s example.” Ophelia smiled against her better judgment. Taking a deep breath, she finally asked what has been in her mind far too long. Having taken the weight of her political engagement off her shoulders, she felt as light as a feather. 

“Victoria... do you believe in magic?”

“I do,” the woman answered, giving her a suspicious filled look.

“Do you think the dead can come alive again?”

“Ophelia, what are you...! That is not a question a young woman like you should even think of!” The young princess snorted. ‘So, it is okay if I question the institution that raised me. It’s okay to speak of my fears – while following my curiosity is wrong?’ she thought, raising an eyebrow.

“But do you?” She pressed.

“Have you not had any religion classes? Have you not embraced your mother’s faith?” Victoria’s tone is accusatory – her eyes trying to feed the seed of reverence in the young royal. It doesn’t work.

“I believe my dreams are trying to tell me something, and perhaps it’s time to listen to them.”

“Do you dream of the dead?”

Ophelia did not answer. She was not sure.

Seconds passed without a single noise – the princess trying to organize her thoughts. It was only after she opened her lips to finally answer the question when she heard Victoria’s snoring. The maid had fallen asleep by her side. The princess did not dare to move, did not dare to speak; her mind was clouded with images of a monster... not one with fangs the size of her fingers, not one with the appearance of a wolf or a chimera —a monster of dark hair and soft eyes. A monster that laughed like he owned the place, a canine laughter that had broken the silence, peaceful mind of the parted souls in the woods. A laughter that could only promise horror.

Lifeless eyes so green they put the forest to shame. Lifeless eyes so green she was sure she had seen them somewhere. Before.

Before what?

The light of the hidden sun awoke the two friends. After preparing the princess they left her chambers. Dressed her in a silk dress, a brocaded bodice that seemed to shine as bright as the sun in the East; strays so tight they pushed her modest bosom up, her long hair curled – she was ready to join her mother at breakfast. She could barely breathe, though it had nothing to do with her clothing. 

Her mother was reading quietly. The courtiers by her side making conversation and feasting on the fresh pastries the royal chef had baked. 

Playing with her hands, the princess waited. ‘Are you alright?’, they asked her – her mother never taking her gaze off the old pages of her novel. ‘Of course, I am’, she had replied, ‘everything is fine. Thank you. Where did you say your niece is at the moment?’, she asked. It was followed by a tedious explanation of the itinerary of a complete stranger. The princess smiled politely nonetheless. 

When she saw the queen going through her third cup of tea, she decided it was time. Everyone was already lost in another conversation, whispering through fans and cruel smiles – it was the perfect opportunity. Using the gossip as camouflage, she leaned to her mother’s side, and as quietly as she could, she asked:

“What happened to my cousin Harry?”

Perhaps it was too forward, she thought –as the Queen raised an eyebrow, shooting her a disapproving look that she quickly avoided her biting hard on her croissant.

“Oh, her highness meant His Royal Highness Prince Charles Henry Ed-“ the princess raised her eyebrows at her tutor, an English man so full of himself and boring to the bone it was a miracle Ophelia hadn’t killed herself yet. Sitting in front of her, never taking his eyes off his pupil, he could not let yet another opportunity to prove her wrong in front of the queen.  To gain her favor or because he wasn’t that fond of her either, Ophelia didn’t know. She didn’t care, though.

“He never liked his full name. Never liked ‘Henry’, either,” the princess said.

“My bad, then.” But he is not apologizing, not even seems sorry nor guilty. Doesn’t even seems ashamed for having eavesdropped. His gaze is like blades, all pointy and harsh against her. Princess Ophelia looks at him the same way.

“You already know the story, my love,” Queen Vera says, not even bothering to look at her daughter. Her book is way more interesting. “He suffered from a terrible illness that ended up killing him. The same one that took his father’s life at the war for his wife’s crown.”

Ophelia almost laughs. Of course, her mother would say that, she mused. This time she has prepared a comeback, though – “but we never saw the body.”

“The doctors said that it was unrecognizable.” The queen pressed her lips in a tight line, letting out a heartfelt sigh. “It was for the best. His mother’s brother arranged him the funeral and made sure that his remains were kept in the holiest of grounds. Near his mother’s family.”

“I would like to visit his grave, mom.”

“He is not buried alongside his mother, in that old castle. He is buried on L… in the cathedral,” she explained, now returning her daughter’s look. “Your father would not appreciate if you decide to travel when your wedding is coming close.”

“If my future husband cannot respect my grieving how am I supposed to trust he will respect my kingdom?”

“Can’t you wait after the wedding?” the queen never pleads, but that question comes as close as a plea as one can get from her. “He’s already on his way here. It will sadden him not finding you here.”

“Maybe he can be my companion." She shrugged, feasting on the strawberries coated in sugar even when she felt the disapproving look of one of the queen’s guests.

“Before the wedding? Imagine the scandal!” The queen couldn’t control the raised voice, the arched brow, the open agape.

