The strange green liquid slid lumpily into the narrow bottle, letting out one last plume of smoke before a cork took his breath away. Dorejamus put the potion with a trembling hand in the large cupboards where many of his kind were waiting to be able to serve one day by completing a whirlwind investigation or rather by saving the life of a deathly ill sorcerer.
Dorejamus felt the cold bite into his bones as if death had wrapped her icy hands around them and was slowly trying to pull him into the depths. But the warm clouds of breath that escaped into the dungeon proved otherwise. He plopped down wearily on one of the wooden chairs that used to be used to tie prisoners, waiting for the order to set the chairs on fire with green fire. The licking flames would then make their way through the wood without causing any damage in search of the fresh flesh that would melt hissing on their fiery tongues. As gruesome as that was, Dorejamus half-hoped that a green flame would suddenly light up as if a magic tinderbox had just brought him to life and he would provide the damp dungeon with some welcome warmth.
The old brainteaser took a look at the complicated formulas he had scribbled up last week in a stroke of genius, as they called it, but unfortunately his writing had deteriorated seriously in recent years and he could not unravel much beyond a series of numbers. He had repeatedly urged a few young boys to turn their magical ideas into formulas and recipes, but the old, grumpy brainteaser Scharevilt would have none of it.
Dorejamus sighed at the thought of their heated discussions, which usually only ended when one of the two developed such a cough that the other withdrew protectively. There were now eight of them of what used to be about fifty very intelligent pensioners, and every time one of them ventured to the pit of oblivion, it turned out to be empty or never returned. His body was usually found the next day, an exhausted body like a pitiful heap in the moat, hidden under gigantic woolen blankets to protect him from the scorching sun. Dorejamus didn't even waste his salty tears on them, for they left chafing stains on his parchment-like cheeks. Groaning, he hoisted himself to his feet, fished a brush handle from the wall to replace a more decent walking stick and stumbled up the long spiral staircase to the tower room.
At the top of the small tower room overlooking the surrounding Leafy Forest, the beautiful Tilliante combed her blond hair, which was now more than a meter and a half longer than herself, for the third time that day, and which she wore every day in a huge bun on the back of her head. She looked like Rapunzel. Her face slowly began to show small furrows, a little because of the old age but mostly because of the absolute loneliness. Only the very old grandparents from downstairs sometimes paid her a visit, on condition that she closed the curtains. She had actually forbidden them these visits because twice a brain teaser had already collapsed on the cold gray steps and his last breath had mixed with the draught, which crept into the Gray Vulture Castle through many cracks. But still, the males made their way up again and again to keep her company. Somehow they managed to get to the top fairly quickly, but Tilliante suspected them of using a magic potion to do so.
"Tilliante, child, shut out the sunlight."
She immediately recognized Dorejamus' cracking voice that most closely resembled a hinge that desperately needed to be lubricated. The young Baroness drew the heavy red curtains and lit some candlesticks that cast shadows on the stone walls. Dorejamus stumbled inside and threw himself panting on the angelic four-poster bed. "Child, there is a young man standing in front of the moat," he said with difficulty. "Poor man thought at first that he was a knight of the messenger, but he seems to have run away from a future age, dressed so unkemptly, girl, really not a man for you, much too big. Although he does ask about you, seems to me to be a determined type, one of those who used to be allowed to munch on the leftovers of the stew too often. He told Armoud that he has a mission and that others will probably follow after him. Although he does believe that he is the only one who has escaped unscathed. Shall I put a dash of wart-causing agent in his welcome potion, baby? That cools his ego down a bit.'
Tilliante laughed silently, and her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. She shook her head. On a small piece of yellowed paper, she wrote in curly letters.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Make sure he is brought upstairs, I would like to hear what he has to say.
Dorejamus took one of the snow-white doves out of the golden cage by her bedside, whispered something in the ear of the flapping animal, and opened the door of the room. The bird spread its light wings and flew down the thousands of steps at a dizzying speed. The brainteaser was about to go after the bird when Tilliante's soft, pale hand appeared on his frail shoulder. "Stay," her eyes said. With a strange visitor in her room, she preferred to have someone with her to protect her, even though he could barely stand on his crooked legs. She appreciated his company and his merry chatter more than the cooing of her white celestial doves, and his gray hand, trembling to wipe the tears from her eyes, had become very familiar by now. She no longer harbored fear of the troll-like males, although none of them had yet managed to let a word escape her poppie-red mouth.
