The Girl in the Glass Box

by Andi Adams

  Eron scratched his head and scrunched his nose. "Bleh! What is that smell? Smells like…like something's burning."

  "Dear God, it's awful," Grog said, and he lifted the collar of his shirt to cover his nose. "I can barely breathe. Typical. Can't even get fresh air outdoors."

  Sib coughed and picked up the pace, leading the men back toward the cottage. "We must make sure to close the windows as soon as we get home. We don't want that smell to permeate the house, if it hasn't already. We'll never get to sleep if the house smells like this."

  Grog lagged behind the group as he always did, limping as quickly as his leg (and clubfoot) could carry him. His breath was labored as he worked hard to keep up with his brothers. When they were within a few hundred yards of their cottage, the bitter scent grew ever-stronger. The men now ran in the direction of their home. When they burst through the front door, they found Genevieve stirring a pot of thick brewing liquid. The room smelled rancid, as if she had set fire to raw sewage.

  "Wh-What's going on here?" Sib said, even though from the scent of the materials and the look on the young girl's face, he could already guess the cause of the mess.

  "I'm making you dinner," she said, with a voice that mixed apprehension and pride.

  "I'm..." Huff. "here..." Huff. "And … I can't…breathe." Grog placed his head between his knees until the moment he caught his breath. He watched a small bird fly out the door behind him before reeling around on Genevieve. "What did you do?" He stomped toward her, his stumpy digit waving at her chest.

  Genevieve looked confused. "I...I just thought it would be nice to return from a long day to a hot meal. I just wanted to show you my gratitude for having taken such good care of me over the past few days. Did I do something wrong?"

  "Something wrong? It smells like you've set your excrements on fire! It's the most disgusting thing I've ever smelled. I wouldn't touch that stuff if you paid me!" Grog pinched his nose to punctuate his point.

  "Yeah, about that. I'm not sure where I went wrong. I suppose the odor is less than appetizing." Genevieve looked defeated. Her shoulders sunk and she abandoned the wooden spoon she'd been using to stir the sludge. "You see, I've never cooked before. Never. Not one thing. And as you can see, something went horribly wrong." As her explanation came to its close, a slight quiver was audible in her voice.

  Tyne came over and inspected the pot. His expression became fraught the closer he stepped. He reluctantly took a sizable whiff. "From where did you get these ingredients exactly?"

  "Outside, all around the cottage. I went foraging in the woods for some berries and leaves and roots, and what I found, I threw in the pot," said Genevieve.

  "I see. Umm… it seems that you included a very toxic wild flower called Finster Weed. I can tell by its color and odor. It has a very particular scent," Tyne explained.

  "Jesus woman! Are you trying to kill us? Your incompetence is going to send us to our graves. What is wrong with you?" Grog's rant was peppered with the clunk of his clubfoot as he paced. "This is more than a mess — this is a damned assassination attempt."

  "Grog!" The sound of Sib's reprimanding voice startled everyone. "Don't you see that she was trying to do something nice for us? Where is your gratitude? Where is your humility?" Sib continued to reprimand Grog as he tinkered with the metal pot and pulled it off the flame.

  "Are you serious? You're going to let her off the hook because she was trying to do something nice for us, but instead almost killed us? No, Sib. Can't you see she is more than an inconvenience — she's a liability. She needs to leave. Now."

  Red splotches marked Genevieve's usually pale and perfect skin. She looked terrified, mortified, and like she was about to be reprimanded for being a woman who didn't know a thing about domestic responsibilities. She wiped her hands down her dress and moved toward the door, almost in anticipation of the brothers kicking her out for good.

  But instead, Sib laughed. "Well, I guess it's a good thing we have a well-trained botanist in the family."

  Tyne and Eron joined in and Flic, too, broke into a giggle.

  Grog rolled his eyes and finally acquiesced into a chuckle. He rubbed his hand over his brow, knowing he was on the losing end of the argument. "Snow, you may just kill us yet."

  Genevieve turned to them and allowed her shoulders to relax. And there they were, dirty and tired from an intensely long day, sharing the first laugh she’d had in a very long time.