“I dreamed of him, again, mom.” She pleads. ‘Mom’, not ‘Your Majesty’. She is talking to Vera, not the queen. 

With a quick look, the queen dismisses the curious eyes of the servants and courtiers alike. “Who?” asks at last, lowering her voice.

“Harry.”

She lets out a deep sigh, shaking her head in disapproval. “It has been 10 years, my dear, it is better if we let his poor soul rest. God knows you and your father don’t seem to keep him out of your minds."  As much as she tried to make her words as soft as sugar, it is clear the exasperated tone poorly hidden.

“I was supposed to visit him when he... they did not let us see the body.”

“Your father’s swordsman saw it. He did, too.”

“I’d have wanted to say goodbye.”

“Me too”, she takes a pause. “Poor boy... he was so young.”

“Now everyone seems to have forgotten him!” Her mother leans closer to her. 

“He was not precisely a good man, my dear,” she whispers. “I pity him, for he must be paying for his sins still. May God grant him the pleasure of his presence someday.”

“I hope his soul finds the light even in the darkest of places.” Ophelia recited, as she has been taught to do so ever since she learned how to speak. As she’s been taught to do so whenever someone speaks of her cousin, masquerading her pain. ‘Awfully impersonal words, as if I’ve never met him!’ she thinks, having given up in the matter long ago. 

“I hope so, too. But I cannot help but be glad that I have you here with me, my dearest.”

“I adore you, mother.” Ophelia tried to smile. She really did. What adorned her face, yet, was nothing but a thoughtful expression. How could she be such a fool –believing she could get a different answer from her mother this time?

It is after lunch when, being left alone, Princess Ophelia relaxed. She left her body rest languidly in the chair she seated in. A closed book in her lap. Nipping in idle on her lower lip, she toyed with the questions that fill her troubled mind. They were not going to leave her be anytime soon. She knows it, her mother knows it – maybe that’s why she doesn't even look at her when she brings the topic back. But no matter how many disapproving looks she gets, she knows there something that just doesn’t add up regarding her dear cousin’s death. And she is not going to let it rest.

“I need to ask you something crucial, Victoria.”

“Tell me, my princess.”

“You owe loyalty to me.”

“That I do, your Highness.”

“And you’re my friend… right?”

“Why are you questioning it, Ophelia?” Victoria asked, lower this time. She looked into the woman’s eyes, but the princess did not meet her gaze.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Pray tell.”

“Would you please, in complete secrecy, send a letter to the castle in the north?”

“What could possibly there that you need to reach? Or should I say... who?”

“Victoria...”

“You know you can trust me,” Victoria pressed, giving Ophelia’s hand a little squeeze. Her bony, little hands being the only comfort the princess had. It is the last push she needed, before she dropped her shoulders, meeting her eyes at last.

“I don’t believe that my cousin is dead.” She confessed through gritted teeth. A small sigh leaving her lips once the dreadful secret has been shared.

“But why would that be?” Victoria frowned, leaving her flute of wine alone. 

“Because I dream of him. Almost every night. He’s alive... and he’s in danger.” The princess looks at her maid, finally able to put into words those thoughts that have never left her alone. It is a whisper, a shameful confession, a naked truth. ‘Victoria would understand’, she reminded herself, ‘she always does. This cannot be a coincidence.’

Victoria has the ghost of a smile covering her lips, shaking her head so slowly one would never had guessed her disappointment, her lack of faith. “You’re letting it cloud your mind, princess.” She answers slower, choosing each word carefully, “it’s of no use to torture oneself with fantasies.”

“It is not a fantasy! I know it!”

“You yourself said you dream of the dead!”

“Why haven’t we gone to the castle, if it’s rightfully ours, then?”

“Your father is deeply wounded by the loss of his brother and his nephew.”

“Then wouldn’t it be the perfect place to hide?”

“It has been abandoned, my princess. Some even say that it’s enchanted. The only reason your father hasn’t gotten rid of it is because he does not want to say goodbye to the only memory of his family.”

“But there must be something else. I feel it!”

“If it makes you feel any better... I’d do it. I give you my word. But please, princess, don’t let those dreams torment your mind.”

“Do you think I’m losing my mind? That I am... ill somehow?” she managed to ask the question that has never left her thoughts, scaring her, keeping her awake at night. She does not feel like the rest – she thinks perhaps there something wrong with her, and she is fearful of the answer.

“I would not suggest such a thing to Her Royal Highness.”

“And to your friend?” Victoria looked down, closed her eyes, counted to ten. 

Finally, with a whisper, she said “I’m worried, Ophelia.”

“You can’t be serious.” The princess is on her feet in a second, shaking her head at her dearest friend, a hurt look on her face.

“Ophelia, wait!”

Victoria watches her go without looking back; her back straight and her steps regal. Her fists clenched –the only part of her appearance that betrays her disappointment. She did not lie, though. Victoria is worried, worried to the bone. Those dreadful nightmares have only been more frequent, every single one of them leaving her princess looking like a mess. She needs help, and she is not going to sit back and watch her lose herself, damned property and manners. 

