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Mirianne sighed. "Please, Alli, just be quiet!" she breathed, her basket heavy on her arm. "It's not a plague. Green things are actually good for you!"
Her older sister sniffed, tossing her beautiful blonde hair over her silken shoulder. "Perhaps for you, but I wish to marry, not slave away in the woods!" Her voice ended in a wail of anguish, brushing a harmless treefly from her immaculate sleeve. "I don't wish to be here!" She fingered the jeweled necklace at her neck, frowning. Even in unhappiness, Alliaria was beautiful, Miri noticed impassively.
"I know the way home," Mirianne said blithely. "Unless you wish to discover the hidden paths. We shall be done in a moment or two, 'sister dearest,' and father has given you your share of the work." Alliaria sniffed with disdain, holding her light basket an arm's length away.
"Please. I have marriage prospects, and you do not. Let's leave it at that," Alliaria snapped. "Father allows you your silly ventures because he loves you, and wishes to make up for what you are not- a daughter of his first wife."
"He loved my mother," Mirianne said, voice low with anger.
Alliaria's beautiful mouth curved with distain, delicate brows arched. "How dedicated, when he allows her only daughter roam the dangerous forests. He loves you, but doesn't know how. How shocking, when she was just a simple commoner, a herder's daughter-"
Miri's mouth tightened to a hard line. "Go home, then." Alliaria blinked, surprised by the unsuspected respite. "I don't care, much. Or find your own way back, stick to the marked path until you come to the great Oak." When her elder sister hesitated, Mirianne turned away and through the trees.
"But Miri." For once, Alli's voice was repentant only for manipulative purposes, Miri knew well enough by now. "I'm sorry, I didn't truly mean it. What would father say, if I left you alone in the woods?"
"Leave, Alliaria. I'm weary of your tricks." Departing through the trees to the path, the elder girl disappeared. Miri wiped her eyes, unhappily weaving through the willows, her hands on the branches. Her common born hands.
"So I'm only half-royal. So I don't have golden hair and languishing blue eyes. So-" Tears pricked her own, green and betraying, as she stumbled through the mossy banks of the river. Walking on, light slippers softly stepping over the forest floor, her tears dissipated slowly in the twilight. Washing her hands in a small pool of water near the riverbank, she stared at her reflection. "I'm not blonde, or blue-eyed like the King, instead green-eyed and dark haired like my mother." That was a stigma that laid its clammy hand heavily on her shoulders at Court, despite her reasonably pretty features. She had decided years ago that she was nearly as beautiful as Alliaria, only lacking in height and perhaps confidence. But that was before the marriage offers for her elder sister came, and none at all for the little daughter of the commoner.
It was nearly dark before Mirianne remembered where she was, tramping around the darkened forest alone. Whirling around, skirts flying, she caught no sight of the path. "Oh, what I fool I was," she spoke aloud to the air. Pushing through the poking thornapple bushes, her braided hair caught on branches and her skin was scratched as she fought past the wild hedges. Blood welled at the deepest lesions, and her eyes watered from the stinging pain. As she tripped past the sharp thorns, her foot stumbled on a cobblestone and her head flew up.
She was standing in the middle of a courtyard, its foundations dust free but devoid of any human life. "What is this place," she whispered. Touching the solid grey stones with a sap-covered hand, her words echoed through the empty palace. Softly stepping over wildflowers sprouting between the stones, she idly picked a handful before wandering once more. "Anyone here?" she called out. Strangely, the deserted castle did not frighten her; instead, the silence rolled around her warmly like the arms of a friend.
The great wooden doors, inlaid with a dazzling mosaic of shimmering mother-of-pearl chips, creaked open under her small hand. Twitching her long, black braid out of the way, she stepped inside the large room. "Hello?" she called out, but was answered by absolute quiet.
"The lack of sound," Miri announced to the air, "Is beginning to weigh heavily on my ears. How is it that there is no dust, no creeping mice, no wolly bugs after all these years?" She sighed, for there was no response. The rooms were filled with rich furniture and fine trinkets, the closets brimming with clothing and jewels. "Alliaria would be pleased with this place," she said quietly, though she knew she would never bring her sister to this peaceful haven.
After a while, after full dark, she found a beautifully jeweled candlestick and lit it with her firestone. The sparks lit the fine wax candle quickly, and lit up the room with even light. "What craftsman worked this lovely thing?" she asked the air, peering at the design of the small sapphires and emeralds. Stepping through yet another doorway, she was rewarded with the first truly interesting sight.
In the center of the room, on a pedestal of pure white marble, lay a figure of a man. As she ventured closer, his features became clearer; the entire body was carved out of white marble, as if the person himself were sleeping.
It was a young man, with fine, curling hair that fell over his noble forehead in gentle waves. His eyes were closed, but they were large and perfectly set in a handsome face with a proud, strong nose. He lay in a comfortable position, on his back, but arms resting gently on his stomach. In his left hand lay a marble scroll, open but blank, and the other hand held a jeweled ring carved of marble.
"What..." Mirianne began, but silenced herself. "Why am I talking to thin air?" she said jokingly, and looked out the window. The pale, perfect crescent of the moon glowed back at her, surrounded by its star attendants. "And where am I?" she murmured, staring into still face of the carving. "I feel...so drab, so insignificant in this palace of yours." She laid the handful of bluebells and daisies on the marble, their vibrant colors shimmering against the polished white marble.
I must be going crazy, she thought to herself, but I feel as if this place were listening to me. "You know," Miri said conversationally, "I wonder if you were a scholarly person, or a gentleman of the court. I do believe you look as if you were of a royal court, the kind of male that Alliaria would covet as her heart's desire." Mirianne let out a little sigh, and sat at the edge of the pedestal.
"Then again, Alliaria could easily get whom she wished," she said bitterly, "while no one, not even her sister, would have anything to do with the strange offspring of a commoner, albeit a King's daughter." Catching herself, Mirianne wiped her eyes. "Self-pity is a terrible thing," she continued, angrily. "After all, I am lost; that is a bigger problem, isn't it?" Peering out of the window again, at the pitch-black sky, the princess felt another tear slip down her cheek.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be bothering your peaceful rest," she told the statue. "Am I going mad? Do I think you're listening to me?" She inspected the pale, unchanged face, with its perfect features. "Silly of me." Slipping to the floor, she wondered how she would ever find her home again, and rested her head on her scratched and bleeding forearms. "And shouldn't I be frightened of this empty place?" she murmured, before drifting off to sleep.
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She woke with the bright sunshine on her face, dark hair loose from its braid from where she lay on the floor. Sitting up with a start, she remembered with a sigh where she was. "It's morning," Miri announced to the air. "I wonder if I can find my way home-" she stopped, for she had glanced at the reclining statue and froze.
Inscribed on the young man's scroll were the words:
What is your name?
Staring with large eyes at the writing that had not been there before, Mirianne gasped and jumped away from the marble carving. "What..." she cried before snatching up her basket and candlestick hastily and running out of the room.
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