Her face was severed red and creased streaks lined her skin. Eliza sobbed into the palms of her hands, as creaking, soft cries escaped her.
The realisation had not hit, and it was better that way. Eliza took a deep breath, her throat croaking and hitching.
She had accomplished nothing. She had gotten no further than when she first entered the tower.
It all felt surreal. Here she was, back in the tower as a prisoner. Except, it felt scarier, she felt more claustrophobic within its walls.
Elizabeth Spinner had gone right back to where she started.
The King’s opponent, the village outcast, the loud-mouthed girl who never bit her tongue. She was gone.
For the first time, she could admit it.
Richard had won. He had left her with nothing to fight for, nothing to lose. The once spite-filled girl without a care in the world withered into dust.
That man stole everything, including her only friend.
And all it took was a ring, or two.
16
A Heart of Rue
She woke up in a flood of sweat, and nightmare. The lack of heat in made her freeze to death, and her fingers felt numb, purple.
It had been few days from she returned herself to the tower. Yet, it was much, much worse. She felt like screaming into oblivion, after speaking to none for days on end.
All she could do was prepare for the inevitable. She knew Lucie would not tell Richard their plan, for the fear of being arrested.
The main thought was, why would Lucie plan for them to switch, if she were working for Richard all along?
‘…And I hope you get what you deserve.’.
Those words never left her. She had examined, evaluated, and began overthinking them. Eliza could not help but ponder if she meant it.
One part of her said no, that Lucie would never say that. The other said she did mean it, and that she was a fool for ever trusting her.
That ‘other’ side took over a lot, those past few days.
Her face was sticky and dry, in crimson spots and rash. She had rid of that dreadful wig and put on a white nightgown.
It hung loose on her and heaped in the back, when she pulled it tight to her figure.
The white sheets surrounding were crinkled and half-fallen from the bed. Her bare foot, uncovered by the mattress, was a ghostly white. Eliza groaned, lying back down.
Lucie, Richard, her faceless mother. They haunted her dreams for those past nights, and aside from the nightmares, Eliza barely got sleep at all.
Her thin, shallow face had bags drooping from the eyelids. Her arms felt weak, and she was not motivated whatsoever to leave bed.
Dawn swept overhead, adding to her dizziness by spinning in circles. The raven landed on her headboard, pecking its neck down. Its beady eyes stared into her soul, unblinking.
“Go ‘way.” She grumbled, stuffing a pillow over her face. The pressure felt like it would suffocate her. She could feel Dawn’s bird-feet pricking at her fingers, lifting them up and down.
Frustrated with the lack of attention, Dawn squished Eliza’s finger inside its beak, biting down. She screamed, rocketing, and tossing the pillow to the floor.
Dawn fluttered through the air, and Eliza clutched her bitten finger, scowling at the bird.
“Ow!” She squealed, flinging her finger in Dawn’s face. It had two faint marks, reflecting the bird’s bite.
Sighing, she flung her legs over the edge of the bed, sitting with her arms folded. It felt like each day was repeating itself.
Eliza was succumbing to nothingness. The day before, she lay on the stone floor, making shadows with her hands. Even that was no fun, and no smiles came.
She had eaten, slept, breathed, and sobbed. Gobbling down the small-portioned stale bread, which was barely enough to feed a raven, became the best part of the day.
Standing to her feet, a shiver of cold came over her. The room surrounding her was bland, dark, and ice-cold.
As she examined the tower, she wondered. This, as the maidens told her, was the tower designed for the lost princess.
She could imagine a princess, resembling Richard, having those sleepless nights that she was. The only difference was, in favour of royalty, the princess got out alive.
She took a trembling step forward, her muscles aching with every flinch. If she could urge herself to walk, to do something, she might feel a little happier.
The haunting room made her want to throw herself onto the bed and cover her head with the sheets. She had a strange, self-conscious feeling in it.
Unsure whether she was paranoid or not, Eliza swore she could hear a voice in the room. A frightened woman, screaming a name she could not interpret.
The sound came from behind, whispering into her ear. Yet, each time she turned, there was nothing.
Shaking, Eliza took another wide step across the floor. Her nightgown swished past her ankles, and Dawn circled like a wave of black smoke. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight, croaking.
A shiver went down her spine, then a weight pressed into her shoulder. Like a slight hand, clutching her collarbone, caressing her in comfort.
There was nothing.
Eliza’s breaths reflected over her nose, in the frostbite cold. Her heart pounded inside her chest, as she searched for the source of the weight. It could have been air, a simple gust of wind. That was all.
The windows were not open.
That same, ear-piercing sound haunted her. A female scream, sounding from a distance. The thought left her wondering if she had heard it at all.
Pulling her foot into the air, she took another large step. Her knees cracked as her leg stretched her body following. Two steps were better than one, or not getting out of bed at all.
