Rose, Wilted: Book 1

Chapter 9 - Moonlit Meetings

I thought I could run forever. I thought my adrenaline would never bleed away and that my fear-fueled legs would never tire. I thought my vision would never blur and my lungs would never gasp for air, but they did, and I realized as I collapsed against one marble wall, that hot liquid was spilling from my eyes.

Angrily, I swiped at my tears with the back of my sleeve. Stupid Beast. Stupid Anna. Stupid castle. Stupid rose. Why did the Beast have to be so horrible? At least I'd remembered my knife this time. It was back in its sheath now, and with it I felt a little less helpless.

At least I still have my knife.

That was what I used to calm myself down until I could think rationally.

At least I still have my knife.

At least I still have my knife.

I let out a long breath and rubbed the last of my tears away.

Come on Anna. Get up. Got to get back to your room before you run into the Beast again.

I pushed myself to my feet and glanced behind me. No one was there, for which I was grateful.

I hurried on, craning my neck to look around corners before I dared to go down them. I spent so much time looking behind and ahead of me that my neck ached. I didn't think to look down either, so I was taken by surprise at the sudden crunch beneath my shoe. I looked down and found a startling, splintered reflection staring back at me. I jumped and covered my mouth to contain a shriek. When I had calmed my racing heart I took a cautious step forward.

Mirror shards. Bloodstained mirror shards. I bit my lip. This was fresh. I looked up and found the wall gouged away and a mutilated, metal frame hanging crookedly. When I looked I saw that the marble railings were cracked too, and an angel lay prostrate on the floor. Her neck had crumbled to white pebbles and an arm had broken off. Her features were badly scarred.

That could be me.

A shudder escaped me, chilling my spine.

I reached down and picked up a large splinter of the mirror. A droplet of dried blood stained it in the shape of a teardrop.

I glanced at the violently gouged out section of the wall. My thoughts flitted back to the look the Beast had given me at dinner, when I had said I didn't like the mirrors.

"You don't like them either," I murmured. I turned the splinter over in my fingers, then gently laid it back down on the floor. Then I began gingerly moving the mirror pieces aside to the base of the wall. And I made sure that every piece had it's reflective side down.

* * *

By the time I reached my room I was tired and sore. All I really wanted to do was resume the tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. I pushed open the elaborate door and resumed my place at the window where I had left my book. Quickly picking up where I had left off, I settled in and began to read.

When King Arthur had after long war rested, and held a royal feast and Table Round with his allies of kings, princes, and noble knights all of the Round Table, there came into his hall, he sitting in his throne royal, twelve ancient men, bearing each of them a branch of-

A gentle click and squeak made me jump. I lost my page and nearly dropped Le Morte D'Arthur trying to see who had opened the door.

But it wasn't the Beast. It was a maid in a simple brown dress and a white apron. She held a feather duster in her hand. Her sandy hair was swept up in a bun, but she was by no means old. Maybe only a year or two older than I. Her hazel eyes had a pretty shine to them too.