Victoria won’t lose her best friend. She couldn’t bear that pain.

After giving it deep thought, Victoria goes to the only one who can be just as worried about the princess. The queen herself. She finds her reading near the window, an artist playing the piano for her.

“May I be as forward to suggest an audience with Her Majesty?”, she said to her chambermaid and the queen’s valet. 

“What is it, Victoria?” Vera interrupts, standing up to see her visitor. 

“It’s about your daughter, Your Majesty.”

“Then I shall listen.”

She toys with the words at the top of her tongue, but the more she thinks about it, the worse they sound. She realizes there is no nice way to put the matter, so she gasps for air and exhales through her mouth. “I’ve been worried, Your Majesty. Your daughter only keeps getting worse and worse.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I just... I believe she’s in danger.”

“Isn’t she always? It comes with the title.”

“I know, Your Majesty. But lately... she’s been...”

“Pray you go straight to the point,” she frowns, playing with her hands. It is then when the maid notices that she’s trembling and that all color has left her face. 

“She’s having nightmares again. Vividly, I am afraid. She’s... she’s been having trouble to sleep, and concentrate, and just... do anything. I’m afraid she’s slowly losing her mind. I’m afraid someone has... enchanted her in some way. Or perhaps she’s... ill."

“I could have you hanged for your words, Victoria.”

“I’m afraid it’s not mere speculation, Your Majesty.” A sound leaves the queen’s lips. If Victoria didn’t know any better, she’d think it was a sob. But she’s been working for royalty ever since she was a young child, and ignores it. There is nothing they hate more than appearing vulnerable in front of others.

“You’re dismissed. Go back to work.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“Call for my husband,” she whispers to her valet. Looking at the wigged man disappearing in the distance, she lets herself sink into her chair.  A choked sob betraying her cold exterior.

It is no surprise when the king can only meet her at night. Her Majesty is too tired to start a fight about it, so she waits, patient,  for him to climb into bed with her. 

“We have to do something.”

“We have? About what?”

“She’s getting worse. This morning her maid came to me and told me…. She’s suffering, she’s suffering and I can’t help her!”

“Is she?”

“Terrible nightmares,  like the ones she had in her childhood. They started after your brother died.”

“Do you think they are somehow related? That someone, or something, may be hurting her?”

“I do not know what to believe, my love. I just know that our daughter is in danger, and we must do something.”

“We’ll call for a doctor before her fiancé comes. From now on, she must not be in contact with anyone. We cannot trust a single person around her. Not even her maid.”

“But she will be all alone!”

“Maybe that’s for the best, my dear. Nobody can hurt her like that.”

“I don’t know…”

“Trust me in this. We’ll find a way. She’s going to get better.”

“What if she’s … ill? Will you trust her with the kingdom?”

“I will protect my daughter and my kingdom until my last breath," he paused without missing a beat. "And if giving the throne to another heir is what is best for it, I’d do it in a minute.”

“But what other heir?! We only have her, and I thought she was more than enough!”

“She is more than enough! She is my daughter, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh! But so is my kingdom, love dearest. You know I can’t…”

“And you’ll leave it to whom? Your brothers are dead. Your nephew has been gone for ten years! Who, pray tell, will occupy the throne, if not your daughter?!”

“Perhaps it is time to let another house in the throne! Perhaps this is just the end of our lineage.”

“I won’t let you do this!”

“Do you value your power over your own daughter’s sanity?!”

“I think she needs help, she needs help and she is not getting it!”

“But what can we do?!”

“She needs a change of airs. Perhaps… Perhaps it’ll be best for her if we cut contact with the rest of the castle’s inhabitants.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Lock her in her room. If this is an enchantment we need to cut it from the roots. She can’t see or talk to anyone, or else it can only grow. We will feed her, and visit her a few minutes a day.”

“You’re saying I should make my own daughter my prisoner!”

“She is my daughter too! Vera…”

“I don’t know what’s best for her, but she deserves to be finally at peace! And whatever it takes, I will do it.”

“As will I,” the King said.

“We’ll find a way. If we speak to a doctor about this… it will only put us in danger. You know the H… have wanted to drag you down at any opportunity they’ve had. They won’t stop if they think your heir is… incapable. We need to appear stronger than we are.”

“But what about her?”

“We’ll find a way, I promise you.” He kisses her hands, and she lets herself lose into his touch. Tomorrow is another day. They’ll fiercely fight for their daughter’s happiness. 

Tonight, they need to rest.

That same night, far away from the capital in a castle forgotten even by God, another lady is whimpering in her sleep, haunted by another kind of dreams. There is a woman dressed in white, red roses in her head –like a crown – thorns piercing her forehead, drawing small drops of blood. She’s crystal clear, bathed in moonlight, standing over a garden that seems to bloom for her only.

  “Something is troubling you, wandering child,” she says as a greeting, and (Y/N) hates her for it.

