Astrid

I will not die here.

Not by hunger, nor by the harm these people may inflict upon me.

Slowly, I rise from the bed. My feet shuffle against the rose petals on the cool marble floor as I rummage through my bag for one of my own clothes.

The door opens on its own for me. This entire castle seems to have a life of its own. As I make my way along the corridor, I study the paintings, the architecture, the traces of living in the little scratches and dents in the walls. So far, there seems to be no one else in this haunted place.

At the bottom of the staircase in the Centre Wing, I catch sight of a brass lion’s head at the end of the railing, posed in a roar.

“Can you tell me where the kitchen is?” I ask it.

When it does not move, I feel stupid.

“Right this way, your ladyship.”

I jump. But the lion did not respond. When I turn on my heel, the guard from the first night stands in front of me. He bows in my direction, and I automatically curtsy against my better judgement.

He leads me across kitchens and sealed doors. We pass by a huge portrait, one framed in gold and painted with avid colours. It seems to be of a family: the parents sit together in the middle, and a son and daughter pose rigidly by either side. They all have the same curly brown hair, the same air of importance about them, and the parents both wear crowns atop their heads.

Both the woman's and girl’s eyes are a soft shade of brown, while the man’s eyes are a vibrant shade of blue, like the sea. Or at least, what I imagine the sea would look like. The girl is smiling more than the rest, but the woman’s features are mild. Only the oldest man’s face is completely stoic.

The son’s eyes are scratched out.

The dining room is rather small and private. A long table stretches across the room, and around us, plates filled with food and pitchers filled with unknown liquids dance in the air, making their way to the table.

I stare and stare and stare.

“Ah, Lady Astrid!” the maid’s voice lilts in surprise. She curtsies low, and then pulls a chair up for me.

I sit down. Across the table, the little boy – Eli – watches me more than he watches the floating cutlery.

“You must be absolutely famished, poor child.”

The woman starts to rush about, gesturing to the napkins and plates to attend to me. I cannot keep my jaw from falling open. “Please, take whatever you want. Anything at all – we have no shortage of food here. What would you like to drink? We have sweet tea, or perhaps some water instead? I hope you’re drinking the water I left in your room – hydration really is of the utmost…”

“Imogen,” the man – the guard – clears his throat. “You’re unnerving the girl.”

Imogen’s mouth immediately sews shut. She plops herself onto the seat beside me and abruptly apologizes.

As I reach for a roll of bread, they all watch.

My eyes flicker to them.

They all pretend to be busy with their food.

The meal goes on without much to say. Whenever one of them asks me something – “Where do you come from, your ladyship?” “How do you find the food?” “Is the bedroom to your liking?” – I keep my responses brief.

As soon as I finish my meal, Bayorn clears his throat.

“Lady Astrid, if I may convey the message: the Master would like to see you in the library. It is just down the hall to the left, the last room with the largest doors. If you require a guide, any of us will happily be at your service.”

“Do go at whichever time suits your convenience,” Imogen chimes in hopefully. “Except past midnight, of course.”

I narrow my eyes.

“About that – why are there so many rules?”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Bayorn and Imogen exchange glances.

“The list you left in the room,” I continue. “It has so many strange rules. Why am I not allowed outside my room past midnight? Why do you lock my door from the outside each night?” What are you going to do to me?

“Lady Astrid,” Bayorn clears his throat. “I assure you that all this is merely for the sake of your safety. It is of the utmost importance that you adhere.”

“I would be safer if you would just let me leave.”

“So sorry, child.” Imogen’s hand reaches out to rest on mine. “We tried to appeal to the Master, but he refused to relent -”

“Then you have not tried hard enough!” I spring to my feet, yanking my hand from her touch.

“You simply sitting here, waiting for me to succumb to your routine as you ask questions about the life I should be living if I were not trapped in here with you. That makes you an accomplice!”

Imogen rises to her feet. She starts to reach out to me, the sympathy clear in her eyes, but that will do me no good. I pull away.

“Your dirty servant hands have no right to touch me,” I snap.

She flinches. There is a stunned silence.

Without sparing another glance at this circus of floating plates and dancing candles, I flee from the dining room.

I find the library as quickly as I can. Before my knuckles rap against the door, the heavy doors give way.

“Don’t close,” I whisper to the door, praying this castle does not take sides.

They close when I enter, but not all the way.

The first thing I notice is the massive collection of books. Stacked upon shelves that reach all the way up to the high ceiling – upon which are murals of winged people playing musical instruments – the books go on like an endless sea. Despite my nervousness, my heart melts. There are even tables for study set up in cozy corners, and the room is so big, it needs two fireplaces. In the middle of the room, two long, curved vermillion seats form a circle broken in half.

“Do you like it?”

The voice comes from the window. A large chair is propped up in front of it. I find the back of the man’s hooded head and grip the knife concealed in the pocket of my skirt.

“You have all this here, and yet you insisted that I bring my own books to the garden?”

Slowly, I stalk towards the chair.

“There is a hardcover on the table to your right,” he says obliviously. I turn my head and move to pick up the book. When I open it, a page has already been folded by its corner.

“Read to me.”

Rage bubbles up my throat. I swallow it down and start to pronounce the first few words.

“Not so close,” he interrupts me. “Please.”

“Show me your face,” I lift my chin. My free hand reaches into my pocket to remove the knife.

“No. Continue.”

I retreat a few steps before continuing. He is appeased for a long time, and we stretch past our usual hourly mark. My jaw starts to grow stiff.

At some point I figure out how best to bait him.

I shut the book.

He angles his head to the side, careful not to look at me directly.

“Did I decide we were done?”

“No. But I did. And you will answer my questions.”

He sighs. “Any queries you have, you may refer to Imogen and -“

“You want me here for a reason, do you not?” I set the book down onto another table. Inch by inch, I edge closer to him. “‘Tis more than to simply read to you, I am certain. What is it, then? Is it because you desire my beauty?”

“Maybe I’m more attracted to your modesty.”

He is poking fun at me. That wretch!

“Show your face. Now.”

“Do not provoke me,” he says testily.

I scoff. “Or what? You will feed me to your dog in the dungeons?”

His body surges out of the chair and towards me in a split second. I scramble backward, but then remember to hold my ground.

“You want me to show my face?” His hands reach up to the hood and ugly mask over his face.

Before he can close the space between us, I thrust the knife into his chest with all my might.

He doubles backward. A pool of red begins to stain the area below his collarbone. My captor gasps and heaves, and then he collapses onto his back. My only weapon remains sticking out of his chest.

There is no time to think about what I’ve done. I turn on my heel and sprint out the doors, pushing past them before they can even open.

And then I am running to my freedom.

The front doors are just before me, so close to the library. Alfeir, I was told, is kept in the stables while they sent my father home on an animal of their own, since all their creatures know to find their way back here anyway. Finding the stables should not be too hard. I simply have to…

A pair of hands close around my arms.

His grip is strong. I struggle and twist desperately, but he remains unmoving.

“Let me go, Bayorn!” I cry. “You said you were -”

When I crane my head to look him in the eye, I scream.

It is the Master.

He releases me instantly. That horrible mask is still on, twisted and ugly and unharmed.

His fingers curl around the knife’s handle. Slowly, grotesquely, the blade slides out from between his flesh.

It clatters to the ground.

I scream. For Bayorn, for Imogen, for anyone, but nobody comes to my aid. He remains unmoving, watching me as if I were a specimen to behold.

When I lose my breath, he angles his head to the doors.

“Don’t let her leave.”

With a sweep of his coat, he abandons me in the midst of this haunted place.