Whoa, people, what is this? An update? Update?!

Indeed, it is. But before everyone skips past this to read, I have some very important things to say, especially about this chapter and the future of this story/my writing.

I'm sure you hear this a lot, but over the past few months, I have been extremely busy. I've also had writer's block off and on, brought on by loads of stress. It would take forever to get into details and ultimately be pointless; I hope you'll understand that life happens and forgive my tardiness. Now, about the chapter…

Initially I had this fully written last year! Why then, you ask crossly, haven't you posted it until now? I'll tell you: I didn't think it was good enough. Even after an edit, a re-edit, and a re-re-edit, I still wasn't happy with it. Finally I had a friend look over it and we decided that the idea was a keeper, but the execution wasn't my very best. Thus began an extensive rewrite. It took me months to finish; only the skeleton remains.

You may very well notice that this chapter looks drastically different from my older ones. I believe my prose has really matured and my style is now something I can genuinely call "my own." This is also evident in my one-shot, Le Petit Mort (of which, I am quite proud). My bouts of writer's block, too, have helped strengthen me, by making me really ask myself, "Why do you write? What do you want out of it? What do you want your readers to take from it?" But there is no need to be alarmed! The idea for this story is still the same as it ever was (although, I have streamlined it a little for future chapters), but my purpose and goal for writing has changed. The only thing you should notice is a more refined story.

Now it would be despicable not to give credit where it is due, and I owe a great deal of credit to the fabulous Anon E. Mouse. And, seriously, you guys should too! This chapter would NOT be up if it weren't for her amazing support. Many times I threw my hands in the air and asked what the heck was I doing, but she continued to push me forward. Anyone and everyone who hasn't read any of her work needs to run—run!—to her stories; awesomeness awaits you, I promise.

Alrighty, have I kept you from reading long enough? xP See you on the other side!

"Is there more?" Sophia asked earnestly.

"No, miss," Mary answered.

"You are absolutely certain he said nothing else?" Sophia couldn't hide the welling disappointment from displaying itself in her voice.

"Yes, miss."

Nothing. He had sent her nothing. Not a note, not an explanation, simply cold, detached, secondhand words that said he would not be available to teach her that evening. Sophia wished she could feel the graininess of paper under her fingertips and trace over his thin script. She balled her hands and felt the weight of their emptiness; had it been so easy to cast her aside for other things? Would a note have been too much trouble?

She dismissed Mary as her breakfast tossed uneasily in her stomach. She had waited all week for those lessons! She had practiced her steps every day for him! She had been so excited! Now, she wanted to throw something or she wanted to burst into tears. Or do both at the same time. The feelings surging in her were so powerful that all she could do was stand there. She didn't understand herself anymore; one moment she was filled to the brim with happiness and the next she was upset with everyone, even herself. Her mind was in chaos and she needed something familiar, something that she understood. And she knew just the place to find that peace.

Inhaling deeply, she allowed the aroma of wet soil, damp foliage and sweet-perfumed flowers to overwhelm her. The conservatory—her conservatory—was a comfort. Nature didn't have to make sense; plants and flowers only knew how grow and grow and grow, and in that simple act, they produced something lavishly complex. As Sophia moved deeper into the humid room, she tried to make sense of her thoughts and emotions, which were so much like the sprawling, intertwined vines growing on the lattice against the wall.

It was ridiculous, she knew, to be angry with the Prince. Who was she but a silly, little girl? She was a nobody and he was nobility. Certainly he had better things to attend to and more refined people to spend time with. She chastised herself for even entertaining the idea that maybe, just maybe, she was important to him. No, she was more like a pet, on which he doted when he had time to waste. That was all. The private reading and writing lessons, the dance lessons, his gift of the conservatory, the spontaneous kiss in the library—had she read into it too much? Had she thought it was something it was not?

Did you hope it was something it was not, Sophia?