“Where are you?” she asks. The light so bright she cannot see. 

“Listen to me and you’ll see.”

“Who are you?” (Y/N) snaps. The woman’s games have already tired her enough.

“Someone who did everything wrong and is trying to prevent you from doing the same.”

“That does not answer my question at the very least!"

“Your life is yours and yours only. Your destiny lies in your hands.” (Y/N) looks at her then. There is a small smile appearing in the woman's eyes as green as the forest. “He’s weak, but his love for you gives him the so needed strength to fight another day. I can tell he’ll survive, and before you know it, he’ll come for you. You must remember to be brave, my dear. The sun will shine for you once again.”

“The sun! Do you...? How do you—?”

“It will shine for you and the love that you hold inside,” she studied her as if she was looking through her. “Do you want to see him?”

“My father? Yes, please!”

“Follow me,” she says as she starts walking. She floats –one could believe that she dances in the wind, being one with the winter night. She walks and walks until they are facing a broken mirror, gold adorning it. As soon as the woman touches its surface, it shines as bright as the sun – as it did when she saw it after so many long, dark years. His father is coughing, he’s resting in an unknown bed.

“Where is he? Who’s with him?! -- Dad!” she cries, reaching for the crystal to touch. It is warm – so warm it cannot be true. Her dad doesn’t answer, doesn’t even return her gaze.  He is surrounded by two women in cloaks, tending to his sickness, preparing him a meal in the fire. “Where is my daughter?” he asks, “I need to find her. I need to-“

“He loves you to death,” the woman says, her voice sounding like a song. “I was told you took after your mother… and you may have her courage, but you have his kindness. I see it now.”

“Will I get to see him? I need to escape from here.”

“He’s in good hands, I can assure you. They mean well. He’s in the woods, not so far from here. Follow me,” she repeats, presenting her bony hand at her. (Y/N) took it, letting the ice-cold fingers intertwine with hers. She smells of roses and death… having her as close as it is now, (Y/N) is not sure which odor is stronger. In her they blend as if they were the same. “Come with me, I have something else to show you.”

They walk through empty halls until the woman stops at a door. She pushes it open, revealing a crumbling chamber all painted pink and gold. She walks to the vanity, where an enormous mirror hangs on the wall. There are wild roses growing at their own accord, covering the mattress and falling from the ceiling. Like chandeliers, (Y/N) notices with a marveled gaze. “Look at him, my dearest. You can use this as much as you want; you just need to find it.”

She looks at the mirror, and her father’s reflection meets her eyes. “You will see him again; I know this, as I know the sun will rise again for you. It’s only in your hands, my dearest.”

“Don’t go, please!”

“We’re always here for those of a pure heart.”

“Who? Who else?”

“Those who wrongfully died,” she says, no longer smiling. “We’ll take care of you, but you must find your strength. Wake up the lion that lies sleeping inside of you, for you might need his guidance in the future.”

“Don’t leave me, please.”

“I won’t. We’ll see each other in a dream. They will help you, my dear, once you’ve opened your heart to them. My time is short… but theirs is longer.”

“Whose? Whose?! Wait!”

A long, deep laugh came to break the calm silence that flew in the air. (Y/N) screamed, taking a few steps back. From the mirror, a young man came. His face heavy powdered, rouge in his cheeks and long locks of chestnut hair that was styled in elegant curls. He plays with a single rose, twisting it until its petals fall. He's bathed in sunlight, his skin gold as the brocade in his frock coat.

“Hello there," he says with an amused smile. Naughty eyes take her frame carefully.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you? Are there no bows, no curtsies for your prince, filthy commoner?”

“You’re no prince of mine, and I will never kneel nor bow.”

“A pretty thing you are. Proud, also. A match made in heaven!” he laughs, circling her. Eyeing her as if she was nothing but an attire he was studying – an animal he was deciding whether to buy or not. She glared back at him, crossing her arms over her chest. It is then, however, when he grabs her by the chin, passing a long finger over her lips.

“Let go of me!” she roars, pushing him. He moves, fire in his eyes. Then, there’s a cry. 

“You heard that? Sounds awfully familiar!”

“I can’t hear a single thing. Sir, let go of me.”

“He’s getting closer,” he left her chin, taking a step back.

“Who? What are you even talking about?!” (Y/N) can no longer keep the annoyance out of her voice.

“I forgot… Silly me! Good looks rarely go with brains. Nobody can be perfect, right? One can only dream,” he purrs, smirking. And he has that terrible look in his eyes that she cannot help but huff.

“Touch me again and it’ll be the last time you’ll have hands!”

“Are you always like this or it is my lucky day?”

“Shh!… I hear it now. Is that… a child?” 

“Don’t go there.”

“He’s crying!” “Don’t go there!” he screams at her, grabbing her by her forearm.

