26 . 11 . 09

Happy Thanksgiving.

Disclaimer: Karl is mine. But still out for rent. Please, take him away.


Rose turned around, her small feet making no noise on the worn, wooden floor. She'd heard the door open – the front door. That meant Father was home. She clutched the bundle of laundry to her chest in fear; Father was never home this early unless something very bad had happened. She began to walk backwards, keeping two wide eyes on the end of the hallway in case he came around the corner.

Tiny splinters caught at her stockings, tearing miniscule holes in the already ragged pieces of clothing. She paid the splinters no mind. Her heart beat fast, threatening to pound up and out of her mouth with fear. When Father came home early, that meant he'd had too much Bad Stuff, and that meant she was in trouble for something. Underestimating the length of her gangly legs, she bumped into the wall at the far end, making a soft noise.

She froze, petrified in fear, but she heard only lowered voices from the entranceway. There was another man besides her father, which gave her pause. Father didn't often bring other men to the house, unless he had something to sell. It wasn't crop-selling time. She pushed that thought from her mind and returned to the more immediate danger that she was in. She dropped the laundry there in the hallway and started to turn toward the back door – only a few feet away – but found her path blocked. Philip and Tyler had just come in the door, and their eyes were locked on her.

"Where are you going, girl?" Philip asked, walking closer to her and folding his arms.

She shrank back against the wall and swallowed, her eyes darting toward the front of the house, where she heard the men carrying on with their conversation. It didn't sound like they'd heard Philip, either.

"Just—outside," she whispered, lowering her eyes.

"What about the laundry?" Tyler said roughly, kicking the dirty clothing around her feet distastefully. "Don't you have chores to do before you go running around with your mongrel friend?"

"Not that you'll be seeing him any time soon, after that stunt you pulled with the gate yesterday," Philip added nastily, spitting at her feet.

Her eyes teared up for the hundredth time that day as she remembered Orion, his leg hideously broken from trying to jump the fence after she left the stable gate open. She shuddered as she remembered his haunting horse-screams before Father took an axe out to the barn, and everything was quiet.

"Stop your useless crying and do your chores," Tyler said harshly, shoving her shoulders toward the ground. "Go on, girl. Pick it up."

Rose heard the voices by the door stop, and panic jolted her heart free from where it had frozen in fear and anguished remembrance. She scrambled to pick up the laundry and held it to her chest very tightly, sniffling still. Feeling like she was walking to her doom, she walked up the hallway, very slowly. Then she was on her knees, barely catching herself with her hands before her face hit the ground.

"Walk properly," Philip sneered, shoving her again for good measure, though she was already on the ground.

Her knees stung, but that was a normal pain. She was awfully clumsy and forgetful, (How else could she have left the gate open?) and an incurable butterfinger, after all. She was usually on the ground for some reason or another. She gathered the laundry together again and stood up, then gasped and stumbled backwards. Father was right in front of her, looking down at her past his sharp, weathered nose. Another man stood behind him, one who made the hair on the back of Rose's neck rise with animalistic instinct.

Her father was tall, with brown hair thatched to his head like the roof of their house. The man was even taller than he, the crown of his hat very nearly brushing the dirty ceiling of their house. His eyes were shadowed by the hat, but Rose could feel them appraising her – sizing her up. His shirt was clean and white, though evidently used, and the sleeves were rolled up to reveal toned, tanned arms.

Muscles rippled under the skin, and even before Father said anything, Rose suddenly knew exactly what was happening. She'd heard slavery threatened enough to know a slave trader when she saw one. And just when she thought she would panic the most, she found herself with a very clear mind. The back door was behind her, past Tyler and Philip, who were watching the exchange with interest. The front door was past the two men.

"You're going with him, girl," Father said roughly.

"Why?" she asked quickly.

Father's face wrinkled in anger – she knew better than to ask questions. He drew a hand back and slapped her face with a resounding crack. She fell to the side, laundry scattering everywhere. But Rose had planned it that way. She hit the floor on her hands and knees like a cat, far below the reach of the men. She crawled between the two men and then staggered to her feet, regaining her balance just in time to miss the swiping hand of the slave trader. She sprinted for the door, her survival instinct driving her steps where years of malnutrition and overwork could not.