  16

  Dust swirled like fog through the threads of moonlight streaming through the slotted drapes. The beams illuminated lines upon the queen's stiff corpse, a stark contrast of bright light against her shadowed form. Her gown seemed to swallow her, thick billows of material too great for her vastly smaller frame. Finally, after hours unmoving, wound tightly in the fetal position upon her bedchamber floor, Agrippine stirred.

  A twitch at first.

  Then a groan, accompanied by a hunching of her back, curling cat-like to stretch the muscles through her shoulders and core. She extended her hands out in front of her and an audible crack snapped through the otherwise silent air. She forced her fingers taut and then balled them back into fists, attempting to get the blood flowing and cease the tingling that still gnawed at the tips. Her knuckles popped. She pulled herself to a sitting position, her vision blurred. Squinting in the darkness, she could make out the shadowed furniture in the chamber. She pulled her hand to her face to inspect the transformation. She certainly felt as if she had changed.

  She drew her hand close to her face, even closer than usual, still struggling with her vision. But instead of inspecting a youthful hand of velvety skin and dainty digits, she looked upon withered fingers arthritically stuck in a pointed pincer.

  As she brought her claw-like hands up to feel her face, loose skin weighed by gravity's force sagged off her once pronounced cheekbones and gathered in a wattle under her chin. Terror exploded within her. The queen spotted the mirror upon the floor only a few paces from where she sat and scurried, crab-like, to grab it. She wrapped her stiff fingers around its handle and lifted it in front of her face to inspect her reflection. Horrified, she dropped the mirror.

  "No. No. Noooooooo!"

  Her voice sounded different in her own ears. No longer did it resonate with sultry deepness, but rather a high-pitched abrasive tone likened to that of a shrieking owl.

  Agrippine's throat constricted, and she could not catch her breath. Her mouth was dry, and her body weakened under the stress of what she had seen the mirror.

  What had gone wrong?

  It was conceivable the spell might not work, but never had she considered it would backfire so terribly. But there she sat, alone and transformed into a hideous decaying version of her former self. After she sat in silence for a moment, her mind dizzying from the horror of her present situation, she came to an important conclusion: There is no time to wallow in self-pity, only time to right the wrong.

  But what had gone wrong? It didn’t make any sense. She struggled to climb to her feet, her legs unsteady under her own weight. Teetering on strained posture, she rose, but only slightly, since she could not force her body to stand straight up.

  Her elderly form was stuck hunched-over and, as she awkwardly took a step forward on her new legs, she realized, along with her new appearance, she had inherited all of the ailments and weakness that went along with her age. She limped over to where she had left the mirror on the floor, struggled to pick it up, and returned to her rigid stance.

  "Mother? What's happened? What went wrong?"

  "Agrippine, what have you done? I told you that you could only trust in me and the Dark Arts. That fool duped you with a false heart of an aged creature. And now you are at the mercy of your new condition. I told you all you have is your beauty, and look what you've done."

  "Mother, I know. I should have done it myself. I should have never trusted—"

  "But you did. And now it's too late."

  "No, I can fix this. I just need her heart. I wil
l kill her, and I will fix this. I will gather some supplies and a horse since I will be unable to walk far distances in this state."

  Agrippine scanned her body and realized her dress now fell like drapes around her withered frame. She stepped out of the gown that sagged around her and crossed to the spare dresser, which was laden with extra frocks for her ever-changing wait-staff. She found some appropriate apparel; a brocade dress, simple in its structure and appeal, and much tinier in its shape, was the perfect garment for inconspicuous travel.

  The creaking of her joints pierced the quiet as she dressed. She surveyed the fit, and once satisfied with the fact it wouldn't fall off or leave her too cold in the night's air, Agrippine grabbed a small satchel and filled it with necessary travel needs. Deep within the corner of the small bag, she stuffed some rolls and grains left over from the previous night's meal.

