Reshina
“This material is divine, Piffle. Where did you come across something like this so quickly?” I admired the fit in the long washing room mirror.
The fabric was a soft black velvet embroidered in hundreds of wine red rose buds.
It fit better than anything I’d made or commissioned myself, and with the slight drape of the long sleeves at my wrist, I wondered if Piffle had measured all parts of me in my sleep.
“When I saw it last year, I knew I must have it,” he said with giddiness. “It was the first dress I got to work on right away. Two more are almost finished, including one I think the Master will–”
“Where is Arthur?” I interrupted, sitting to pin my hair into my crown. The effort made my arms weak, and I had to stop with it halfway atop my head. Four days of rest and nothing but sips of broth had brought me to an exhaustion I’d never experienced before.
“He’s up there,” Piffle said casually, pointing toward the vaulted ceiling. “He wants to show you something today if you’re up for it. He’s just getting some things ready.”
“Something above the surface?”
“No. Something for you to do.”
I took the cup of tea he handed me, sipping and contemplating my next moves.
Once my strength returned, I could attempt my escape again.
Five days wasn’t too long of time lost and Morella would soon be visiting her brother anyway.
Neither of my children were ever too concerned about my lengths of absence, nor were they in need of me in that time.
They had each other—I’d made sure of it.
If I could get away from the grounds within the next two weeks, I’d at least be able to see Morella off before her marriage. And as long as I bled on the grounds before the Beast could bite me again, I wouldn’t be so weak for so long. I wouldn’t need Arthur’s mouth to pull the fever from my body.
When I’d woken that morning, he’d been pacing near the fireplace. As soon as I’d called his name, he’d left and Piffle arrived less than a minute later. But I had questions for him that I planned to get answered.
Piffle brought over a plate of small treats.
Cookies iced with a sugary glaze, brambleberries filled with rich chocolate.
I bit into one, relishing in the tart of the berry mixed with the decadent chocolate.
“My son’s wife would love these,” I mentioned offhandedly, thinking of some way I could get them to her.
“They’re easy enough to make, Mistress. It’s finding whole brambleberries this time of year that’s the tricky part.” He plopped onto the settee next to me, tossing one into his mouth.
“Do you enjoy baking sweets, Piffle?”
“Oh, yes. Cooking for the Master—and now you—has been a great joy in my life. And now that you’re here, I’m finding more joy in sewing your garments. That reminds me—” He slid off the settee shouting, “NOTEBOOK!”
A golden bound notebook popped onto the seat cushion with eyes and that distinct mouth.
Almost as quickly, a gold feathered quill appeared.
The book opened to a page already littered with notes.
I turned my head, curious to glance over what was inside.
The quill spun across the page in some of the finest handwriting I’d ever seen with big swoops and swirls.
Piffle-the-Notebook said something muffled into the cushion as he finished.
“What was that?” I questioned, jumping only slightly as he changed back into his fae form.
“I was asking if there was anything you need at the market? I’ll go in the next day or two before we’re run clean out of food.”
I shook my head. “Thank you, but no. I don’t plan to stay much longer.”
Giving me a cagey look, he settled himself back onto the settee, bringing his cup of tea with him. “I think you’ll heal quickly with the broth and perhaps some beef, carrots, and onion stewed in as well. We’ve got to keep your strength up and replenish what you’ve lost.”
“My, Piffle, you take on so many roles here. I do hope Arthur appreciates you.”
“He does! We go all the way back to when he was a boy. The Master is a kind soul, and I did miss him terribly when he left Heartstone to live as the Duke of Riche.”
“Duke?” I said in surprise. “Of Riche?”
Piffle nodded into his teacup. “The Kingdom of Heartstone Wood has always had close ties to the Kingdom of Riche. It was a few centuries back, I believe, when the title of land in Riche was given to one of the Kings of Heartstone. Some kind of thank you for a service he had done—I’m not sure of the complete history.
But when the Master’s father died and Arthur could leave Heartstone Castle, he did, and rarely came back to visit his mother. ”
“But she stayed? Even though Arthur’s father was dead?”
“Yes. She’d made a home in that castle and had no life outside of it.”
“She didn’t live in the Underrealm with Arthur’s father?”