Clad only in stockings, she burst through the front door and wheeled around the side of the house. She saw a glimpse of her mother through the kitchen window, but couldn't spare a proper glance. Already her chest was heaving, and she could hear the curses and shouts of the four men chasing behind her. Her feet caught on little divots in the ground; grass twisted around them like people trying to hold her back.

She ran the only direction she knew to run – toward the creek, toward Aerin's house.

But I can't lead him to Aerin, she thought desperately. I have to run around the back. If I can get to cave before—

The tall grass struck her in the face, but she pushed through and kept running, along the path she knew. The voices behind her were growing closer. The air in her lungs was stabbing her throat and chest. She was almost there—almost there—almostthere—

"Rose!"

Aerin's voice, the one voice she wanted to hear the most and least in the entire world. She ran into him, but he barely moved. He was stocky for his age, and she was small. His face was lit with concern and he steadied her with hands that belied the awkwardness of their relationship. They were almost thirteen, and everything was strange and new around them and between them.

"Don't—tell—them," she gasped, looking desperately into his eyes and heaving for breath so hard she almost retched at his feet. "Please—Aerin—please—don't."

And then she ran on; the men were getting closer. She saw Aerin turn his head toward the sound of the approaching people, and then she was over the hill. She lost her footing and tumbled down the other side toward the creek. Battered and bruised, she clawed her way into the tiny cave by the creekbed, invisible unless you knew where it was. Aerin would know she was there, but no one else could know.

She tried to slow her breathing as she inhaled dirt and dust and cobwebs. She was safe now. Aerin would never tell. Anyone else in the world would tell, but not Aerin. No one else in the world cared about her, but Aerin did. She'd never told him about Father and her brothers, but she saw him looking at her bruises when he thought she wasn't looking. He knew. She knew he wanted to help, but he was just like her – trapped in silence.

So she knew he would never tell her Father where she was. Not in a million years. Not in a million trillion. She allowed herself a very small smile, which made her face ache where Father had slapped her. She was safe. Safe. Safe.

And then the slave trader was looking at her through the opening of the cave, and his hand was reaching for her with gnarled, clawlike fingers. Stunned, Rose could hardly think to react. He grabbed her arm and wrenched her from her hiding place and onto the bank; Rose felt something snap in her shoulder and cried out. The man drove the heel of his palm into her cheekbone in an agonizing blow unlike anything she'd ever felt before. She fell at his feet, whimpering, holding her face and her shoulder at the same time and choking on frightened, pained tears.

"Never, ever run away from me," the man snarled, kneeling down to her level. "Do you understand?"

She squeaked and curled into a tighter ball. The man kicked her, the boot hitting just above her eye. Everything went black and white and black again as she bit back a scream.

"Answer me!"

"Yes, sir," she shivered, barely able to form the words.

She blinked a hundred times, each time bringing back pieces of the grass and ground in front of her. And then the boot caught her mouth.

"You will call me Master, and Master only," the man commanded. "Do you understand?"

"Y-y-yes, Ma-aster," she said, carefully, cautiously, then spat out a mouthful of blood.

She tried to tell herself it was just like when Tyler punched her in the mouth, but that was a lie. Her teeth were not loose when he had punched her – not the ones all the way in the back. Master yanked her to her feet, and her shoulder screamed in pain. But she bit her bloody lip and didn't make a sound, though tears poured from her swollen eyes. The Master led her away, and that day she learned what she was really worth.

Nothing. Even Aerin had turned away from her. She was nothing. Nothing at all.

She felt nothing at all.

There was nothing left in her to feel.


Derwin was in a field of tall grass. It brushed against his face with familiarity in the breeze. The sun was high in the sky, and the air was cool. He heard a voice call his name. He turned toward the sound, but there was nothing there.

Help me

The wind whispered to him. The voice called again. He turned around, and then he woke up. He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. That voice.

"Derwin," Lilliana called. "Hurry up. We're getting close."

"How much further?" he heard himself say.

His mind wasn't on the conversation; this was part of the book's dialogue. Instead, he watched Lilliana's eyes. They were tired and scared, but strong. He'd gotten good at reading eyes since he'd fallen into the book, because others would join him from time to time. This princess never ceased to surprise him, whether with her stubbornness and tenacity, or now her loyalty and attentive ear. She truly was a child. There was no emotional politics to be had with her; before she trusted him, she hardly gave him the time of day. Now that she'd ruled him worthy to listen to, she asked him a thousand questions about everything.

