The next morning, the party of four continued their journey as planned: they crossed through the forest and descended the ridge, where they came upon a river. Then they followed this river a few miles south, and by the time the evening sky lit up in brilliant red, they arrived at a moat surrounding a lavish mountain fortress.
Lucy whistled, then picked up a smooth stone and tossed it into the moat.
“…What did you do that for?” asked Pitch.
“I was trying to skip it,” Lucy replied.
“Anyway, h-how are we going to get to the other side??” she cried. “Sh-should we swim? Should we build a raft? Wait, is it a fake; c-can we just wade across??”
“It’s a real moat: they built it by splitting the river,” said Pitch. “Ordinarily we would cross over the drawbridge in the front, but the lookout has probably seen me coming by now, and…well, if my stepmother is still around, I doubt they’re going to lower it.”
Suddenly, they heard a loud creaking noise, and all turned to look: in the distance, a large wooden structure descended over the water.
“…So much for your doubts,” said Lucy.
“Well, they have no way of knowing what we’re here for yet,” said the Captain. “So why shouldn’t they let us in?”
“Because of me.” Pitch took a few steps forward, bewildered. “I…she shouldn’t want me here.”
“Maybe she’s not around, like you said,” Lucy offered.
“Perhaps it’s a trap,” suggested Azor.
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Pitch frowned. “Well…let’s find out.”
The party made their way to the front of the castle and tentatively traversed the drawbridge. Armored guards stood on either side of them, silently watching them pass.
Pitch walked ahead of the group, trying to look strong and self-assured. But on the inside, her mind was a whirlwind of anxieties.
Azor’s idea had disturbed her more than she let on: a death trap was just the sort of thing her stepmother would try. The castle had always been the most dangerous place for her to be— that was the reason she had left home and never looked back.
And now, after allowing her stepmother at least five full years to prepare all manner of terrible plots, she was walking right in through the front door. Not even 20 pounds of salvaged armor could make her feel safe.
She held her cutlass in a feverish grip.
“…You won’t die here today,” said a sudden voice in her head.
Pitch turned around, startled. Azor’s false eyes stared back at her.
She faced forward again. “…I might,” she thought in reply.
“That is a pointless thing to think. Of all the things you might focus on before a potential battle, fear should be the last of them.”
“I know…ordinarily, I wouldn’t…” she sighed, and shook her head. “You have to understand…I’m really…much more pathetic than I’ve led you to believe…”
“You are a great many things, but pathetic is not one of them.”
Pitch felt her face grow instantly warm. But before she could think of a response to that unexpected near-compliment, she found herself standing in the entrance to the great hall.
It was a grand room, covered in deep violet draperies and golden furnishings. A red embroidered carpet led up to an ornate pair of thrones at the far end of the hall: one for a king, and one for a queen. Both were empty.
“…Isn’t s-someone supposed to be in here??” Lucy whispered.
Pitch didn’t answer. She simply continued to the middle of the room, stopping in the orange glow of a nearby window.
“Margaret, my dear…!!” called a sudden voice from behind.
The party turned around, and found the Queen standing in the doorway.
She looked remarkably young, only a few years older than Pitch at the most. She wore a pale blue gown underneath numerous flowing robes, and an abundance of dazzling jewelry.
She held out her hands, revealing long, polished fingernails and dozens of gold rings. “Margaret, Margaret,” she repeated. “Finally…you’ve come home.”