  As she did so, she couldn't help but eye the bloody plate of the false heart. Congealed and ashen, the mere sight of it made Agrippine want to vomit. She snapped her gaze back to her bag and hurried across the room to her dresser to grab the dagger and two vials of a fatal potion she'd been saving.

  Lastly, she snarled at the mirror and jammed it into her bag.

  Agrippine caught sight of the moon again, and her heart raced a bit faster. She was losing time, noted by the moon's position and the threat of dawn on the horizon. She crept to the chamber door and slowly pulled it open with a tinny creak. The chamber guard, propped in his chair, had conveniently dozed off, snoring mildly, after his long nighttime shift. She shambled past the guard and down the corridor. Turning the corner to head toward the north exit, Agrippine was practically pummeled by a rushing servant.

  The servant, a middle-aged woman with chestnut curls spewing from under her bonnet, looked stunned. "Who are you, and what are you doing in this corridor? You are not permitted in this part of the castle? Who let you in?" She seized Agrippine by the arm and pulled her down the hallway. "You are lucky the queen did not catch you. She'd have your head for such carelessness. I imagine you were seeking an audience with her, hmm? But at this time of night? I don't even understand how you got in here and up to this wing without being detected.…" Her stream of questions and muttering slowed, though her walking pace did not.

  "Well, regardless of how you found yourself here, you are wasting your time if you wish to see Her Majesty. The queen's audience used to begin at noon. And secondly, Her Majesty has not held a public audience in quite some time. If you have an issue to bring to court, you must petition to see her advisor. But, to be honest, from what I've gathered, those appointments have yielded little by way of results for the citizens who ask for help. And dare I say, for your ears alone, because the repetition in the wrong ear could equate to my beheading, this kingdom hasn't seen a royal figurehead who cares about the people since the days of Queen Gabrielle, God rest her gentle soul." The servant continued to blather on, barely coming up for air while continuously scanning for anyone who could overhear. She pulled Agrippine to the west exit.

  As soon as they reached the fresh air just beyond the hefty wooden door, the servant turned Agrippine to face her, grasping both of her arms. "Consider yourself lucky, Madame. On one hand, you should count your blessings I was the one who found you. Who knows if anyone else would have been so lenient as to let you go. And secondly," she peered over her shoulder to ensure their privacy, "be grateful you didn't come face to face with the queen. She would have certainly had you killed for your mistake. There is no doubt in my mind, even if she would have given you audience, it would not have been to your benefit. Just my opinion, of course, but understand, I have been here many years and have seen a good deal."

  She exhaled and took one more cautionary glance over her shoulder. "You get out of here quickly, you hear. Go home and make the best of what you got. There's no use asking for help, not here. Now go." The servant vanished back behind the wooden door, leaving Agrippine exiled from her own castle.

  The royal stables hid several acres behind the castle garden. Strong oaks lined a long dirt path, which meandered between the scenic hills. The sun was ascending from behind the mountains, washing the land in a spectrum of color. Agrippine sneaked down the winding trail. She made her way to the stables and maneuvered stealthily, knowing full well she was working within the window of time before farmhands normally began their workday. She managed to creep into the corridor of stalls where a dozen ink-black horses munched on hay. She pulled open the first stable door to stare down a horse marked with a white star upon its forehead. The animal's big black eyes seemed to look right through her, unaffected by her presence as he continued to chomp on the fodder.

  She snatched the bridle from a hook outside of his stall door and slipped it over his ears, sliding the bit into his mouth. Even though she hadn't ridden a horse in years, the motions were still familiar. She looped the reigns back around the hook of the stable door to ensure the horse he would not roam, and moved across the corridor to grab the saddle, the immense weight of which practically knocked her off her feet. She lumbered back to the horse with the saddle gripped tightly against her chest and threw it, as best as she could, upon the withers of the horse's back. Winded and huffing, she braced herself with one hand upon the horse's flank and, the other on her hip and inhaled deeply in an attempt to catch her breath.

