Escape Artist
Frost. It was always the first sign of what was to come. She stood by the window, looking out onto the frozen landscape. At first, she believed that she was looking at the first snow of the season, but it was nothing more than a visit from the frost fairies. This was a good sign.
She was beginning to think that she might not be able to slip out today. To leave in snow or with the frost still on the ground would mean that she would for sure be seen. They would see her petite tracks on the grounds. She leaned in. Her fingers curled on the icy window, and her nose smashed against the glass. Her breath sent out puffs of white fog across the smooth surface as her eyes darted about, trying to figure out her escape route. She might just have to wait until later in the morning, but then there would be more people up and about. It was a catch-22.
She cursed quietly against the window. Her nostrils flared.
Hunting was a possibility. She'd been needing to take out her hardy hunter for a good ride, but then, she supposed, they'd know exactly what to look for. No, she'd have to do this on her own. It was as her father always chided to her, there are no excuses. She wanted out, and there was never an excuse for her escape habits. What was the use of making one?
She gathered up the rich fabric of her skirts before darting down the hallway. If she's quiet, maybe no one will hear. No one will notice. Her feet slid across the cold stone, her silk slippers holding no traction. Yes, she'll just go for it, she decided. What was there to lose?
The doors to her chambers were practically thrown open, and she vaulted herself inside. She felt the giddiness seeping in as she tossed her trunk open. After digging through her clothing, she had her most simple outfit pulled out. This should do. This should do well. All she has to do is cover it with a good cloak, and she'll fit right in. Wiggling out of her old dress, her shoes get tossed aside. She did the best she could with putting on the new dress by herself. The sleeves were haphazardly tied, but it was the best she could hope for. Besides, the cloak will cover her. With her legs clad in woolen stockings, she grabbed a pair of worn boots to wriggle onto her feet.
Like a ghost, she whirled out of her rooms and into the main hall. It was good that she knew the castle like the back of her hand; she could easily take the servants' routes and steal one of their simple cloaks. Her lithe figure slipped into the servants' staircase and down she went. One step. Two step. Three step. When she reached the end, a hesitant hand braced itself against the doorway as she peeked out. There wasn't a soul in sight. Grinning to herself now – she was so close! – she spun through the doorway.
Her feet pounded the stone underneath as she rushed through the corridor. The mudroom! If she could move a little faster…
The bucket clopped against the stone, the water sloshing everywhere.
Bolting back from the collision, she stumbled on her feet. She landed roughly on her behind as the blond boy cursed his luck. In a flash, he had the bucket swiped up and his hand out to her. Her apologies to him were frantically mumbled as she took his hand. His smile was crooked and his cobalt eyes glinted with good humor as he looked down on her.
The heat flushed her face.
She'd seen him before. Her last few attempts to escape seemed to have all been intercepted in one way or another by the young lad, although never so directly, and usually their encounters went well in that he never attempted to put a damper on her. He laughed when he saw her slip in a puddle in the rain and slide right into the mud. She saw the way he smirked whenever she tried to sneak a snack from the kitchens. The boy had hawk eyes, that was for sure. But he never said a word. Instead, he pointed her in another direction, just before a patrol group went by in the gardens. He dropped a piece of bread on the floor and then tossed it towards her when the baker yelled at him for his clumsiness.
She began to babble.
His laughter rang through the corridor, and his hand pulled away to scratch the back of his neck.
She clapped her hands together to beg him, but he only shook his head.
His hand shot out, taking her wrist in his grip. The bucket swung this way and that on his arm as he stuck his other hand into the pocket of his tunic briefly. Her fingers rolled back onto a slim object, and when she opened them again, there rested a horseshoe shaped whistle.
The boy turned away and was halfway back down the corridor he came from to fetch more water when she called out to him. Her voice cracked as she tried to address her concerns. She fumbled over her words until her voice completely fizzled out, the whistle clutched in both hands.
But he only smiled and said, "I'm sorry. I don't recall ever meeting the Princess Zelda, but I hear that maybe she needs to watch where she's running."