Astrid

The floors of the hall are checkered with black and white squares, but I can barely see the colour under the coat of dust that settles upon…well, everything. It is as if nobody has lived in this castle for a long time.

In my hand, I grasp the little timepiece my father made for my mother before she passed. My thumb presses a button on the brass. A loud click is heard as it opens up like an oyster’s shell, revealing the pearl inside: our family portrait.

“Hello?” I call out. The echo bounces off the walls.

“Astrid?” a smaller voice sounds tentatively to my left.

My father staggers forward. In this – slightly better – light, I finally notice how tattered his clothes are, how bruised his arms have become. His pale face is thin and sickly.

“Papa,” I breathe, running into his arms. He barely musters the strength to hold onto me.

Behind us, someone clears their throat.

We part momentarily to look, but the person seems to be invisible. Or hiding; perhaps the servants here are as difficult to look at as their master.

“Please bid your goodbyes,” a small voice says pleasantly, as if there is nothing in the world that is wrong.

I turn to my father. His dirt-stained palms reach up to cup my face, and he begins to cry. I hate that this is the last memory I will have of him.

“My baby,” he sobs, burying his head into my shoulder. “Let me stay. Let me stay.”

“That man will not allow my leave after the threat I made.”

“No,” he looks up to me again. “You are all I have left of your mother. You are all I have, Astrid, please.”

My heart is shattering into a million pieces. I can feel it; the wave of grief. It wells up the way clouds tell of the signs of rain.

My father cries and cries like an infant, stroking my cheek with his thumb – the way he used to whenever I came home crying after someone spoke a careless word to me, or when the other children jeered cruelly at me.

A tear escapes. I curse myself for it and try to tame my trembling lips.

“I’ll find a way to come home,” I lie. Partially. “I will come home, Papa. I promise. I promise.”

His forehead touches mine gently. I can hear his ragged breaths. This may be the last time I hear Papa breathe.

When the servant meekly interrupts with a cough, my only family leaves. I watch him leave through the door, and then I cannot watch him anymore. I turn my back and wait for the door to close.

Then, the tears come again. I touch my face at the place my father’s hands had touched. I feel it contort.

There is a long, awful silence. It is filled only by my pathetic attempts to stop sobbing.

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Finally, something grasps at my skirt and tugs once. I wipe my tears and look, ready to yank my skirt free of their hold. How dare they touch me?

It is a little hand, attached to a little body with a little head with wide eyes.

A child.

“My lady,” he says, his tone innocent. It makes me think of Damian. “May I show you to your room?”

When I nod, he leads me up the looming staircase. It parts into three paths: two to the left and to the right – “The East and West Wing, your ladyship, and Mama told me to tell remind you that you are not allowed in the West Wing,” the child explains – and one in the middle, which would bring me down the steps instead of up. The Centre Wing.

I am led up the East Wing, which has so many floors, I fear I will be placed at the topmost one, where I will be locked in with no opportunity to climb my way down the window. But instead, the boy only stops at the third floor and makes a sharp turn to the left.

As we pass each door, the lamps standing guard along the corridor walls light up by themselves. I gape openly, certain it must all be some trick.

The boy stops in front of one of the rooms. He lifts his hand, making as if to turn the doorknob, but he does not touch it.

The door opens by itself.

I stagger backward. A trick. This is all a trick. A means to frighten me into submission.

“Lady Astrid,” another voice sounds from within the room.

I jump right out of my skin, a quick shriek escaping my lips. So much for being brave.

Inside, a woman who must not be more than ten years older than me stands, her deep chocolate hair tied up neatly into a bun and her small hands folded delicately over her brown skirts. When she smiles, it is deceptively warm.

“Welcome. We readied this room for you; I hope it suits your tastes,” she tells me.

She waves her hand in the air. As if on cue, the open doors of the wardrobe behind her clicks shut.

My jaw falls open. This is no trick of the eye.

“What is wrong with this place?” I ask warily.

“Is it true you stole from the Master and he tried to punish your Papa?” the boy chimes in brightly.

“Eli!” The woman’s cheeks colour in embarrassment. “Pardon my son, Lady Astrid. He often removes the filter I try to plaster over his mouth.”

“Is that all you brought from home?” he continues to point at the leather bag slung over my shoulder. “No matter. The castle keeps all sorts of clothes, and the Master used to bring in clothes from -”

“Eli!”

“Sorry, Mama. I’m just telling her that the castle can make prettier clothes for her, if she would like.”

She balances her hands on her hips and fixes him with a stern glare. “Go to Bayorn. Now.”

Unrepentantly, the boy skips away towards the staircase. I watch him cast multiple glances over his shoulder at me.

“Please forgive us, my lady,” the woman shakes her head. “We have not had guests in a while. Do come in.”

I smirk derisively, stepping into the room when she gives way. “Guests? Am I not your -”

My words falter.

The room is bigger than my entire house. The walls are painted a shade of cream, with murals of flowers all over. Rose petals are strewn everywhere, as if someone had gotten married in here and forgot to clean up after. To the right, a large dresser stands in front of a mirror against the wall. The middle section of the room holds a large, white bed with four wooden posts standing guard by its corners and a translucent sheet of material draped over the top. To the left of the bed, small steps ascend to give way to a dressing area and a door which swings open by itself to reveal the most lavish arrangement of clothing I have ever seen. A bookshelf stands against one of the walls in front of two cushioned seats and a smaller table.

To the right of the bed, at the end of the room, is an alcove. Morning light streams in through the windows.

Iron bars cage the windows from outside.

I point to the windows. “And you call me a guest? I assume the cage is to ensure I never find my way out.”

The woman looks to where I point. Slowly, all good humour is wiped off her expression. She clears her throat in discomfort.

“The cage is there, your ladyship, is not to keep you from leaving,” she says.

“It is to keep what is out there from coming inside.”