Chapter 19

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WARNING: This chapter includes subjects that may be triggering for some individuals. Including: kidnapping and violence

JOSEPHINE
CHAPTER NINETEEN

Every other day he takes me out of the closet. Every other day I gobble down some kind of gruel or soggy waffles. Once in a while he opens the closet door to show me photographs of various bird nests. My kidnapper . . . Carder has this obsession with birds. Yesterday he opened the door and handed me a raven's egg. He told me that it had fallen out of its nest and that he wanted me to look after it. I have nothing better to do, so I have been keeping it warm in my hands and using the glass of water he left me to keep it somewhat moist.

I can feel the baby bird inside. One of my gifts as a Keeper. We can feel all animal's energy, but we can only control the animal that resonates with us. The baby raven is happy. He likes that I hold him all day and night. He is close to hatching. I can feel him getting restless beneath the shell.

The door swings open, and the light from the main rooms blinds me momentarily. It's strange how quickly I became accustomed to the dark. Some days here I almost prefer the darkness of the closet to the bright sunlight. Seeing what life shines in through the windows only reminds me of my captivity. I am as much of an animal in a cage as this baby bird is in its shell, only he will break free of his prison one day, and I am not so sure that I will.

"Good afternoon, Little Raven," Carder says, brushing his long grey hair out of his sickly pale face. "Your family has the whole kingdom looking for you. All of Dottera wants to find the lost princess. Guess I'm lucky that I got to you first." He loosens a crooked grin that makes me nauseous.

"Please let me go." I plead. I beg and beg like I have been for the past month. And everytime I accomplish absolutely nothing. "Will you ever let me go?" I ask, tears welling in my eyes as I cup the speckled egg in my hand.

He seems to ponder his answer for a minute, before laughing out loud. "You can go the day you figure out how to fly."

He takes a step into the closet and crouches down. I freeze as he yanks the egg from my hands.

"No!" I scream, clawing at his arm as he backs out of the closet. "Give it back!"

He looks the egg over in his hand, not bothering to be gentle as he flips it between his fingertips. "I think I'll make scrambled eggs for breakfast." And with that he shuts the door, leaving me again in the darkness and again in pain.

**********

I haven't seen Saskia this morning. I rang for tea at eight o'clock, right when I woke up, but another servant brought it to me. I was utterly disappointed when a young Serf man arrived at my door with the tray. I don't mind men, but Saskia was the one I had wanted to see. At nine o'clock I rang again, this time for breakfast. But again the male Serf was the one to deliver the tray. I rang a third time at eleven o'clock for lunch. I think the servant is getting tired of answering my calls.

I am beginning to worry. This world we live in is not kind to Serfs. Any number of things could have happened to her. If she so much as spilled a beverage on a Noble they could punish her for "assault."

I sent word out to my birds. They are keeping a lookout for her in Ageon and Tropis. I
have been wandering the palace halls. She is nowhere to be found. Part of me wants to hang on to the possibility that maybe she was just late for work today, but I know that she is most likely dead. The thought makes me want to scream.

I round another corner. This palace is like a maze, everything about its structure is complex. In Dottera, my palace is much simpler. In a way that almost makes it nicer. Expensive isn't always better. With the amount of gold in this place I could afford to feed a world of Serf children for the rest of their childhoods. Not to mention the expensive art work on every wall. Most are portraits of the Bloorust ancestors, and a good portion of the paintings are of the late Queen Santia. Something about her face is familiar but I can't figure out why.

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