"How do I die?" Lilliana asked.

Derwin pulled his focus back to the conversation – the obligatory morning dialogue was over, and Lilliana was asking him a genuine question as they walked along the never-ending path, between towns for the moment.

"The castle collapses after you put the locket on the statue of Dray," he said. "You, Marsha, and Deborah are crushed, and then Francis and I defeat Roger. Roger's magic dissipates and heals the land, and everyone is happy."

"That's a rotten ending," Lilliana said, scrunching her face up in disapproval. "What kind of kid's book is this?"

"A magic one," Derwin pointed out. "I'd assume it was probably created for the express purpose of sucking in young girls and killing them."

"Well, this girl is not going to get crushed by a castle made of words," Lilliana said, folding her arms stubbornly. "I'll figure something out. Everything's changing, right? Maybe we can mess with the plot, so at least my character doesn't die."

"Maybe," he said, uncertainly. He wasn't sure if they could facilitate that big of a change; it would be awfully risky. But, what else could we do? "I guess that's the only thing we can do," he admitted, "unless someone outside the book can figure out how to break the spell." As an afterthought, his mind still replaying the dream in the back of his head, he added: "Let's see if we can't save Marsha, too."

"I thought she was just a character," Lilliana said, tilting her head.

Derwin recalled the voice and rubbed his chin. That voice.

"I don't know," he said after a hesitation. "I thought she was, but I feel like... she's trying to talk to me. In my dreams. Maybe she's not in the book the same way you are, but another person trapped in the spell somehow."

"In your dreams?" Lilliana said, but her tone wasn't condescending; it was thoughtful. "I thought that was part of the story. I've been dreaming of Marsha ever since I got here. She just keeps asking for help." She paused, then laughed, but oddly. "It's funny, though – Marsha looks and sounds like Aunt Rose. I guess since I've never seen her..."

"Where did you say you were from again?" Derwin interrupted abruptly.

"Berensia," Lilliana said, then looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Not that I see how that has anything to do with dreaming of Marsha."

"She just asks for help?" he said, shaking his head and coming back to the topic.

"Yeah," Lilliana said with a nod. "But she's not talking to me, I don't think. Just sort of... saying it. Or, thinking it, I guess. She's lying down, asleep, but I hear her voice."

"I don't think that's ever happened before," Derwin said. "Julia dreaming of Marsha, I mean. Maybe your Aunt got mixed up in this somehow."

"Oh, poor Auntie," Lilliana said, her eyebrows knitting together in concern. "If there's any chance Auntie's involved, we have to save Marsha, too."

"This is going to be difficult. Maybe impossible," Derwin said, rubbing his hands on his pant legs as he thought.

"They'll help us, too – my family," Lilliana said confidently. "They'll never give up."

"I hope so," Derwin said. "With everything going crazy, I guess now's as good a time as it's ever going to be for escaping."

"That's about as optimistic as I've ever heard you," Lilliana observed, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

"I'm optimistic," Derwin said defensively, then considered. Am I?

"No, you're not," Lilliana corrected. "You're a stick in the mud. You were always trying to get me out—"

"For good reason!" Derwin protested.

Lilliana continued speaking over him.

"—but never seemed to think we would ever actually get out. You never notice when something good happens, only when bad things happen."

"Hey," Derwin said, interrupting. "That's unfair. I've seen the same things happen more times than I care to remember. I noticed the good things the first two hundred times. Now the only things I notice are the things that are changing, which are worrisome and usually bad."

"Alright," Lilliana said, conceding that point. "But also, you don't smile."

Derwin chuckled.

"Really?"

"Really," Lilliana said, smiling. "There, that's nice. Keep that."

"I guess I've just been so worried about you, I never thought to smile," he considered.

"That is a tragedy," Lilliana said, throwing her arms wide. "That you have to think to smile! It must be a grown-up thing."

"It is," Derwin said, grinning at her wide-eyed exasperation at adult-kind. "There are so many things to think about when you're an adult, not the least of which is keeping stubborn little girls like you out of trouble."

"Oh, pish-tush," Lilliana said, flapping her hand dismissively. "I can look out for myself, mostly. And anyway, adults need to relax and smile sometimes, too. The only adult I know who smiles a lot is Iriana, and she gets in trouble with other adults for being happy. And Uncle Fai – but sometimes he's serious, too."

