For once, Jack simply stood there in an unusual moment of silent admiration for the glittering wonderland he'd created between the proud and ancient trees. Smiling, he exhaled, watching the fog of his breath drift away…
…before he was forced to leap backward to avoid the huge thing that shot past, ploughing through the spot he had just occupied and scattering his breath cloud.
Hands clamped firmly around his staff, Jack abruptly straightened out of his battle-crouch at the jubilant whoop the thing left in its wake. The last time he looked, Nightmares and Boogeymen didn't run around shrieking in delight.
Calling on the wind to help him, Jack rose into the air and glided at speed after the thing. Whatever it was, it was throwing up huge clouds of powdery snow which would've swamped the average person. Jack, however, was not the average person and easily pierced the obscuring cloud.
The thing turned out not to be a thing at all; rather, a beautifully engraved silver sled. However, instead of dogs it was drawn by a pack of grey-furred wolves, tongues out and panting as they hurtled at breakneck speed around the trees. The rigging appeared to be somehow made of sunlight, and at the helm stood a girl with long brown hair tied into two plaits and a green, no, blue, no…purple? No, a dress that changed colour, as if it had a mind of its own and just couldn't decide what colour it wanted to be.
The driver turned her head slightly, and her milk chocolate eyes met his own electric blues for a moment. Then, a mischievous grin spread across her face and in a split second she had vanished, wolves, sled and all, leaving only paw prints and sled marks in the snow and a flurry of brown leaves (that had certainly not been there before) which whirled further into the forest and out of sight.
Perhaps 200 years earlier
It is important to remember that the term 'coming out' used to have very different connotations.
It used to refer to a young woman's first ball after her parents decided that she was eligible for marriage. It meant that a young woman had finished learning how to sing and sew and play the pianoforte. It was the first step to finding the man that a woman would spend the rest of her life tied to. It was something Beatrice Miller had hoped to delay for as long as possible.
Unfortunately for Beatrice, here she was; deemed eligible at age 17 and on the way to a ball. If her mother hadn't been sitting imposingly on the seat directly opposite her, perhaps she would've felt free to express her true feelings, but as things were she had to content herself with watching her reflection in the carriage's window.
Personally , Beatrice thought her reluctance over the whole affair was plainly visible in her cocoa eyes, but her parents were prone to seeing only what they wanted to. The slight downturn of her mouth grew more pronounced as the lace on her dress scratched her skin.
"My dear, lace hems are the current fashion." Her mother had insisted. Beatrice knew there was no point arguing with her mother once she had made up her mind. It was something they had in common. A furtive glance at her mother now showed that she was quite determined to ignore her daughter's discomfort.
Beatrice risked a silent sigh, although she needn't have bothered making it silent as the loud crunching of gravel signalling the carriage's stop would've drowned out any noise.
Stepping carefully down from the carriage, Beatrice looked up at the vast silhouette of Westhorne Hall. Such a large and grandiose building would've struck awe and anticipation into the heart of any young girl; Beatrice, however, was not like many young girls.
Although her parents preferred to describe her as stubborn, headstrong and wilfully obstinate, perhaps it would be better to call her a free spirit. Beatrice struggled to abide by the strict social code which governed her society, simply because she did not believe in it. What good could come of living lives of almost total restraint? She just couldn't understand.
Unfortunately, Beatrice had no more time to stand about being unimpressed by the grandeur of Westhorne, for her mother had exited the carriage and was hustling her through the entrance hall and into the ballroom.
Beatrice's mind wandered. Her mother wove her in and out of a sea of well-dressed partygoers and she was introduced to a seemingly infinite number of people, none of whom she could remember five minutes after moving on. In the end, she resolved to sit down by the punch table and be as unattractive as possible.
However, her plan hit a terrible snag; a somewhat older, well-to-do man about the town by the name of Mr. Carl Ward, who bowed respectfully and asked her to dance. Since she could practically feel her mother's stare burning through her intricately-styled hair, she didn't feel that it would be a good idea to say no.
This turned out to be a terrible mistake; after showing this initial 'interest', Beatrice found it impossible to get rid of the man.
"So, I understand that your father is merchant, Miss Miller?" he chose to speak in the periods in which they had to stand awkwardly, waiting for the other couples to dance their parts, his brittle voice making her feel uncomfortable.
"Yes, that is correct Mr. Ward. A merchant whose success perhaps exceeds his modesty." On hearing this remark, Mr. Ward smiled politely, but Beatrice clearly saw, if only for a second, a brief hardening of his eyes, which screamed a warning to her that he thought what he had just heard was unacceptable.