He pursed his lips, busying himself with untangling the tassels of a pillow. “Marianna never loved André. At first, it seemed likely she could. But then…”
“But then?” I pushed.
“No use in speaking of the past, Mistress, when the present needs us to get you well.” He hopped off the settee again, rushing away to pull the sheets off the bed.
“I’ll have these clean in no time. I’ll be back shortly with some dinner.
Please stay and rest, Mistress.” He carried the linens out the door, shutting it behind him.
I despised sitting still. The only time I ever did was with a decent book, and by the looks of this room, I wouldn’t be finding one. Arthur had mentioned a library. Perhaps if I started down the corridors I’d find it. All I needed to do was want to find it, as he’d said.
I appreciated the pockets Piffle had sewn into my gown, now full of little bottles of curses, clinking softly as I walked the long glowing corridor. I gave up on my high heeled shoes, choosing to traverse the Underrealm with nothing on my feet but the sheer black stockings Piffle had left for me.
My strength was returning quicker than Piffle or Arthur could understand it would. My Goddess heritage was behind me—eons of Ravenfae power invested in my bones, fueling me to replenish all my parts.
Except those teeth marks.
They remained, small, but visible, partially hidden by the cut of the dress.
Each turn along the halls, lit in orange candlelight, pulled me toward what I wanted, until I found myself at the base of the stairs that led the surface.
I turned around, searching for a library door, finding only the one carved in blackened wood.
Shivering in the chill breezing down the stairs, I studied the carvings across the door.
Just as intricately carved as the corridors throughout the Underrealm, the door was littered with scenes of fae.
Their sharp faces and long pointed ears were unlike any I’d seen before.
Groups of them were depicted carving into the walls while others were hauling stones across their backs.
Stepping away from the door, I saw it for what it truly was—an ode to the makings of the Underrealm.
These were the faekind who had dedicated centuries to carve out every stone corridor and room in this place, and this door showed how they did it.
I pushed down on the lock and pulled on the handle.
The door was just as heavy as it looked and as I stepped inside, expecting a library full of books, I was instead met with another set of stairs, these leading down into the dark.
I stepped back to grab one of the candles from the sconces in the corridor and began my descent.
The steps dipped in the middle—well worn with use, and along the narrow walls, claw marks were etched across the stone from something wanting to get out or something trying to stay in.
“Hello?” I called, nearing the bottom stair.
Silence answered as I crept through a stone archway.
I entered a room already lit by candlelight.
It flickered softly over an enormous bed draped in crimson sheets, tucked in perfectly as if the occupant hadn’t slept there in some days.
A black stone fireplace heated the space and a large chair rested nearby.
A few books were scattered around the tables and floors.
Obviously not the library, I assumed the room was Arthur’s.
I should have left.
A polite and kind Goddess would have done so, but there are plenty of those and I’d never been interested in joining them.
Curious about the man and Beast who had dragged me into this curse, I traced my fingers over the titles of the books, careful not to disturb them.
Books full of romantic poetry, sonnets and letters to lovers.
Books of mysteries and one or two adventure stories.
Arthur was clearly an avid reader, and as I sat to read Chorus of the Colliding, a book of poems collected from two lovers over centuries, I understood my captor better.
Arthur was a romantic. A lover of the written word clearly, as his notes in fine penmanship littered the margins of most pages. It was as if I could peer into his thoughts with his markings and underlining segments, scratching out his own notes only to have written something more detailed.
I became lost, reading through each poem, each line that told the story of love between two fae who had found each other young and written words of devotion through every stage of their lives. One poem stopped me, tugging at something within my chest.
In all my forms, I’ve loved you.
In every new skin I’ve donned, I’ve loved you.
Every wake, every mossy morning written in dew, I’ve loved you.
If the Veil had cursed me, I’d love you.
If time had faulted me, I’d love you.
Within each moment of
Breathing,
Beating,
Sleeping, Eating, Loving, Living,
I’ve
Loved
You.
My first tear fell, spilling onto the page, smearing the carefully written scrawl of a man turned Beast. One line of the poem was underlined.
If the Veil had cursed me, I’d love you.
In the margin, he’d written,
Can you love the one you’ve never met?
“You shouldn’t be here.”