"You need a little more help looking out for yourself than you want to admit," Derwin said with amusement. "There's a reason why adults are in charge, you know. Sometimes we've been through stuff before that you haven't been through, and we can keep you from making dumb mistakes."

"Adults are bossy," Lilliana retorted. "There are too many rules."

"Rules are there to keep everyone safe," Derwin explained. "If there were no rules, everyone would get hurt."

"I didn't say I wanted no rules," Lilliana said with emphasis, "just less rules."

"Which rules would you get rid of?" Derwin asked, humoring her.

"Being polite to everyone," she said immediately. "It's such a hassle, and it doesn't matter."

"Manners show that you can handle yourself responsibly and they show respect for others – two things very important with a royal princess, if she is ever going to have any say in political matters."

"Hum," she said, looking as if she didn't want to admit that he made sense. "I'd also get rid of awful poofy dresses."

"Dressing nicely also shows that your country cares about appearance and wants to look its best."

Lilliana gave him a look.

"I'd make there be less lessons."

"How are you going to rule if you don't know geography – where all the other countries are? Or history, so you don't make the same mistakes as your ancestors did? Or math, so you can be sure you're not being cheated?"

"How do you know so much about being a royal princess, anyhow?" Lilliana said, aggravated at his logical rebuttal of her dreaming.

"I did my time," he said casually, then continued. "Rules are important. Your parents and other adults probably know what's better for you than you do. You have to trust them and obey them."

"You were a prince? Are a prince?" Lilliana said, obviously missing the latter half of his statement in her shock at the former half.

"No," he said. "Were you listening? I actually said something important, you know."

"Then what do you mean, you 'did your time'?" she badgered.

"Nevermind," he said. "Hey, keep your hand in your pocket as we go through this town."

Lilliana did so without question, surprising Derwin; he'd been ready to explain that a beggar would try to pickpocket the Natalie Locket, and it would be easier to avoid if she had her hand on it. Lilliana, however, didn't ask. For all her stubbornness, Derwin decided, she really was a lovely girl.


Though Faidn usually escorted Iriana to her chamber each night when the hour grew late, it seemed the war councils were keeping him from the sickroom. Gregory had escorted her a few times, but he'd been called back to his estate on urgent business earlier that morning. Iriana considered, with a bit of a guilty feeling, that she hardly noticed his absence. Swana and Karl had negated his usefulness, and he'd spent a lot of his time dropping things and being nervous instead of doing something particularly useful.

Iriana yawned, dispelling those thoughts, and slipped out the door alone, trying to shake the book from her mind. The hallway was dark, lit only sparsely with torches. She guessed it was close to midnight, and she yawned again. The darkness in the hallway flickered with the torches. Suddenly, she was uneasy. Something about the shadows made her skin crawl.

She turned around to go back into the room when the door opened in front of her. She stifled a yelp as Karl appeared in the doorway, smirking.

"Afraid of the dark?" he said easily.

"Hm," she said noncommittally, not wishing to admit her nervousness to the man. "Are you going to escort me?"

"In the absence of your fiancé, somebody must," he said sacrificially, taking her arm and starting down the hall. "And anyway, I need a break from that book. When I close my eyes, all I see are words, words, words."

"Where's the book now?" Iriana asked, looking down at his empty hand.

"Blessedly not in my hands," Karl said. "I'm about ready to hop in there myself and take fat old Hughes on in a duel, if that means I never have to look at that book again."

"Wouldn't that be easier than trying to untangle the spell, or whatever it is you're doing now?" Iriana said, looking at him.

"It would," Karl allowed, "except that entering into an object is far easier than getting back out again. As evidenced by Lilliana, Rose, and Derwin's escapades."

"Oh," she said, because there wasn't anything else to say.

Karl wasn't about to let the mood be dampened by the threat of doom, however.

"So, are you afraid of the dark?" Karl asked.

Iriana fastened him with a suspicious look.

"I don't think I want to answer that question. Your tone of voice is suspect."

"Suspect of what?" he said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He didn't think he'd used a particularly suspect tone, personally.

"I don't know," she said, examining him for a moment longer, then looking away. "Just something."

"Well, that sounds like a jolly reason to be curt with a friend."