“He needs someone! He’s…” she stopped, having heard a piece of furniture being thrown against something. A sharp cry was followed by a whimper. Her heart stopped – there is a child crying. And then there’s the cold sound of another stroke hard against tender flesh. So, she starts running, following the sobs of the boy, the angry steps of the man echoing behind her.

“Don’t you dare disobey me, peasant!”

She did not answer, instead, she grabbed the hem of her skirt to gain more mobility, and ran faster. She found herself in front of a wooden door, dipped in gold. It was semi opened, and she could see a boy resting at the foot of the bed. A trace of blood falling from his nose… and he’s pleading, and crying, and curled on the floor. The man in front of him spits at his feet, takes a step back and then… 

“(Y/N)!”

“No! Don’t touch him! Let me- Please!”

“Wake up. Open your eyes, please!”

“W-what?”

“You almost ran into the master’s room! What were you thinking?! Come here, we need to get you out of here right now!”

“Was I… not sleeping?”

“You seemed pretty awake to me! Come here. Let’s go fetch you some tea.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand what happened. I was… there was something in the room.”

“What are you talking about?” “Something. Besides him. It smelled like roses!” “Let’s get you back to your room. You’re… you’re boiling!”

There is a chapel in the northern border of the walls that surround the castle. The same ones that protect it from curious eyes. There is a chapel in a place kissed by evil. All white and pristine, rising like a lotus flower from the mud without an ounce of dirt. It took a few days to convince himself that he did not deserve to set foot there; neither with his former appearance nor his recent form.

He hadn’t wanted to test the waters, afraid of what could happen to him. Would he burn, like Chiara when she tried to cross the borders? Would he scream at having his skin lacerated? Would he feel himself turning to ash? Harry was not eager to try. In fact, if it wasn’t because his mother was buried there, he wouldn’t even be at the gates, looking longingly at the pristine building.

“I dreamed about her, a few nights ago, before the last intruder came. She was wearing her white camisole and her hair loose. It seemed like it had grown, it reached her toes. She was a vision to behold.” Harry clenched his jaw, avoiding her gaze. 

“Master... don’t you believe it’s time for you to visit her resting place?” To his chagrin, she did not continue narrating her dream. 

“Perhaps seeing you at peace is what is keeping her from eternal joy.”

“How can I know peace, if I am cursed?”

“You must not lie to yourself, master. She would have seen past your exterior, she was your mother, after all.”

He snorted then, cold, loud and harsh against the icy atmosphere around them. ‘There is nothing else there’, he wanted to say, but admitting it aloud to her was harder than he thought at first. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the idea of seeing disappointment —or worse, agreement —in her eyes could have been the death of him.

“One can learn to be happy even in the darkest hours,” she continued, licking her lips lost deep into her memories. “She wished nothing but your happiness.”

“Then why did she leave? Why did she leave me alone with him? If she had loved me... she would have stayed. She would have been with me and none of this would’ve happened!”

“You’re being unfair, my ch—master,” she quickly corrected herself, much to Harry’s despair. “She couldn’t help it, even if she wanted it. I remember it... she begged and begged, and took everything in her power to stay strong for you, to even say goodbye.”

“She didn’t get to say it. Father took me from her side.”

“She stayed awake for a few hours... your name was the only thing in her lips.”

“Was he with her? When she...”

“Yes, yes he was. I was there, too; putting wet cloth against her forehead, until they no longer worked.”

“Was he... was he rude to her? Did he...?”

“No, master. He apologized over and over again. Cried in her lap. She forgave him —even as she drew her last breath. She begged him to treat you well.”

“He got drunk, I recall. So drunk he couldn’t stand still, and he...” he stopped himself, shutting his eyes. “I didn’t see her. My father never allowed me. After a while, I stopped trying.”

“Go, young master. Go and you will see her now, sleeping like an angel. Go and set her and you free.”

Ever since his father died he had not bothered much with religion. Stopped going to mass, having always found it terribly boring. Right now, as he tried to enter the doors, he could barely remember a single prayer. He walked, his paws and claws piercing through the marbled floor, echoing his steps in the silent chapel. 

He never felt as ridiculous as when he kneeled in a velvet cushion, his monstrous bones too big for the luxury of delicacy and humanity. 

“You must help me. Help me see the way! I don’t know what to do. She... she brought the worst of me! But I don’t want to... Please, just tell me what to do. Should I set her free? That would ruin any possibility for me. I don’t want to be a beast forever,” he looked at the surroundings, deaf to his own selfishness, and nothing happened. His mother was not there; she was long dead, and no matter how much he tried to pray, such intentions from a monster didn’t matter a single thing to any superior being. 

“ANSWER TO ME!” he cries, his throat feeling raw at the anger in his voice. “I KNOW YOU’RE STILL HERE! They have seen you. Everyone has seen you but me!” he looks around… there is not a single presence, good or bad there. The impenetrable usual calmness there is not even disturbed by his cries. He feels his heart sink, his stomach twisting. She must be there. She must be there. They have seen her. She’s hiding from him… She does not wish to see him, or having him see her. His own mother can’t even stand the sight of his new form.