She scoffed aloud and distracted herself with a potted rosebush, oddly set apart from the others. It was healthy enough but small and didn't have any blooms that she could see; it was also tied with thin twine to the lattice, as if it was being trained to grow in a way it didn't wish to. She looked closer. From just under a leaf, a demure, pinkish, whirled blossom peered up at her like an unseeing eye.

"Oh, precious flower," she whispered, bending over to cup it in her hands, "it must not be your wish to grow up in here, away from the breeze and the wild. And it must be so wearisome to be all alone. I understand." With the gentlest care, she plucked it from the bush and then moved to sit on the window's edge.

Sometimes she felt so desperately alone. The castle was vast and even when she knew the Prince walked its floors or slept only walls away, she still felt isolated. Did he realize how agonizing the hours—the very minutes!—were between the times they spent together? Did he know that no matter how much Mary tried to distract her, she still pined for his company over that of any other? Did he ever stop and think about her, like she did him? Something ached inside of her, different but not unlike hunger pains. She looked down at her hands and found them pulling the petals off the rose fretfully.

He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He—

She jumped to her feet, letting the petals fall from her lap and the leftover flower slip from her fingers, to stare at her hands as if they had betrayed her. She didn't care what the Prince thought! She didn't care if he loved her! Or even if he didn't! What was the matter with her? Why was she thinking this way? It was anger she felt, not affection! She glanced around the conservatory and, for the first time, she hated it. Would he try, she wondered, to give her another when he learned how displeased she was with him? She gave a scornful laugh. She had been too forgiving, too eager to please, too captivated—but no longer. If he wanted nothing to do with her, so be it, she wanted nothing to do with him. Without a second thought, she stormed out the room.

Sophia fumed to herself and she paced the halls, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until she noticed the servants beginning to watch her anxiously. Not a minute after this initial observation, Mary found her and tried to persuade her to do something, anything, like sew or perhaps embroider, so that she might "keep the mind occupied." But she was sent away as quickly as she came; Sophia wanted no company. And so she continued to pace the floors as the anger she had felt began to deteriorate; filling its void was exhaustion and, once again, boredom. Soon she was rearranging and counting the flowers in any vases she saw, picking the stray threads off the tapestries, and checking the large, mahogany clock—hadn't the Prince said it came Nuremburg?—thousands of times, but its hands refused to move. Despair was setting in and she was almost to the point of returning to her room, burying her head under the pillows on her bed and crying, when she stopped in front of the doors to the library for the eleventh—or was it the twelfth?—time. Maybe she could find a book inside to occupy her for a while…

As she stepped inside the room, her pulse raced and she held her breath; could, sitting there at the desk where they did her lessons so many times, grinning boyishly as if it were merely a game she had been part of, the Prince be waiting for her?

She sighed. The unbearable silence was the only thing with her in that dark space. Disenchanted, she moved to the first bookcase and began, with faltering skill, to read the titles.

Four bookcases and nearly thirty minutes later, Sophia finally found something. Clutching the thick volume close to her, she went to sit in the chair in the corner. Tenderly, she placed the book in her lap. Its dark leather cover was faded around the edges from use and the spine crackled as she turned the cover. How many times had the Prince mentioned this book, this aged record of his ancestors? Could it be, out of his whole library, this one was his most cherished? She traced the inked letters with her fingers and imagined his hands once there. He was such a mystery still; perhaps in these pages she would find the key to unlock all his secrets. At once, she began to read.

The long passages filled with details of military stratagem soon melted away and Sophia lost herself in the midst of great battles. The book, heavy and powerful in her hand, was a sword; the inked words were like black blood on a white battlefield; every sound of a page turned rang like a war cry. The hours that had gone by so slowly spun back to a time before she even existed.

When Sophia came back to the present, the morning had slipped into the afternoon and the evening was creeping closer. Her head swam with words and images; the book told no story but it was unlike all the fairytales she had ever heard. She had been so wrong to think those histories were boring. So very wrong… She snapped the book shut and jumped to her feet. She would find the Prince. She must! To tell him how wrong she had been! To tell him how she saw things differently now! With newfound determination and the book firmly in hand, she rushed out of the room.