"Oh, stop it," Iriana said, laughing. "Don't act like you're offended."

"I might be," Karl said, but he was grinning.

"You've had worse than that, I'm sure of it," Iriana said.

"Now, what makes you think that?" Karl said.

"This hearkens back to our last conversation we had when you escorted me to my chamber," Iriana said. "You're a rogue. Women and men alike have doubtless called you many unpleasant things and treated you in much ruder ways than I did just now."

"You paint me as a person who doesn't fraternize with high society," Karl said, making a face. "In fact, that makes me sound extremely unsavory."

"And yet, you aren't," Iriana said pensively. She was silent a moment, then looked at him and chuckled. "I suppose it's because of your clever mouth. You could talk your way out of anything, I'm almost certain."

"Oh, I am certain. I've done it," Karl said, nodding appreciatively. "But I mean at least one-third of what I say, and that should count for something."

Iriana laughed.

"Oh, Karl."

"Do you know what?" Karl said suddenly.

"What?" Iriana replied.

"I think Faidn actually does like you," he said contemplatively. "Not that I blame him, of course, but it is surprising."

"Surprising how?" Iriana asked, glossing over the first part of his statement, though it made her heart flutter a little.

"He never struck me as the marrying type," Karl said jauntily. "Or the cavorting type. Or any sort of woman-relating type at all, really. He's always been much too concerned with saving people's lives to bother with women's hearts. But you—" Karl raised his eyebrows at her appreciatively. "you seem to have caught his attention somehow. As I said, I don't blame him in the least. You are very beautiful."

"Well, I hope you're right," Iriana said. "We are getting married, after all. At some point. Hmm, my mother is probably planning the wedding already."

Karl caught the hesitancy in her voice like an expert and pounced.

"You're still concerned."

"Of course," she said, glancing at him, then away again. "I don't know him very well. I hardly know why I said yes – except, I suppose, that I know him about as well as I'd know anyone else I'd be married to, and it would be scandal to break off the engagement now."

"Scandal," Karl said, savoring the word.

Iriana laughed suddenly, but shortly.

"Something tells me you have been part of many scandals in your day," she said to him.

He adopted the overly modest look of one flattered.

"One or two, maybe," he said demurely. "Certainly I'm a man given to hasty acts of passion. That cannot be denied. When the mood strikes me, and the light is right, and the stars are aligned so perfectly as to entreat such an occasion – yes, I can sometimes incite a scandal. But only on a very rare occasion."

"Oh, only very rarely," Iriana said, nodding seriously.

"Indeed," Karl said.

They arrived at her door.

"A kiss goodnight?" he entreated, his tone jesting.

"I have quite enough scandal attached to my name without your help," Iriana said with a laugh, slipping her arm from his.

He caught her hand and kissed it, never taking his eyes from hers.

"Good night, fair Iriana."

"Good night, my roguish friend," Iriana said, shaking her head and closing the door against his smirking laugh, the book forgotten – for the moment.


So?

Pimpernel Princess: I thought so, too. They deserve a moment of rest. --smile-- Faidn wouldn't be Faidn if he wasn't impetuous, would he? --grin-- Hmm, wait and see... Heh heh, what else are friends for than embarrassing you and making you come to terms with your own feelings?

Lillian Marie Evans Potter: A Mountain Bar is a west coast thing, I suppose. It's chocolate around some sort of awesome filling. O.o Ah, I would, but I already have very little time to even write author's notes at all. Sorry. :-( Hmm, good thoughts. --smile-- Thanks!

Faylinn: 1) Excellent. --laugh-- 2) Ha! Nice little speculation, there, with the projected conversation. 3) What would a story be without stress and tension? Just keep reading. It will be resolved at the end, promise.

Captain Fantastic: Ah, okay. Heh, so much awesome! --laugh-- Thanks! I'm glad you liked the metaphor. Yeah, no: Roger is not intimidating. Hughes is a fail-author. I've been tongue-in-cheek making fun of him the whole time. Heh. Predictable, overused plot, characters with wacko names (Deborah, Francis, Julia, and Derwin. I mean, seriously?) But, ah, that's just for my own personal amusement. Aw, thanks. You're more awesome. --smile--

Reviewers get something other than turkey, because I'm sure you'll have had enough of that here very soon!