Astrid
“I thought it went without saying that when I said we were to meet here, there was no implication whatsoever that anybody else would be included.”
Behind me, Imogen budges by an inch. My hand shoots out to grab her by the wrist, anchoring her in place. Out of the corner of my eye I see her glance at Bayorn, who, to his credit, looks completely at ease.
Obviously, I had the sense to omit Eli from our plan to meet in the West Wing’s study. It is a cozy room, much smaller in comparison to the library or the other study I’ve discovered in the East Wing. Every inch of it has been kept tidy – by Imogen, I suspect – and spotlessly clean. The only section which has been left disorganized is the lone study table planted in the middle of the room, upon which papers and open books are strewn.
“Do you not think that they have a right to know what our plan is to combat this curse?” I fold my arms and shift my weight onto one hip. “Between the two of us, there would only be one and a half functional minds.”
He, too, mirrors me and leans against the table. “The latter, I presume, belongs to you.”
I cannot think of a retort in time, so I do the best I can: I stick my tongue out.
His face has been shaven clean since the last time I saw him. The thick foliage that used to run wild over the lower half of his face now gives way to more defined angles around his face. The deep brown curls atop his head look even softer now that they have been snipped to a shorter length.
No one else was surprised when we first saw him in the room. Which means that someone – again, probably Imogen – must have advised him to clean up his appearances.
So far, I have managed not to stare. The stark difference between the previous hermit and the polished prince who stands before me now is what shocks me the most. I am almost convinced he is an entirely different person.
Perhaps he is starting to be so.
Kieran looks from me, to Imogen, to Bayorn. When his gaze locks with that of his guard, there is a brief pause. In the slightest of movements – almost unnoticed – the guard nods to the Prince.
The hardness in Kieran’s clenched jaw relaxes.
Within minutes we are all gathered at the table. Imogen passes around cups of tea she had brought along from the kitchen before she sits down, her back upright and hands folded on her lap. Bayorn stands beside Kieran, both hunched over a thousand words imprinted upon the thickest book I have ever seen. I prop myself up on the table and lean closer to them to try to decipher the words for myself.
“She wasn’t lying,” Bayorn mutters quietly.
“Who?” I ask.
Kieran sighs. “The Lady Selaena mentioned that your involvement in the curse excludes your ability to break the curse.”
“My ‘ability to break the curse’?”
He looks up from the pages but his eyes trail towards Imogen. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. The corners of his mouth turn down into a brief grimace.
“It means, ah, you can’t break my curse.”
My eyes narrow. It does not register at first, but when he quickly looks to the pages and rubs at his chin self-consciously, understanding sets in.
Break his curse. As in, fall in love with him.
I clear my throat. “So...er, what is our plan of action?”
“I will enter through the mirror, meet a woman and convince her to come back to the castle with me,” he says in a strict, matter-of-fact manner. As if he speaks of mending clocks or calculating the cost of a sale. “Imogen, Bayorn, ready a room by the end of the week. It will take time, but we may succeed eventually.”
They both nod. Somehow this appears to be a very familiar conversation to them.
“Astrid’s role will come in later. The lady will likely seek out the comfort of a woman her age, so you shall act as her confidante. But watch everything she does: make sure she never gets in the way of harm.”
My head snaps up. “Later? Am I not going with you into the mirror world?”
He wrinkles his nose incredulously. “Absolutely not.”
A protest is just about to roll off the tip of my tongue when Bayorn clears his throat.
“Will you tell her about the beast, Master?”
Kieran’s expression steels.
“I dunno yet.” His tone has momentarily taken on that strange, out-of-place intonation again. “I’ll decide later. We cannot afford to waste any more time now; I only have an hour each day.”
Bayorn and Imogen set to work immediately after our meeting has commenced. I follow Kieran into the old, dusty room and find that the mirror seems to have moved from its original position.
The mystery of the room does not tempt me anymore. I fight the urge to cling onto the sleeve of Kieran’s strange coat, which is shorter in the front than it is at the back. In his hand, he rotates an elongated hat absently.