Jack Bulton had finally hoisted himself wearily over those last steps when he stumbled into the tower room and instantly stood as if petrified. In all his life he had never seen such a beautiful woman as Tilliante. Her skin resembled spun sugar, as smooth and shiny as ivory. Her long blond hair sparkled like precious gold, tied together in an elegant bun. She had deep blue eyes that resembled two bowls of clear ocean water and lips that were so full and red that Jack was willing to bet they tasted as sweet as fresh cherries. She was beautifully slender, and her feminine curves were emphasized by a corset and fine ruffles. She wore a dark green dress that looked a bit dusty, but Tilliante still managed to wear it like a true princess. The thin sleeves had sagded slightly, so she wore a see-through scarf with silver trims around her shoulders. It looked as if the moon had put a protective veil around her, and the slender hands with which she held the scarf seemed softer than chick feathers. Despite her sad look and her cool demeanor, she retained a regal dignity and beauty that overtook Jack. But not only him. Tilliante was already used to men staring at her speechless for the first two minutes. It was only after this visitor had overcome his consternation and was able to tear his gaze away from her and direct it to the wooden floor for a few seconds that he was able to remember the reason for his visit.
As he weighed his words, Dorejamus grumbled, "So, what brings a man like you to the gloomy Gray Vulture Castle?"
Jack stared at the old man, and for a moment it reminded him of Erva, the Acorn witch, waiting patiently in his cart after giving her some fresh grass to nibble. What on earth was this brain teaser doing to the beautiful Tilliante? Jack coughed once and then began his story.
Tilliante sighed. Why did this look oh so familiar to her? Why did they always try to convince her that her Henry wasn't as great as she thought? Why did they make up sweet stories about how friendly that porridge of a sugar prince was? And above all, why did they end up offering themselves as her future husband, if she didn't budge on the other two proposals? Could female beauty really turn brains into sawdust?
Tilliante had almost personally swung her visitor through the tower window when she realized that the fall down could have a very painful landing. She pointed expectantly at Dorejamus. He nodded understandably and hoisted himself to his feet.
"I'll let you out, young sir, Lady Tilliante will certainly think about your proposals, just follow me." He opened the tower door and led a bewildered looking Jack downstairs.
The baron's daughter flopped down on the four-poster bed. She let her gaze glide along the beautiful carvings that the celestial sheet wore off. There were figures sawn into it in the shape of mermaids and diamond butterflies. At the very top was a castle with flags, so nice that it seemed as if they really swayed back and forth when the wind blew. Hendrik Hertenklauw had made this dream bed for her and she still remembered the first night they had spent in it together. Her head resting on his warm chest, his rapidly beating heart under her ear as he very carefully drew circles over her shoulders with his index finger. In the distance, she had heard the ferocious hoofbeat of her father's horses, thundering over the drawbridge of their castle. Henry was taken from her. He was imprisoned in the deepest dungeons among the criminals. Tilliante had retreated herself to her room as her heartfelt cries slid over the battlements. Her father had offered her to marry the most disgusting, selfish man in the area, the greasy sugar prince who cared more about his pastries than his own mother. Unfortunately, this was also the case the other way around. The sweetener would only marry Tilliante if she would beg for it, conceited as he was, and so he demanded from her a public betrothal song. Immediately the beautiful Lady had moved to the highest tower of the Grey Vulture Castle with only her golden dressing table, her three ball gowns and Henry's fairytale four-poster bed.
She stuck her nose in one of the pillows, hoping to catch his familiar scent somewhere, but a musty smell of dust had dispelled Mr. Deer's body odor. Tilliante turned on her back and stared at the dark red skycloth. A woman was sewn on in gold thread, sitting on the knee of a young man with a broad smile. She and Henry, immortalized in spun gold.