by J. Conrad
I sighed. The Fae Realm was as much of a puzzle to me as Eiriana was. Then please, if you’re willing, fly to the Fae Realm and send anyone who will come.
Fae care nothing for others. What have you to offer? he asked.
What had I to offer? I had nothing but the clothes on my back and the odds and ends in the attic. I have a box of silver dining ware.
Cirros swung his head around and began preening his wing, holding it out as he slid each feather through his sharp beak. A Fae will not want it. Have you anything magical?
Well, I had the river stone. I only have a very dear gift, which I don’t wish to part with. But, my stepmother, who is a witch, may possess many magical items. She must keep them in her chamber. Perhaps a Fae could slip in unseen and take something as payment?
Very well. I make no promises, but I’ll journey to the Fae Realm and attempt to find the help you seek, the falcon replied.
My deepest thanks, Cirros. And if, in your travels, you should happen to meet a wolf named Trystan, will you deliver a message for me?
Yes.
Please tell him that I love him, and I’m sorry. A lead ball dropped into my stomach. The words had come almost of their own accord, but they were true. I didn’t want to die in here without Trystan knowing.
Very well, Cirros said.
Is there anything you would like? I asked.
Meat, if you can get it. Fish are nice.
I laughed. I’ll be sure to set aside some treats for your return.
It may be a long time, Cirros thought.
I wondered how long a long time was for a falcon, but Cirros was already scooting along my arm toward my hand. He reached the window and leapt into the air. I felt the breeze from his massive wings as he made his ascent in the cold, grey sky. I had no idea where the Fae Realm was, but I gathered it was far from my little prison and imagined him flying for days.
For the next three weeks, I probably survived only because I called other birds to my window and worked with them. Mostly ravens appeared, flying in out of the cold and perching on the back of the couch. I coached them to keep silent, worried that their loud “caws” would alert my stepmother that I was up to something. The ravens were helpful, but they didn’t seem as knowledgeable as Cirros. They were simpler and understood little when I strayed beyond the subject of food. “Pen” and “paper” were foreign, and my explanations didn’t seem to help. And even if I could make them understand, how would they obtain those things?
I’m locked in here, and I’m starving, I told a female raven who I had named Ren. She croaked and cocked her head, staring at me with her beady, little, black eye. Please Ren, will you bring me some bread, or cheese, or anything you’ve seen humans eat? I don’t have much, but I’d be happy to give you some buttons for your trouble.
I held out the small, dusty dish of buttons, rattling them around for her to see.
I like buttons, she thought, hopping to the iron window frame where she alighted into the air on her mission.
Every other day or so, Ren and her companions visited with scraps for me: a heel of cheese, a crust of bread, a raw potato. I thanked the ravens and gave them all the buttons they could carry.
Despite the birds’ help, however, I grew thinner. Gwyneth usually fed me once in the morning, and this meal normally consisted of a bag of meat scraps and a piece of bread. Occasionally she would push another piece of bread under the door at night. I always devoured this dirty floor bread with relish. Yet every day she refilled the silver pitcher with water. It made me think the starvation wasn’t a real attempt to kill me, only a way to punish me for running off. Without water, I’d be dead already, and I guess she couldn’t use a corpse in the Midsummer Rite.
With each passing day, my waistline and body tissue decreased, and so did my hopes of escape. The weakness I felt made it hard to get motivated and I found myself lying on the couch for long periods. The cold was creeping into my bones, leaving my body stiff and sore, but I hesitated to stuff the window with cloth. It would keep the birds out, and they were a help. Cirros still hadn’t returned.
Most of the time, I huddled on my “bed” wrapped in the dust cloth and moth-eaten sheets from the crate, due to the temperature in the attic. It was probably close to freezing outside. Each night, as I prepared for my rigid and uncomfortable sleep, I thought of Trystan. I took out the river stone and held it in my hand, watching its warm, bittersweet radiance fill the room. Surely Trystan was off doing his duty now, whatever that was, in some other place. I assumed he had undergone the Damsing Ritual, allowing him to perform his secret role. But what difference did it make? I may love him, but that didn’t change the fact that I really didn’t know if he felt the same, or if my appearance three months ago was merely convenient. And it was doubtful I would ever see him again. I was trapped in the freezing cold attic, too feeble now to run far if I was able to get out. After a moment I tucked the river stone away, pulling my knees up to my chest and clutching the sheets with my frigid, red fingers, shivering until I fell asleep.