He feels sick. 

“Are you hiding from your son?” He tries again, his tone lingering with longing, another hopeful try. He only finds silence. The last bits of hope that were still in his broken pieces leave him at last. He cannot hold tight into her. He curses Princess Marguerite under his breath, expects something —anything — to happen. A chair to move, glasses to shatter. Nothing comes. 

“It’s stupid. You’re not going to answer. Never bothered enough, did you?” he lets an airy, raspy laugh that pierces down the silent, calm eternal winter that is his surroundings. As cold as ice, he straightens up in his seat, but his eyes are not the ones of a proud prince, but a defeated man. A man that has lost all hope; a man that finds himself facing the worst of sorrows: emptiness. 

“I hope you’re happy. You left me… You left me with him and this is all your fault!” he’s angry; angry at himself, for accusing his mother; angry at her for not being there to defend herself. She does not appear; she does not even bother. There is not a single sound but the echo from his words, making the crystal chandeliers tremble, tall and delicate covered in dust and cobwebs. Hundreds of scented candles once lit the spacious room. 

There is no longer someone to attend to the frescoes in the ceiling, the chandeliers adorning every single corner of the chapel, the golden brocade. The so called man of God ran away as fast as his feet allowed him to. Left them all to their hideous fate. He did not care for the prince God himself had selected and gifted with blue blood. He did not care for the poor unfortunate souls who lost their freedom that night. He ran, and ran and ran until he could no longer see the castle. Harry is sure he didn’t even saw how it all covered in snow… how each icicle burned his soul, like acid rain — a punishment from Heaven. Liquid sin that fell through the cotton clouds and washed away any foolish stench of pride, vanity, and selfishness. 

The coward never looked back, he is sure. Prince Harry thinks that old bastard probably found his freedom far away from the castle’s borders. And where was mercy, where was forgiveness, where was kindness? Such things no longer existed… he wonders if they ever did. Everything left until they found they didn’t have anything but themselves. 

The venomous tone in which his last words were spoken only grants him the despair of finding himself alone and bitter. Only helps him see that he is lying to himself. He cannot stand it… it’s like losing the only person he ever loved over again. This time, there is no ghost tales, no hope –however childish – that can come and cheer him up. 

It’s over.

He is alone.

The worst of it all is noticing that he’s been like that all his life, for as long as he can remember. 

Why didn’t the Enchantress just kill him? It would have been easier, he reflects. His life would have been over in a breath and the world would have certainly been a better place. Why has he there, then? Was this her original plan? Make him suffer for all eternity, condemn him to exist where the world was never going to be a place for him? When he was never going to meet –not love, he didn’t let his hopes reach that high— but at least understanding? 

With a broken sob, Harry pierces the skin of his fur-covered forearm with his razor sharp claws. It stings… it stings but he does not stop. He roars into the eternal silence of the chapel, surrounded only by emptiness. If he died, would the rest of them be free at last? Would they recover their lives? Would the sun rise again? 

He tried, once. The memory never leaves his mind. He jumped from the tower…only to find that the Enchantress took even that last hope away from him. He could not die by his own hand; he didn’t deserve that pleasure, that dignity. He was a monster — a creature of no thought, of no soul. He was going to die by another’s hand or not die at all. 

There, in the snow surrounded by a pool of his own blood, looking into an endless sky without a single star, he finally grasped the cruelty of the curse. Not even the cold wind against his fur, or the harsh tug he felt when his body touched the floor hurt as much as the realization of a lonely eternity, of a damned existence, empty of beauty, empty of love. Just like his heart.

If there was evil, the Enchantress was its embodiment, he was sure. 

He was, too.

 Torturous days passed since the incident, and though Chiara was gentle and kind, (Y/N) knew it was awkward. Did she think her odd? She was afraid of knowing the answer. (Y/N) looks quietly to her exquisite meal, a dish that however humble tastes exquisite. The fine china could have been a favorite of hers, had she been free to appreciate it. Far from his father and the life she knew, no matter how boring or tedious, it’s almost impossible to let beauty blind her, for its emptiness cannot melt the ice that has carved its way in her heart.

Is her father eating well? Is he eating at all? The woman in her dreams said so… but dreams are only dreams, and one cannot trust them. She is a woman of thoughts, not superstition. Whatever that is invisible for the eye is crystal clear to the heart, but dreams? Dreams cannot hold truth in them, no matter how much she wanted to believe it so.

“Are you not going to finish it, (Y/N)?” the gorgeous woman asked, shaking her head, making her curls bounce. She sat at her side, eating from her own dish. “Laurence puts great effort in trying to please you,” she said, a hint of jealousy not falling on deaf ears. 

“I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m not hungry.”

Alphonsine sigh. “You haven’t eaten since last night, and it wasn’t that much. If you think for a second that I’m leaving without at least threaten you to feed you myself, you don’t know me at all,” she tries to pass it as a joke, but they both know it’s true. Alphonsine cannot stand looking at the sorrow in her bright eyes… though she doesn’t know why. 

