* * *
When the fire burns low, and the light outside is not enough to read by, I add another log to the glowing embers in the small hearth. As the flames rise and lick greedily at the new fuel, I go to my small kitchen and prepare my supper, nothing fancy: bread and the creamy, salty Tregellian cheese they make here. I eat it slowly, smearing the cheese across the bread with one hand, using the other to hold my book open as I continue reading. When I’ve finished I move the crumb-laden platter distractedly to the hearth, only to pause as the light reflected in it catches my eye. I stare for a moment, watching the round metal plate turn from silver to gold in the firelight, reminding me of another time and sending a shiver down my spine. I move the platter away from the source and turn back to my story, shaking the past off. I’ve read all of the old stories now: “Red Blood and Dirty Gold,” “The Winter Witch,” “The Scarlet Varulv,” and I want more. Though I want fantasy—made-up, impossible things—I don’t want stories that step out of the pages and into the world around me. I don’t want anything like “The Sleeping Prince.”
Merek said he’d write to me, and I promised I’d return, if the Sleeping Prince ever arrived in Lormere, but months have passed and he hasn’t sent word. Just in case, I pay close attention to news that occasionally trickles into the village from Lormere, even though the tiny hamlet I now call home is as far from Lormere as you can be without being in Tallith. No one here knows who I am, or who I was, and that’s how I want it to be. I’m a blank slate, tabula rasa.
I’m beginning to believe that the Sleeping Prince is finally dead, that the curse has been broken somehow and his story is finally over. I know it’s wishful thinking, and a habit I should have abandoned, but each day that passes without news makes me a little looser, a little freer. A little happier.
Some of the other villagers have taken to inviting me to dine with them—they worry about me living here on my own—but for now it’s too great a pleasure to stay in my own cottage, with my own books, and do exactly what I want to do. I’ve learned that being alone and being lonely are not the same thing. Once, I was surrounded by people and lonely for it, but now I’m alone and I’ve never been so content. Lately I’ve noticed I’m humming all the time, a melody I’ve never heard before. A new song. One of my own. I must write down some of the words as they come to me.
I close the curtains on the outside world, smiling at my barren garden before it’s gone from my sight. Come spring, there will be wildflowers.
* * *
I’m curled in my armchair, reading by the light of the fire and the few candles I’ve lit. My eyelids droop, from the heat and possibly even a little from the wine I’ve been sipping as I read. Finally I press my bookmark between the pages and put it down, deciding it’s better to go to bed than to wake in the morning with a stiff neck and a book jammed into my rib cage. I’ve taken a deep breath to blow out some of the candles when there’s a knock at the door, and I freeze.
I know that knock. For one bright, beautiful moon in another world I heard that sound every day. Rap, tap-tap. As familiar to me as the sound of my own voice.
I should feel dread, anger, hatred. That knock should be unwelcome.
But it’s hope I feel as all thoughts of tiredness leave me and I open the door.
I hope you enjoyed reading this story. If you did, then you should know that all of the following people played a really large part in making it happen.
My agent, Claire Wilson, at Rogers, Coleridge and White. Thank you for everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. You are quite simply the best. I could use all the superlatives in the world and it still wouldn’t come close to explaining how majestic you are. This wouldn’t be happening without you. And you, Lexie Hamblin, you’re pretty wonderful, too. Thank you both.
Everyone at Scholastic UK, but especially my UK editor, Genevieve Herr. You championed this story (and me) from the start, so it’s safe to say that none of this would have happened without you either. For that, and numerous other reasons, you’re one of my favorites. As is Sam Selby-Smith, for being so incredibly supportive; Emily Lamm, for such good editorial support; Jamie Gregory, for making me cry with the beautiful cover art; and Rachel Phillips, my ever-patient publicist. Sorry and thanks.
Mallory Kass at Scholastic Inc. Having one editor who completely gets the story is brilliant; having two is an absolute dream. I don’t know who sacrificed the goat to make this happen for me but thank you, too. I am tremendously lucky. Thanks to everyone at Scholastic Inc., too, for your Team Lief/Team Merek debate. I long for T-shirts and badges. And maybe flags. Or bumper stickers.
Thanks to Robin Stevens, who told me that this story was worth telling when I thought it was the worst thing anyone had ever done. You were right. Again. I like being on this roller coaster with you.
Thanks to Liv Goldsmith, the very first person to have read this story and also the very first person to send me really harsh swear words about it. It made my Slappy Ham very happy.
Thanks to Jules Blewett-Grant, who has made room for me in her home, her family, and her life and who makes the best Yorkshire puddings ever.
Thanks to Emilie Lyons, my most dangerous friend and the James Potter to my Sirius Black. When I got my first proof copy of this book, Emilie came to Paris with me and we took it to the top of the Eiffel Tower and had champagne with it. She also dropped it in some Brie, but I’ve forgiven her for it.
Thanks to Jim Dean, for ruthlessly hunting down a proof copy, loving it, and then raving about it. Often. I’m very glad I met you and even gladder that we’re friends. Even though you’re a Hufflepuff.
Thanks to all of my friends. You’ve all been wonderful, but particular thanks should go to Adam R., Alexia C., Alice O., Catherine D., Denise S., Emma G., Gary M., Lauren J., Nichole K., Pe M., Rainbow R., Sophie R., and Stine S. for your excitement, enthusiasm, and encouragement and for making me ugly laugh a lot. I’m fond of you. Shout out to Jeff Goldblum. Because he’s Jeff Goldblum and that’s reason enough.
If there is anyone I’ve forgotten, forgive me. I’ll get you next time. That wasn’t meant to sound like a threat.
If you didn’t enjoy this story, feel free to blame all of these people. Mostly blame me, but that lot supported and encouraged me shamelessly.
A final note:
If you are familiar with the Victorian Language of Flowers, you might want to reread the parts of the book where flowers are mentioned and apply your knowledge.
Melinda Salisbury was born in the 1980s in a landlocked city, before escaping to live by the sea. As a child, she genuinely thought Roald Dahl’s Matilda was her biography. When she’s not trying to unlock the hidden avenues of her mind, she’s reading, writing, or traveling. She lives in the UK and can be found on Twitter as @AHintofMystery, though be warned she tweets often.
Copyright © 2015 by Melinda Salisbury
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
First edition, March 2015
Cover art ©2015 by Jacey and Jamie Gregory
Cover design by Christopher Stengel
e-ISBN 978-0-545-81973-2
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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