We both stare at the mirror. A part of me dreads to see Lady Selaena’s reflection again, but she does not appear. Instead, a new crack has formed to the side of the surface, and a girl with braided red hair under the morning light stares past my shoulder at the bell jar on the balcony.
The remaining ashes of the rose are kept secure in the jar.
Kieran peers over his shoulder at me. He fixes on a false stoic expression and clears his throat.
In the strangest manner, he stretches out the next few syllables into a strange accent:
“I’ll be back.”
I frown when he grins at his own sorry attempt to make what clearly is – to him, at least – a joke. Waving his hand dismissively in my direction, he turns his attention to the mirror.
He averts his eyes from his own handsome reflection.
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“Show me Kent in the Regency period,” he tells the mirror.
Our reflection disappears. Slowly, all the light eddies together in a mixture of colours. My mouth falls open when the mirror starts to paint itself with greens and browns and golden yellow.
Before us stands a picture. No; it is a doorway. An opening to another world, a forest with a wide path. In the distance the path turns into a wide field, and beyond it there stands a building the size of Ainsfrel’s town hall.
I want so badly to follow Kieran when he walks towards the mirror.
His fingers first reach the surface of the glass which dissolves under his touch. Then, limb by limb, he disappears into the mirror.
In a matter of seconds, the girl with the braid stands before me again. I smooth the soft, loose fabric of my trousers and stand awkwardly in wait for some event to transpire, some sign to tell me what to do from here. To assure me that this is the direction we are meant to take.
Nothing happens.
I turn away from the mirror before Lady Selaena can return and leave the empty room.
We work together to set up the room at the opposite end of the corridor in the East Wing’s second floor, a few doors across mine.
A small fraction of me wishes this were not so; I have always appreciated a substantial amount of personal space. What if she comes knocking on my door to make demands every few hours? I do not know if I have the capacity for that kind of patience.
Truly, the only tasks we have are to sweep the dust off every surface of the chambers, and then polish every nook and cranny until we are able to see our reflections in the floors. The room itself works its magic: the shelves rearrange themselves upon our orders, the chipped lilac paint repairs itself, and the sunken bed mends its own springs and refills the feathers in each pillow.
I never get tired of watching the castle work on its own. Imogen and I stand around to debate interior design while Bayorn and Eli work on removing the dust.
“Flowers?” Imogen suggests. “Something quite like your chambers before.”
Truthfully, I did not take to the rose petals at first. It reminded me of the rose my father had stolen, the rose that caused this whole debacle in the first place. But the soon-to-be lady of the house may not hold a similar opinion.
“Very well.”
She catches the slight shift in my tone and shoots me a sideways glance.
“Perhaps we shall tone it down a little more. No roses. We shall do something different. Orchids, perhaps?”
“Sunflowers!” Eli chimes in.
“Daffodils,” Bayorn says quietly, not looking up from his broom.
Imogen presses her lips together to suppress a smile. “Why don’t we just fit an entire garden in here, shall we?”
Polishing is the difficult part. My lower back aches within five minutes of scrubbing against the floors. Every now and then I have to stand. Then I look at the callouses beginning to form on my palms and knuckles, and sigh.
So long to delicate hands.
“Here, let me,” Bayorn offers to take the polishing scrub off my hands, but I hold it out of his reach. However sore my back and hands are, allowing a very tired – and older – man to take over my work does not bode too well with me.
I finish polishing my section of the room when Imogen folds her arms and stands back to survey the walls.
“It’s quite...plain, no?” she murmurs in contemplation. “But we’ve already hung portraits in the bedroom. What about murals? My skills are rather rusty, but the magic in the walls might be able to correct any mistakes.”
My jaw hangs open. “Truly?”
A small smile plays on her lips at the sight of my disbelief. Without another word, she leaves the room.
After a few minutes, Imogen reappears with paint brushes, two small buckets and three wooden palettes.
The sight of the utensils briefly reminds me of my mother’s paintings, immortalized upon the walls in my house by my father. I suddenly recall the way he used to sometimes speak to the paintings, as if to my mother, when he thought I had fallen asleep.