She suspects she reminds her of the young women who came to Paris from the country and cried for entire weeks about how much they missed their boring villages. How soft and caring they were before any sick man had the pleasure of touching them. Of twisting them to their own accord. She would not allow pain to transform the woman in front of her. She has seen the worst that there is in the world. 

She has known evil firsthand. She has been cruel herself. She knows ‘good’ when she sees it, too. And (Y/N) is. She’s much more than that, she suspects. But nobody deserves to lose themselves to pain. (Y/N) takes a deep breath, looking at her hands, twisting them, pinching them. Anything to remember herself that she’s there, that she’s breathing, that she’s alive.

“It’s been four days,” she finally says, each word leaving her mouth at a slow pace. Sophie nods, leaving her now empty cup on the table. She does not reach for her hand, does not intend to cheer her up. She’s no optimistic Chiara, no lovely, chatty Margot, nor motherly Mrs. Winston. She doesn’t find it in herself to try and minimize her pain, for she knows damn well how much it hurts to be a prisoner. To be a bird trapped in a cage, looking longingly at the bluest of skies.

“I know,” she answers, her voice soft. “Those are the hardest.”

“Does it ever get better?” (Y/N) asks, desperate. She tries to find Alphonsine gaze, but the woman avoids her. She takes a deep breath, the knot in her heart only tightening. “I feel like I’m trapped.”

Sophie doesn’t say anything. What could she say that could possibly lessen the heavy weight a prisoner carries on her shoulders? After a pause, she adds: “Do you miss him?”

“Terribly,” she answers, feeling her eyes getting wet. She tries blinking away the tears, afraid of what the stranger may think of them. Finding that she cannot control them as much as she liked to, she lets her gaze wander around the room. Looking at the window, she cannot stop a tear from falling, but at least Alphonsine cannot see it now. “There isn’t much to do here,” she adds, biting hard on her bottom lip.

Sophie pours more wine in her glass and takes a long gulp. She’s going to regret doing this… she thinks, but she cannot let her waste away between four walls. Hating herself for what she is about to say and what that could bring the rest of her friends if something goes wrong, Sophie takes a deep breath. “I believe that a small escapade won’t hurt anyone.”

“I can wander around?” she asks, full of disbelief. 

“You can wander around, yes, but don’t come close to the furthest wing of the castle, that is, the one in the West,” at her curious look, she explains, “his chambers are following the main hall... and he does not approve of visitors. If he ever hears you there, I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to protect you.” “Is there something hidden there?”

“Apart from his chambers, no. But be careful.”

“I will, I promise!”

“Please. But eat something before or you’ll faint.”

“I cannot possibly thank you enough for all what you’ve done from me.”

“Luckily for you, you don’t have to.”

“Does he really never leave his room?”

“Never.”

“Must be terrible. I wonder how he can stand his own company.” Alphonsine snorts. 

“ We can use this to our advantage.”

“Has he always been like this?”

“Like what?”

“This… creature.”

“I-I believe so.”

“So, he’s not cursed.”

“Eat, (Y/N). I must go to mend his clothing and he does not appreciate me coming late. We’ll see each other at dinner. Chef will make your favorite desert!”

“Thank you!”

“Don’t wander too far.”

“I won’t, I promise!”

“You can join us at the table tonight.”

“I’m still afraid he’s going to see me. Another time will do.”

“Another time will be, then,” she shrugs, straightening her skirts. “I believe Chiara would be happy to have dinner with you, perhaps you can convince her to sing you a little. She only knows operas… —what are they called? Arias? I don’t remember — but they are all beautiful!”

“She says she was a singer, is that right?”

“The best in her country. She was truly a diva. But I believe one can indulge oneself when is full of talent, don’t you think so?”

“Of course,” then, taking another sip from her red wine, she asked, “have you ever been to the Opera?”

“You bet your ass I did! It was beautiful… Though I’m afraid I enjoyed best the parades in the stairs of le Grand Palais, you know? I never had to pay for my own bonbons and I was never bothered in my box until the interlude.”

“You must miss it to death, especially your friends.”

“… yes, yes I do." She answered though she couldn’t admit —even to herself —that she hadn’t had many friends back then. Always looked like a mean to an end and nothing else, an object to possess, a body to caress… never more, never less. Quickly gaining back her composure, she licked her lips. "I’ll send Margot in… she knows the castle better than she knows herself. She would tell you where you can wander around freely.”

“Thank you, Sophie.”

“My pleasure,” she says with a smile, standing up and collecting her dirty dishes. 

Margot comes a few hours later, sighing with relief when she finds (Y/N) looking through the window. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to fetch us some food from the gardens.  Laurence needed onions for the soup he has wanted to prepare you ever since you arrived." She laughed, sitting on the bed. “Do you mind if I rest a little? I feel my feet going sore.”

“Why? Have you been running around that much?”

