Chapter Seventeen: Exploring The West Wing
Christine was beginning to think that she had made a very big mistake.
While her wing of the castle wasn't exactly bright and colorful, it was a breath of fresh air in comparison with the West Wing.
As she walked down the long corridor, her eyes widened.
The place felt lonely.
And it looked downright depressing.
The walls were bare, though it was clear from the empty picture hooks that still hung that that hadn't always been the case.
The rug beneath her feet was faded and worn.
Even the air was heavier, somehow.
Christine was on the verge of turning around when she saw light at the end of the hall.
A door had been left slightly ajar and through it, Christine could just make out what looked to be a huge suite.
Her curiosity stronger than her fear, Christine walked forward and slowly pushed open the door.
Instantly, she wished she hadn't.
If the hallway had been unnerving, this room was ten times more so.
Everywhere she looked, she could see evidence of its occupant's temper.
Curtains hung in tatters from their rods.
Vases that must once have been beautiful lay shattered on the floor.
And every mirror in the room had been smashed.
Christine turned and gasped as she found herself staring at a pair of breathtaking emerald-green irises.
For one long, tense moment, she thought someone was staring right back at her...until she realized that the eyes belonged to a boy captured in what was clearly a royal portrait.
Her heart thudding wildly, Christine leaned forward.
The boy's face had been slashed beyond recognition, that part of the canvas in shreds.
But the eyes had been left untouched.
Christine leaned closer.
They looked so familiar, like something from a dream...or a dream of a dream...
Madame Giry's words came back to her.
'A prince...' she had said.
This must have been the prince she was referring to.
Christine glanced again at the portrait, looking for clues to the past.
There were two other people in the portrait, a handsome king and a beautiful queen.
And although the woman's image, which included kind eyes full of laughter and love, was still pristine, the king's cold, distant stare had been slashed as well.
Christine wondered what the boy in the portrait must have been like, what anyone would have been like, growing up with parents such as those, inside these castle walls.
As Christine dragged her eyes away from the portrait and stamped down the odd feeling of melancholy that was once again forming in the pit of her stomach, her attention was drawn to the far end of the room.
Huge doors had been left open, revealing a large stone balcony on the other side.
But it was what was in front of the doors that caught her interest.
Amid the chaos and destruction of the room, the table would have stood out just based on the fact that it was still upright.
But it especially caught her eye because of the large glass jar that sat on its surface.
The jar was made of delicate glass, blown so thin that it seemed as though it could break with the slightest of touches.
Intricate patterns had been etched into the jar's side, looking like frost on a windowpane.
And inside, floating as if by magic, was a beautiful red rose.
It glowed, the color rivaling that of the most beautiful sunset that Christine had ever seen.
As if in a trance, Christine made her way to the table.
Slowly, she reached her hand toward the jar.
Christine's fingers tingled, unable to resist the sudden rush of desire to lift the bell jar and touch the rose's silky petals.
Her fingers inched closer...closer still...almost there...
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