Bayorn does not take up his own palette. Instead, he sits cross-legged in the middle of the cloth-covered floor and watches Imogen and I squeeze paint out of oil tubes. Imogen instructs me on the theme and I try to follow her example.
I paint a flower upon a long stalk very carefully before stepping back to survey it.
“It’s terrible.” Compared to my childish work, Imogen’s perfectly smudged colours blend into each other’s edges so naturally.
“Look, Astrid!” Eli trots away from his mother towards me. He grasps my free hand in his tiny palms and tugs. “See what happens.”
My eyes wander to my own painting again.
The stem shortens, then lengthens, and then the orange petals curl in upon themselves. The petals slowly reemerge and blossom.
My lips part in a gasp.
“See?” Eli starts to giggle. “Let me do one.”
I allow him to paint the outlines of a smaller flower, and then I direct him to fill it in. After his paintbrush lifts from the surface of the wall, the edges correct themselves and the colour is brought to life in gradients.
“We should do something else,” I muse, bending down so that I do not tower over the excited boy. “What shall we do?”
He ponders upon it. “Birds?”
“Birds indeed!”
I paint shabbily. His peals of laughter are infectious – so much so that they start to affect Bayorn, who resumes a posture more relaxed than I’ve ever seen of him. The birds take off in flight as soon as I finish and land on the branches of Imogen’s large oak tree. She paints a swing which sways by itself.
Soon, an entire garden has been brought to life in the walls of the middle section of the room. I let myself fall onto my bottom and support my leaning weight against my arms.
Eli’s excitement has soared through the roof. The birds lead him up and down along the wall while he gives chase. Right before his small body nearly catches up with the teasing creatures, he trip over his own feet and land on his hands and knees.
The paint-stained palette in his hand plants itself against Imogen’s deep brown skirt, staining it with streaks of colour.
We all freeze. Her mouth hangs wide open in shock.
“My favourite skirt!” she cries out in dismay.
Eli regains his balance. Scratching his left ankle with the toes of his right foot, he pouts. “Sorry, Mama.”
She exhales deeply. Then shakes her head. “This is a very terrible thing indeed. I shall punish you most severely.”
He hangs his head.
Imogen steps forward, taking the palette off his fingers. Her eyes survey her ruined skirt and the mess of oil paint against the palette.
Then, dipping her fingers in the paint, she runs her hand across Eli’s cheek.
Eli has never looked so offended. “Mama!” he gasps.
She breaks into laughter. Her palms dig into the paints once more and she makes as if to ambush him again, so the boy takes off in a shriek. Bayorn and I laugh and laugh as they chase each other in circles.
And then Imogen smudges yellow paint across Bayorn’s jaw.
His grin disappears immediately. She pauses mid-run, tilting her head in a taunt.
The guard leaps to his feet and dashes towards her.
She squeals in delight. She grabs her own son by the shoulders and hoists him in front of her like a shield, crying, “Take him! Take him!”
“How very valiant of you,” Bayorn’s tone is dead-set, but the amusement on his face is clear. His arms try to surpass Eli – which results in more collateral damage, unfortunately for the shrieking boy – and I cheer him on until he smears paint all over her face and neck.
“Why does Lady Astrid get away scot-free?” Imogen cries out, setting Eli down.
Bayorn stops. All three of them turn to me in unison.
“No,” I shake my head, already scrambling to my feet. “No. No!”
They have already caught me. Bayorn wraps his arms around my waist – soiling my silk blouse in the process – and spins me around.
Suddenly, one by one, their laughter dies down.
My feet touch the ground once more. I turn to see what they are all staring at in frozen silence.
Kieran stands leaning against the open doorway. His mouth is set in a straight line, but the skin beside his eyes are crinkled – a ghost of a smile.
“Master,” Bayorn nods civilly, resuming his alert stance. “Any news?”
The crinkles disappear. He retreats by a step.
“None, Bayorn. As you were.”
We watch in silence as the Prince departs from our presence.