Chapter 11
One morning, feeling too stiff and weak to emerge from my wrappings, the wooden attic door creaked open. “Come, Elin. You’re needed downstairs.”
I slowly turned at the sound of Gwyneth’s voice, peering over the back of the couch. My eyes were heavy, and the room looked distorted when I blinked the sleep away. It sounded like my stepmother had just asked me to come downstairs. “What?”
“You’re needed downstairs. Come, Elin,” she repeated.
The increase in my heart rate made me shaky, as though my body was having trouble with the sudden change. I pulled the sheets off with my chaffed, red fingers, the cold air hitting my neck like ice. My hands were trembling, clumsily attempting their task. I swung my feet to the floor. I always slept in my shirt, trousers, coat and boots, so I didn’t need to get dressed. I was filthy, but fully clothed. Not questioning my stepmother’s demand, my mind knew only one thing: that leaving this room for any reason at all was a step in the right direction. And summer was still months away.
Gwyneth whirled, putting her back to me before she made her descent down the small, winding staircase. Her lavender perfume wafted out behind her into the attic and I wondered if it were possible to vomit on an empty stomach. She could make the most pleasant of scents seem vile. With uneasy footsteps, I followed her. My weak, spindly legs did their best to keep up with the swishing of her full, satin skirts. The teal fabric with lace accents trailed along behind her like a jeweled river. My mind conjured up an image of pushing her down the stairs, but she was probably already expecting it. With all her magic, she would just hurl me against the wall if I tried, and I was too weak to give a good shove anyway.
As I followed Gwyneth down another flight of the stairs to the ground level, I took stock of my surroundings and noticed that iron bars had been placed on all the windows. In fact, the décor of Blaenwood in general had changed: the sage green walls had been repainted burgundy, the silver candlesticks replaced with gold. The elegant rug bearing stags and oak leaves in the entryway, which Mother had made, had disappeared. Where glittering, glass chandeliers used to be, fixtures of black iron now hung on chains of the same metal.
We reached the parlor, where Annest and Dafina sat with their arms crossed like sulky children. Annest pushed out her bottom lip, narrowing her eyes at me. Gwyneth stopped and half-turned to speak to me, though she didn’t meet my eyes.
“Elin, you are to help your sisters make gowns for the ball they’re to attend,” Gwyneth said.
“Oh, they’re my sisters now? As though I’m a member of this house and not someone you’ve been starving in the attic,” I said. My voice was thin, croaking from being unused for so long.
“Silence,” Gwyneth said. She put her hand on my shoulder and shoved downwards.
My legs buckled, and I fell, catching myself on the deep grey parlor rug. The girls laughed and covered their mouths, as though doing so somehow made it more respectable t
hat their mother was torturing someone.
“She smells like the wrong end of a pig,” Dafina said.
“And looks worse,” Annest said. “I don’t want that filth anywhere near me, let alone taking my measurements and sewing my clothes.”
“You’ll allow Elin to sew your gowns as I’ve instructed,” Gwyneth said. Then to me, “Get up.”
I hauled myself to a standing position and crossed my arms, looking down at the floor. “I’ll do nothing until I’m fed—a real meal, consisting of decent food. You’ll allow me to eat until I’m satisfied, or you can sew them yourself.”
I turned just in time to see Gwyneth’s sneer change into the snarling, near-demonic visage I had seen only once before. She latched onto me by the shoulders with both hands, digging her fingernails into my skin. Gwyneth growled, her sharp teeth close to my cheek, her eyes turning black and huge.
“You’ll do as I command,” she breathed, and the voice no longer sounded like a woman’s voice, but more bestial. I trembled, the urge to flee turning me lightheaded. My body jerked involuntarily as I struggled to keep myself in place.
“I will do nothing until I’m fed.”