Reaching a stand, Eliza straightened her posture. Her eyes ran from one end of the room to the other, daring the spirit, or ghost, to touch her shoulder again.
She stood with her head high. Her shoulders arched back, and she waited. Nothing.
“Who are you?” Eliza murmured, eyes clenched shut. She knew she was testing something, that might not be there, but a little hope was better than none. A little hope that someone was guiding her.
There was no answer, and she did not expect one. Still, she waited for that same gentle touch. For the weight of the spirit to come again.
A bang echoed through the room. Eliza flinched, her pupils widening. Her eyes scanned the room, from the windows to the bed; until she spotted it.
Her satchel, which had hung against the mirror rim, had fallen to the floor. The bag’s contents spilled out, and one object had slid across the wood. One she recognised.
“The journal,” Eliza mumbled. Her eyes turned to the ceiling. “Mother…”.
Her question had been answered.
Eliza stood. Her breathing was off course, and her hands shook. The journal lay feet ahead of her, but her own feet felt glued to the floor. Her eyes wandered across the room, searching for any paranormal activity.
Colours and mists floated in her vision, but she was sure they were in her head.
The true spine-chilling factor was that someone was there, that a spirit roamed the tower room.
“Mother, are you with me?” She whispered. Either that or she was seeing things, but a pinch of hope that she was protected, was comforting.
Forcing her stiff legs ahead, Eliza trembled towards the abandoned journal.
That faint, distant mumbling was still there. It sounded so high-pitched; it became inaudible.
“Is this what you want to show me?” Eliza asked, edging closer to the satchel. As she got closer, she noticed a white spot, from the bag.
It appeared flat on the floor, but leaning nearer on her toes, it became in view.
It was a torn, dirtied piece of parchment with scrawled writing. The piece sat slightly beyond the journal, like it had been ripped out.
Eliza, unsure what to expect, took her decisive step. She crouched with a crack of her knees, the
nightgown brushing against her toes.
Her hand graced the piece of parchment. She could not lift it, and her heart stopped in that moment.
It was too strange, in coincidental timing, that specific parchment fell out. Her sceptical mind was ravaging with excuses, meanings, and possibilities; few of them making sense.
The parchment was spotted with dirt, with sentences cut short by the tearing. There was a hole, cut with a sharp edge.
There was something important; that parchment was important.
Her shallow fingers landed on the letter, and the edge of her nail traced it. She reached forward, crawling on her knees.
An iced sensation ran down her spine, and she knelt on the stone with one arm out. Her entire body pale and greyed, scarily frail.
Shutting her eyes, she swept out her hand and gripped the paper’s edge, pulling it into the air. It flayed helplessly between her fingers, like a leaf in the wind.
Eliza could not understand why she shook, or why her gut felt like it was squirming inside her. She knew only that she needed to be there.
Dawn flew over, perching on her shoulder. The raven peered its neck down, scraping its beak against the paper.
“Should I?”.
The raven did not reply. Her heart sunk, as if she had expected an answer from the nonverbal animal.
Then, Dawn’s eyes shot to her. Its eyes were never-ending swarms of black holes. The raven gestured its beak to the paper, then to her.
Eliza’s mouth fell, and she stuttered over words. Her eyes, dark but no match to Dawn’s, were alarmed.
“Did you just answer me?”.
Dawn’s eyes drooped. Eliza was speechless. Never, in all the years they had been together, had the bird shown any understanding, or emotion. The raven, eyes squinted, let out a loud squawk.
Its head poked to the paper, then to her. She received the clear hint.
“Yes, I’ll read it now…” Eliza mumbled, lifting the parchment to her chest.
Dawn, nodding its approval, flew from her shoulder and rested on the windowpane. She took one, steady breath.
After that, her chest swelled like she could not breath at all. Her eyes started on the first word, steadying the parchment.
Elizabeth, if you find this, I am so sorry. I am going to stuff this parchment in the back of the journal, and if you find it, know that this is the true story. Please, if you are able, read this and to understand.
I cannot live this lie any longer, and I need to tell someone, in case my fears come to life.
That introductory paragraph had been written above a scrawled letter. Her eyes urged her to read on.
My name is not Anne Spinner.
My true name is Ruelle Raford, Princess Ruelle Raford.
I grew up royal, and I ran from my title to marry your father, to be rid of the corrupted lifestyle. Richard, my younger brother, is currently on the throne.
The first time I escaped, my father found me and locked me into a tower. Years later, he and my mother passed in an accident, leaving Richard and me. The control went to his head, and he became violent towards his people with his dangerous ideologies. It was unbearable, and I escaped a second time, but I was smarter then. I took on the fake name, ‘Anne Spinner’, and your father helped me escape.
When you were born, I wanted to move far away, but with his farming work, we could not risk it and end having no funds at all. After I escaped, Richard went cold-blooded, hunting me down. I was never accused of witchcraft; I was never a witch.
