The Enchanter's Choice

1: In which a promise is broken...

The window or the door?

Bells Pendragon had a choice to make, and she had to make it quick if she wanted to save her job at the Wicked Wyvern.

Use the door, said a voice in her head. You promised not to climb in through the window again.

Although imaginary, the voice sounded suspiciously like Marc, the owner of the bedroom within which she was trapped.

Curse those imploring brown eyes, Bells had promised not to use the window again. She hadn't meant to promise, but his pretty words and soft lips had won her over in the end.

"Bells," he had reasoned. "You're here as my guest, and guests come in through the front door."

"But the window is convenient," Bells had said. Coming in through the window meant she wouldn't risk run-ins with Marc's disapproving father, nor be forced to endure the family footman's suspicious glares.

Marc had placed his hands on Bells' shoulders, and looked deep into her eyes. "If you want Father to accept you, then you need to—"

He broke off, and looked away.

—stop acting like a thief.

He didn't have to say the words out loud for Bells to hear.

And so she had promised him, the only son of the Lord Provost, to stop climbing in and out of his bedroom window at all hours of the day and night.

But this was an emergency. Surely he would understand.

Two sets of footsteps came up the stairs, accompanied by two male voices. One angry, the other trying to reason with his father to no avail.

There was no way that Bells could sneak past them and leave out the front door now, and if the Provost opened Marc's bedroom door and saw her inside, there was not a chance of getting back to the Wyvern in time.

Sheer white curtains fluttered temptingly in the morning breeze, beckoning Bells to take flight. Through the window and onto the ledge, and then it was just a simple little jump down and she would be free.

"—arrival of an important guest—"

The Provost's voice echoed off the wooden walls and through Marc's bedroom door.

"—tell her myself right now that—"

"—but Father, that would be entirely inappropriate—"

That was Marc, and his voice was close. Too close.

Curse it, they were at the top of the stairs and coming right her way. It was now or never, out the window or she'd be trapped.

Sorry, Marc. I can't lose this job.

It wasn't even a good job, mopping floors and scrubbing sheets in a Lower City inn, but it was the only job that Bells could get, her one lifeline out of the slums.

Climbing out onto the wide ledge below the window, Bells lowered herself over the edge until she hung from it by the tips of her fingers.

She stopped.

What if he stayed?

An image flashed through her mind's eye.

She'd be sitting on Marc green velvet armchair when the Provost burst in. He'd be red-faced and huffing, spitting with rage. But Bells wouldn't care, she'd just sit there with her legs crossed and hands placed primly on her lap.

"Is there something the matter, my Lord Provost?" she would say.

And Marc, he would leave his father's side to stand by her, he'd tell his father that she was here

If she hoisted herself back up now, she could still make it in time. Her fingers flexed and the thought, but—

No.

Bells had no time to indulge in silly fantasies.

Marc wasn't her saviour. He was the Provost's son, destined for greater things than her.

Bells let go.

She dropped silently onto the lawn below, knees bent and fingers splayed on the soft green grass.

A door slammed open in the room above.

There was no time to cross the garden and jump the back fence, but the blind spot behind the swan-shaped shrub at the centre would do.

Bells sprinted for cover, and dived around the swan's leafy neck. As she hit the ground, she heard the Provost's enraged bellow.

"WHERE IS SHE?"

A twig snapped to the left, and the shrug quivered.

Bells froze. Her eyes flickered up. She wasn't alone behind the oversized green swan.

Thick brown trousers, patched at the knee, suspenders stretched over a rough spun shirt. Bells winced as she met the gaze of the Allencourt family gardener.

She was done for it now. She'd accidentally trampled over a bed of fresh tulips once, and he had held a grudge since.

Why was he here? It was Sunday, and he never worked on a Sunday. Bells had been careful to ensure their paths would never meet.

"WHERE DID SHE GO?"

His gaze flickered up in the direction of the window, and back onto her. What was he waiting for?

"As I was trying to tell you, Father, you have made an erroneous assumption. Bells was not here this morning."

Bells winced. Marc always sounded extra pretentious when trying to spin a lie. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, his life had never depended on a lie.

There was a pause.

"Don't lie to me, boy. She's escaped out the window like filthy little thieves do."

Bells flinched. The gardener's head jerked up. His mouth started to open, and Bells prepared to bolt. The moment he called out, she'd make for the fence. The Provost would see her, but the game would already be up.

Nothing happened.

Bells tore her eyes away from the back fence, bracing herself to see satisfaction and scorn on the gardener's face. But it wasn't there. His eyes were wide and his face open, and he looked upon with with pity.

"Sorry," he mouthed, inclining his chin towards the open window.

Pity. She didn't want his pity, but if it stopped him from ratting her out, she'd take it. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and Bells had been a beggar enough to know.

The window snapped shut.

Bells exhaled, long and hard as if expelling the vice around her heart.

She'd wanted to hear Marc's reply— to hear him defend her, but what if he didn't? What if he agreed?

Bells stomach dropped at the thought.

No.

No time to think about that now.

Bells bit down and counted to ten then peaked around the side of the swan's leafy wings.

The window was empty, the coast was clear.

One last cautious glance at the gardener, but he wasn't looking at her anymore. What was he doing here, hiding behind a shrub?

No matter. They were much more similar to each other than to the Allencourts, and if he was willing to help her, then she would look the other way.

Focus, Bells. Focus!

Bells cleared her head. It was time to go.

Enough time had been wasted, and it'd take half a miracle to get back to the Wyvern on time now.