Squeezing her claw-like fingers into my shoulders further, she started shaking me, uttering something in strange words I couldn’t understand. Spittle dripped from her fangs and I felt helpless, a limp and useless doll that she could use as she pleased until she was ready to throw me away. My stomach churned, and I felt sick. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“Worthless cur,” she said in my language. A faint, blue glow began to emanate from her skin. Gwyneth moved her body slightly away from mine while keeping her grip, then she seemed to take a deep breath. With one smooth movement she pushed me so hard that for a brief instant I was airborne—I was sailing through the air with nothing beneath me. My head smacked into the wall with a melon-like crack and I hit the floor with a dull thud. Annest and Dafina weren’t laughing now. That was a surprise.
“Now get up,” Gwyneth said, using her normal voice again. “And do as I command.”
For a moment, I couldn’t move at all. The pain which exploded in my skull made me cry out, yet my body refused to do anything about it. I dragged my hand from where it had landed and used it to shield my face in case she came at me. No matter what happened, I had to stay strong. It would be better to die here and now than let this woman break me.
“Not until I eat,” I mumbled.
With a few curt steps, Gwyneth walked over and began kicking me. Her boots found their mark every time: sometimes in the stomach, sometimes in the leg, sometimes in the chest. I gritted my teeth, trying to make it through the punishment, but after a few blows I couldn’t stop myself from screaming. By the time I was curled into the fetal position as tightly as I could go, protecting my head more than anything, I heard Dafina’s voice.
“Mother, if you kill her, who will make the dresses then?”
Gwyneth didn’t answer right away. To be perfectly honest, I had wondered why I had been chosen for a sewing project when any of the women at Blaenwood would be competent at this task.
“Oh, Elin doesn’t know,” Annest said, scorn dripping from her voice like honey from a comb.
Gwyneth may have stepped back, but I couldn’t see because I was still on the floor, shielding my face and eyes. She said, “Your father is dead. I’ve sent all the help away. We can no longer afford them. You will do all the work now.”
Your father is dead. All the color drained from my face. I knew because it suddenly felt cold, like my tears were turning to ice. She had uttered those words casually, the way one speaks of pouring out sour milk. I lay there, embracing my frail body which was hurting in a dozen places, trying to stop the torrent of emotions from consuming me as I shuddered. It might not be true. Just because she said it didn’t mean it was true—and as with my mother, I had seen no proof.
In a voice so shaken it didn’t sound like my own, I replied, “I will do nothing until I’m fed.”
“Then get up, you insolent brat. Go into the kitchen and stuff yourself like a snake. But you should thank me for taking so many inches off your waist,” Gwyneth said.
I couldn’t care less about her petty insults. I had won, and because I had chosen to stick it out, this little victory had made me just that much less a slave—that much less a prisoner. Slowly, cautiously, I heaved myself off the floor, getting to my feet and surveying the three women in the room. Dafina and Annest returned my gaze with pursed lips and cold eyes. How sad that they had no compassion in their hearts at all.
I stumbled through the redecorated burgundy and gold hallway and into the kitchen. Shutting the door behind me, my face convulsed in a sob and I clapped my hand over my mouth. I didn’t know how much time had passed since Gwyneth had sent the help away, but it was probably recently if she had resorted to fetching me out of prison. There was little to no chance that Gwyneth and her daughters would stoop to doing any kind of housework—granted that they even knew how.
There was bread and cheese on the board on the counter. I made a sandwich and sat down on a stool, biting into the food I held with quivering fingers. Your father is dead. I would regain my strength, one day at a time, and when the time was right I would escape again. My chest ached when I thought of the den I left behind. I would have been safe there, Trystan or no, and I never should have gone off in anger. Even now I wanted to return, if only to be away from Gwyneth, but my path had been shunted in a different direction, to Tinsford.
Your father is dead. I would work on the girls’ dresses for this ball they were to attend. I would bide my time, watching and waiting. I would learn Gwyneth’s weaknesses. I would find out if her daughters were full-blooded Calek as well. Did they also possess magical abilities and powers? If so, I had never seen them. But any being that possessed powers was also sure to have shortcomings.