As for Richard, the man he has become, I do not know at all. Blood-thirsty and in undeserved power. There have been so many lives taken, and I fear my own shall be.
Richard would never have the gut to kill me. However, I feel he would have someone do it, if he wanted.
He is no longer my brother. Simply, a lost cause of what could have been a good king.
If Richard does not bear children in future years, you are eligible to the throne. I trust you will make the right choice, if you ever find this letter.
Do with this information what you will, as I trust in my own blood. And please, do not allow Richard to conquer England if you can help it, never let him get to that stage, where he cannot outrun himself. I love him dearly; but I do not know him anymore.
I wish I did.
The page fell from Eliza’s hands, floating down to the dusted floor. It brushed against her rough knees, and her hands remained frozen, crooked in mid-air.
Her heart made a thud, for the first time in what felt like forever.
Eliza’s mind was blank, blurred. Words rang in her ears, that same mumbling.
The mumbling, the high-pitched scream, the name. All those voices in her ears came to life.
A wave of memory rushed over her, and her vision began to blur. That voice in her ears rang.
Her head felt like it was floating, and her eyes shut. A wave of sleep-like hallucination brushed over her, as her head spun. A scene played in her mind, one she distantly remembered.
The world spun, slowly closing over.
Her vision faded, like a slow-burning memory.
Memory, a distant memory.
•
A woman was leaning into her face. She had mesmerising, ocean-blue eyes and fair waves brushing past her ears. The woman was speaking to her, hushing her, but no sound came out.
The woman’s head shot back and forth from her to the distance. They were in a room with scratched stone walls and cross-hatched windows. It was her father’s room, the room in her cottage home.
The woman was knelt on the floor, holding her in her arms. No audible voices could be heard, but the pounding of footsteps could be sensed from far in the distance. Every second, the woman clutched her against her chest.
Her soft scent, and tight hold on her was a familiar feeling. She was nuzzled against the woman’s blouse, and all was good.
She saw herself being pushed backwards, quickly, from the woman’s arms. No longer did she see the blouse, but instead two tiny feet ahead of her, her own feet. She wore a cheap, cotton garment and bitesize boots.
She saw the woman again, being pulled away by rough hands. She realised she had been torn from the woman’s arms. No sound came, but she could feel slight tears running down her face. The woman was screaming, reaching a desperate hand out to grab her.
Both the woman’s arms were gripped by the stranger’s hand, forced behind her back. The woman fighting for her had a scarlet, agonised face, using every breath to reach.
Two pieces of metal came into view, the body-armour of two nasty guards. That was where the stranger’s hands came from. They both pulled the woman away, who was still begging.
A third person stepped into view, shoving past the guards. The woman had been tugged away, out towards the door. She could only see the torso of the third person, a crimson-gold jacket.
She felt herself being lifted into the air, up to the new person’s chin. The grip on her was tight, squishing her with a harsh poke. The sweet-smelling, nurturing woman was gone, missing.
She could see the woman’s mouth stretching wildly but could not hear the words being said. The woman, who was previously gentle, now had blood-thirsty eyes directed at the man.
Her own small eyes turned from the woman to the man holding her, to identify him. It started with his chin, then her tiny head lifted further.
A young man with a shining crown was holding her. His face was disgusted, scowling at her cheap cotton. He had dark eyes, and fair hair, resembling the woman. Except, as a male version of her.
He dropped her onto the bed, clearly irritated by her small self. Faster than she could see, he darted out of the room, gesturing to his guards. The woman was forced backwards by the knights. She fought, kicking, and screaming like a wild animal.
It was too late, and the woman was pulled away. The shadows of the corridor buried her, and all to be seen was her hand reaching out one last time, before her sound came back to life.
Her ears c
racked, and a wave of sound intruded into her ears. The mumbled voices of the guards were heard, and the woman’s voice overpowered it all. A scream that sounded like the scraping of a blackboard, coarse, like her throat was breaking.
“ELIZABETH!”.
•
Eliza’s chest fell and rose again, as she scuttered backwards on her heels. Her pupils had drastically widened, and hands shivered uncontrollably.
Memory, harsh and unresistant, crashed into her like thundering waves. Her childhood, her mother, that dreadful day. All at once.
The woman from her vision, she knew, was her mother. The faint-brown hair, soft blue eyes, gentle scent. Everything opposite to her, but she still felt the connection.
The third-person, crown-wearing young man. That was King, or Prince, Richard. He looked only to be around eighteen, what he would have looked like at his bride-to-be’s age.
Eliza’s mind was ravaging, only starting to comprehend all the latest information.
She, an outcasted commoner, was the hidden daughter of Princess Ruelle. An eligible heir, if there were no sons to take the throne.
That was strange to think, after believing she was a nothing, a nobody.
Bewitched Page 20