  A noise sounded from down the corridor. A guard? Another horse? The wind? There was no time to waste waiting to discover the source. She peeked out of the stall door to check if the coast was clear. Once her solitude was verified, she led the horse into the stable breezeway, pulled up a step stool and, as quickly as she could, mounted the horse. Though she had always been accustomed as a woman of highborn status to riding sidesaddle, she set her reservations about appropriateness and comfort aside and straddled the horse for balance. Agrippine kicked her heels into its sides, urging it forward while clutching the reins in her gnarled fingers.

  The horse trotted out of the breezeway and down the path. Rather than stay on the trail, Agrippine tugged on the reigns and turned the horse toward the woods. After a few minutes of acclimation and learning to balance her new body, she urged the horse into a canter with a kick. She weaved the horse between the trees and deeper into the woods to ensure that they would not be seen.

  When she was certain they were out of sight, she yanked the horse to a stop. She pulled out the feather she had tucked in her pocket and pinned it between her fingers. She closed her eyes and whispered the words of the spell again.

  Avis volare libero Birds fly free

  directa et ieiunium direct and fast

  deduc me in obscuris lead me through the dark

  et mihi viam monstres and show me the way

  The feather lifted from her palm and twirled thrice in the air before settling again in her hand. The quill pointed north. The queen tucked the feather back into her pocket and kicked the horse to move. The stables were located west of the castle, but Agrippine knew she needed to head north to follow the bird she'd set ahead.

  Though she wasn't certain of the exact route, Agrippine guessed the landscape around the castle — mountains to the south, water to the west, and a steep ravine to the east — would have ensured she’d traveled north, notably the least arduous of the choices. Despite its comparative ease, the expedition to the north was in no way easy. Thick forest, woodland beasts, and colder temperatures guaranteed a demanding journey, and in her fragile state, the voyage would prove even more difficult.

  But she was determined, and that resolve would drive her through whatever obstacles would come to face her. Nothing was going to keep her from her from finding Genevieve and reclaiming what was rightfully hers.

  17

  The raven encircled her, close enough for Genevieve to feel the flap and flutter of its feathered wings. She stood alone in a field she had never seen before. The blades of grass reached up to her knees and ticked her skin as it blew in the temperate wind. The sky was the color of gunmetal, and the raven con
trasted starkly, a black blaze amidst the stillness above.

  Captivated by its hypnotic flight, Genevieve jumped as its loud caw ripped open the silence. She cowered below, anxiety pooling in her stomach and clenching it in white heat. The raven continued to shriek, each shrill cry growing louder and louder in painful intensity. She clasped her hands over her ears to muffle the sound, but discovered blood seeping from them in rivers. Viscous liquid, the color of poppies, trickled down her neck, and she frantically tried to swipe it away with her pale hands. But the more she swiped, the faster it flowed.

  Her breath tightened in her chest, and dread crept up her arms like a rash. Once her hands were coated thick, she raised them to the sky and stretched her arms out to the bird still in flight.

  "What do you want from me?"

  She tilted her head upward, and the blood ran down her face. Her hair matted into the syrupy liquid, and the strands clung to her cheeks.

  The bird did not startle, but rather swooped low in a flash to peck at her exposed flesh. One peck, one bite, then another and soon streaks of blood trailed down her limbs and face.

  She scanned the field and dashed to grab for a branch that hung low on a nearby oak. She tore at it with all of her might and stumbled backward when it finally ripped from the trunk. She turned to the raven and swung the branch in its direction. She missed and regained her footing to swing again.

  The bird continued its orbital path, unfazed by the threat. It soared effortlessly, barely flapping its wings for momentum. Genevieve pitched her shoulder back, wrenching the branch over her shoulder. She thrust it around again, missing once more, and spinning around with the force of her own weight. She settled herself in her stance and wrapped her bloody hands more tightly around its base, leaving crimson fingerprints in the bark. She stared down at the bird and waited for it to circle around. When it was just about in position, she pulled her weight back and swung with all her might. The branch's thickest part connected with the bird, and it instantly ignited into a blaze, a ball of fire falling from the sky. When Genevieve looked again, mesmerized by the transformation, all that was left was a pile of ashes.