Your father is dead. Setting the sandwich on my lap, I clasped both hands over my face, stifling another sob. It wasn’t true. They couldn’t make me believe it, but I had to find out for myself. I would find his workers in Tinsford and they would tell me what happened.
Glancing up at the kitchen window, now secured with a row of iron bars like a jail cell, I thought back to the conversation I had overheard between Gwyneth and Eiriana. “An iron sword...” the Fae woman had said, and one way or another, my stepmother’s threats made her leave. The iron bars were among them, and they had materialized. Though I knew little about Fae, from this I could only assume that iron must be their weakness. Picturing the small, octagonal window in the attic, I wondered why Gwyneth hadn’t barred it as well, until I realized that its frame was already made of iron. That could be remedied, of course, but since overhearing, I was no longer certain of Eiriana’s motives—not that I had ever been. Blaenwood was full of iron now. If these things could keep Eiriana out, wouldn’t they keep out other Fae as well? Cirros’ mission in the Fae Realm may be for nothing.
I brushed the crumbs from my hands as I swallowed the last piece of sandwich. There were winter vegetables, canned goods and preserves on the shelves, and I set about finding my next bite. A jar of peas was my target. I opened it and dipped my spoon in, surprised that after I had eaten only a few bites I felt overly full to bursting. My stomach had shrunk from the starvation diet. I drank from one of the full pitchers, now wishing to collapse into sleep, but I knew I couldn’t.
Feeling lightheaded from consuming what was now a heavy meal to me, I stepped back into the hallway and headed toward the staircase that led to my room—my real room. I didn’t make it ten feet when Gwyneth’s teal skirt swished out from the parlor door and she stuck her head around.
“And where do you think you’re going?” she asked. “I didn’t give you permission to return to the attic.”
“I need to wash myself and change. I haven’t bathed in almost a month and it won’t do to assist your daughters with my body in this condition,” I said. I held my head up, forcing myself to stare her straight
in the face although the sight of her made me shake.
Gwyneth folded her arms, narrowing her eyes. Despite her wanting me to suffer as much as possible, she knew I was right. “Go. Be quick about it, or you’ll get another punishment.”
I knew I should curtsy, but I only managed a nod. Turning without looking back, I ascended the main staircase as hastily as my abused body would allow. I reached the door to my own chamber and pushed it open, my heart fluttering at what I might find. When my eyes connected with the reality, another wave of pain hit me. Gwyneth was bent on finding every way she could to break me.
Except for the wardrobe, the washing table and stool, and a few grooming tools, my room had been cleaned out. The bed was gone. The curtains were gone. My bookshelf, with all the fairy tales Mother had read to me as a child, had been removed. The shelves which used to hold my keepsakes had vanished. As a lump formed in my throat, which I swallowed down, I wondered what had become of my possessions. Had she burned them all? Given them away?
I pulled out the chair before the washing table and sat down. The basin was full of water. A bar of plain, white soap had been placed on a wash cloth, and there was a pitcher next to it. When I glanced up to see my reflection in the mirror, I had to look away and try again. The sight almost made me fall over backward.
The girl in the mirror was someone I didn’t recognize. She stared back at me, all dark eye sockets and gaunt, grey cheekbones, with a waxy, dirt-smeared complexion. Her hair was disheveled and greasy, tangled even on top where hair doesn’t tangle as easily. The cream-colored blouse she wore was filthy and looked more like a rag than a shirt. I picked up the hair brush and began patiently working through the tangles.
An hour later, I had combed out all the knots in my hair and washed it in the basin. I stripped and washed myself to the best of my ability without having a full-sized tub. My face still looked sickly and thin, but at least it was clean. When I opened my wardrobe to get clean clothes, I got another surprise. My dresses, including the ones which used to belong to my mother, had all been removed. In their place were three garments I didn’t recognize—three stained dresses with rips in the skirts—and one plain shift in slightly better condition. On one gown, the hemstitch was unraveling. They looked like they had once belonged to someone poor, or perhaps a servant, but they weren’t taken from any of our previous help. None of them had ever worn such rags. Maybe Gwyneth had had other victims when she lived in Maenglen, and these had belonged to them.