Having tested the waters, and discovered they were full of sharks, Beatrice carefully kept to acceptable, mundane topics of conversation.
After having danced twice with her, Mr. Ward was obliged by the rules of society to move on to another dance partner. Whilst attempting to escape back to the safety of the punch table, Beatrice accidentally caught the eye of her mother, who was winking furiously at her. Beatrice was not in the mood to hear her mother waffle on about the possibility of marriage and so ignored Mrs. Miller, whose intricate curls were actually coming askew from the force of the twitching of her head at each wink.
Leaving her mother to make a fool of herself, Beatrice made a beeline for the punch, served herself a glass and downed it much faster than was polite. She had a horrible sinking feeling that Mr. Ward would come straight back after this dance.
Perhaps…she could simply leave? Just sneak out of the door? In spite of her dire circumstances, a small smile crept over her lips. She always had liked the idea of freedom and making her own choices, something denied to women in the strict society she was tangled up in.
Unfortunately, a quick glance at the door foiled her plan; her father was standing there, pretending to pay attention to whatever the fat old man next to him was saying while dodging the wine glass that the old man was waving about with every point he made.
Although he looked like he was just mingling with the guests, Beatrice was sure he was purposely guarding the door. She wouldn't put it past him, anyway.
Raising her eyebrows to herself, Beatrice downed another glass of punch. Her mother was occupying a seat on one side of the ballroom, still winking futilely, so she couldn't go left, her father was guarding the door to the right and Mr. Ward was lurking somewhere on the dance floor. Beatrice was completely trapped.
She felt that this revelation deserved another glass of punch, but unfortunately her hand was intercepted on its way to her glass by Mr. Ward.
He asked her to dance. Again. Two glasses of punch and a head full of irritation were enough for Beatrice to kick the limitations of society out of the window, but unfortunately (it seemed that everything was unfortunate today) her father appeared from his spot by the door, seemingly for the sole purpose of making sure she wasn't rude to Mr. Ward.
So, once more, Beatrice was dragged out onto the dance floor by Mr. Ward. Now beyond the point of irritation, she was unable to find a single thing about Mr. Ward that she liked.
His slightly hooked nose was beaky and unattractive. His round blue eyes were watery and shifty. His sandy hair looked unwashed. His features were too clustered together on his face, when an hour ago they'd looked just fine.
The dance seemed to drag on forever. Beatrice decided that her least favourite aspect of Mr. Ward was his voice. It was beyond brittle; it was like a sinister whisper on the wind. She couldn't explain why, but there was something very unsettling and haunting about it.
Finally, finally, the dance finished, by which point Beatrice was ready to stamp on Mr Ward's toes on purpose. But still she couldn't escape! Mr. Ward insisted on escorting her over to her parents, where he was then descended on by her mother, of which the upshot was that he was invited over for dinner in three days' time.
By the time all three family members were safely in the coach, Beatrice's irritation had calmed enough that she was able to force (painfully) a mask of neutrality onto her face.
"Well I never! What a perfect gentleman! How fortunate that we attended tonight! And to think that he danced thrice with our Beatrice. Thrice! He danced with no other young lady so many times!" her mother exclaimed, as if Beatrice herself had been unaware that she had danced at all.
Her father nodded sagely, before turning to Beatrice and stating solemnly;
"I am pleased with you, Beatrice. I doubt that Mr. Ward is in possession of any less than $4,000 a year. I must admit, I was worried about your wild temperament, but you are doing the family proud."
With the faces of both her parents peering at her, it took all of Beatrice's strength to keep her dread from showing. Perhaps she could've evaded Mr. Ward if her parents had been indifferent. But, when her mother wanted something, there was no stopping her and her father oversaw every familt affair with the ruthless efficiency of a successful merchant.
In the first fortunate event of the whole evening, her parents interpreted her silence as fatigue at her own efforts and let her be. The rest of the ride passed in silence.
It was not until she was at home, in the sanctuary of her own room, that the full weight of Beatrice's situation crashed over her. Although she was never one to cry, she felt it was excusable on this occasion.
Married at 17. Possibly a mother at 18. Trapped for the rest of her life.
Of course, people would insist otherwise, but to her, what was marriage but a gilded cage, at the very best? Beatrice knew that not many people were fortunate enough to be able to marry for love, but those in a loveless marriage usually enjoyed financial security.
Her tears dripped onto the wooden windowsill.
Beatrice didn't want security. She didn't want the safety of routine and stability.
And so, for the first time, through her tears and through the window, Beatrice wished. She wished on every star she saw. She swept her gaze across the entire sky before finally settling on one thing.
She wished on the moon for her freedom.