“Since my dearest companion didn’t show up to help me with the harvest, yes. I’ve been running around and I cannot stand it anymore.”

“Here, lay in the bed. Let me help you.”

“I’ll be fine in a minute, and I’ll show you the places you can visit, where you won’t have to face him.”

“Is he… still angry?”

“I haven’t talked to him, really. He only speaks to give me orders and does not appreciate my jokes. Or my company, I’m afraid.”

“So he still wants me to starve.”

“I cannot speak for him but—“

“Margot…”

“Mrs. Winston says that he’s being rather nervous on the matter. You see, he hadn’t had a prisoner in all those years. I suspect he doesn’t know what to do, but of course, his bad temper was triggered and his pride wounded… I don’t blame you. You had every right in the world to refuse. He doesn’t see it like that. Or if he does, he is well at hiding his remorse. Mary says that he’ll come to his senses sooner than later.”

“Not that it matters. You’ve all been brave at helping me; I won’t ever finish to thank you for this. I know what you’re risking… I may not value anything that has something to do with him, and I certainly do not care what he thinks of me.... But I don’t want to compromise you anymore.”

“I know. And for that reason we take these liberties; not because you ask for them, but because we are thankful. You’ve come to light up this castle, you know? It was different before.”

“Has it always been like that?”

“No. Not always. There was a time when… when there were hundreds of people going back and forth through the halls. Marvelous balls every night.”

“What happened? He must have cursed you in some way.”

“He did not, darling. But that’s enough chit chat! I’m feeling better know. I’ll convince John to give me a massage and run me a bath… but first, let me show you the castle.”

“It’ll be my greatest pleasure to see it by the hands of someone whom, I’ve been told, knows it like the palm of her hand.”

“I was very little when I came here with my mom. Perhaps 8, I believe. Father was nowhere to be seen, and we had our bellies empty. Mrs. Winston took us in like her protégées, and before we knew it, this castle became our home.”

“Who did you serve, back then?”

“Curious little creature, you are, aren’t you? I cannot say.”

“Good God, I just want some answers!”

“We cannot, my dear. It could compromise our entire existence.”

“In that case, I understand.”

“But don’t look so disappointed… I can tell you about the masters another day. As long as you promise me not to ask questions I cannot answer.”

“I would hate to compromise you in any way, Margot.”

“Curious little creature, I see, but mischievous too! Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all, madam,” she answered, the corners of her lips curving into a small smile.

“I’m not that old!” the woman protested, resting her hands on her hips and frowning deeply. 

“How old are you?”

“Oh, for fuck sake! You never give up, do you?”

“I had to at least try! I hate not knowing anything about you when it is clear that we’ll be living under the same room for… well, eternity.”

“I was 27 when the curse was casted upon us.”

“Well, you don’t look a day past that!”

“Thank you, Miss Manipulative. Come with me before I change my mind.”

“I’m 20, by the way.”

“And your fiancé… how old is he? You said he served at war.”

“He did. He is 24. He was ten when he went there; came back two heads taller, a completely different person. We used to be best friends before it happened.”

“How… long do you say this way lasted?”

“7 years, though nobody remembers why they were fighting for.”

“How long has it been since it ended?”

“I believe three or four years.”

“There were many deaths, I presume.”

“Not a lot from our village thank God. A few young soldiers and that were all.”

“Enough of this grim talk, don’t you think? Let’s see. You see this painting? It’s a passage. It leads you to the kitchens without having to use the main stairs. I believe this can help you if you decide to have dinner with us, or if you find yourself hungry late at night.”

“Is it safe?”

“As safe as it can be. But turn to the right and only to the right, okay? If you go to the left you’ll find yourself in a rather awkward position.”

“Where does it lead?”

“The old mistress’ room,” the maid replied, straightening her apron.

“Was he married?!”

“What?! No! His mother!”

Words couldn’t begin to describe the relief painted on the woman’s face. “Was she… like him?”

“Not at all.”

“Was his father… a creature like him?”

“That’s another question I cannot answer, miss.”

“I’m sorry, Margot." Pausing, she took a deep breath. "Is there… something to do here?”

“Everyone has a chore to lessen our boredom, but sometimes it isn’t enough. We usually gather at the drawing room to hear Chiara sing a little to us. Sometimes the cold it’s unbearable and we never leave our rooms. It’s a grim old place, but we try to make the best out of it. Perhaps, once things have cooled down with the master, you can ask for a task to do. You can help Sophie and me. Or Laurence!”

“I heard that you also enjoy playing cards.”

“Yes, and you’re invited to join us whenever you want to!”

“You’ll have to teach me, but I promise to be a good student! You don’t happen to have books in here…?”

“There’s a library. I’m afraid the master does not let anyone come close to it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know. But don’t worry, we’ll find something to do!”

“Who’s playing the piano?”

“I believe, for the piece, that it is Chiara —although she and Mr. Thorn know how to. Perhaps they can teach you?”

“We can start with that. Eternity seems… rather long.”