She knew she wasn't allowed in the north wing of the castle without permission, but she knew the Prince would have to understand. She had her reasons. The sound of a door closing from behind her made her heart skip a beat. She held her breath and listened for the sound of the Prince's boots on the stone. But it never came. Instead, she heard the brisk click of heels and the high jingle of bangles.

Nedezda.

What was she doing here, Sophia wondered as she forced herself to keep walking. Was she allowed to come and go to the north wing as she pleased while Sophia was not? Or had she been given permission? Was she the reason the Prince had canceled her lessons? Sophia's jaw set and an irritable fire ignited just below the surface of her skin at the thought that, maybe, he still had Nedezda fulfill her duties as his mistress, that, maybe, he preferred her company. She kept on walking.

"Sophia!" Nedezda called. "Sophia, dear!"

Unable to avoid her, Sophia stopped and slowly turned around.

"Why on earth are you here?" With hips swaying, Nedezda sauntered over; she carried herself like some sort of goddess.

Sophia wanted to ask her the same question but only an answer tumbled treacherously from her lips. "I was looking for the Prince."

"Are you ill? Is something the matter?" Nedezda's smile flipped and her brow furrowed.

"No, of course not."

"Oh." The look on Nedezda's face was true disappointment now. "Why, then, do you wish to see him?"

"I just—" Sophia stopped and then sighed. "Do you know where he might be?"

"You can tell me. What were you going to say?"

"I would appreciate it if you simply told me if you had seen him, please."

"No," Nedezda snapped. "I have not. He has other things to attend to. Other people. Do you think, dear, that he only wishes to spend time with you and you alone? I warned you," her voice lowered, softened, "that he would grow weary of you."

"This—this was a mistake." Sophia turned on her heels and started to hurry away. She wished Nedezda's words didn't bother her as much as they did. "I will find him myself," she said over her shoulder.

She was almost to the end of the corridor when she heard Nedezda call: "Wait!" Somewhat reluctantly, she turned around.

"I know," Nedezda began, choked and then finished quickly, "I know a place where you might find him."

Sophia's heart lifted. "Please, show me," she implored.

"Sshhh." Nedezda glanced uneasily over her shoulder before stepping around Sophia and stalking down the hall. "Follow me."

Nedezda tread quickly but quietly, Sophia noted offhandedly. She noted also that she was being led through halls she had never been in before and down steps she had never known existed. Even if she had the mind to, she wouldn't have been able to keep all of it straight in her head; her thoughts focused only on what she was to say to the Prince when she, at last, saw him. She gripped his book tightly—nervously—with both hands.

"Here," Nedezda said, stopping. Sophia looked around the corridor, wondering if she missed something.

She hadn't.

There was nothing around, save for the two of them and a single, enormous painting. Immediately, it caught her attention.

Sophia was awed at how simultaneously stunning and horrifying the artwork was. A lofty angle showed a battlefield with hundreds—maybe even hundreds upon hundreds—of warriors in heavy, dulled armor. They brandished swords that shone red like fine rubies in the light of the sun, which was dropping into the horizon. She stepped closer to get a better look at the men's grim, worn faces; their eyes reflected indescribable horrors. Their comrades lay at their feet, in heaps, in pools of their own and their enemies' blood, which dripped down the canvas in torrents. This blood, so vivid, so immeasurable, so realistic, nearly caused Sophia to jump back, as it seemed that at any moment the crimson fluid might spill over edge of the frame.

She was shaken. The painting, she could swear, she had seen before. It was so familiar. Too familiar. Yet, she was absolutely certain she had not seen this exact work. Was it possible that the Prince had another painting like this one somewhere else? No, she decided immediately, she would have remembered it. She fiddled with the Prince's well-worn book in her hands, thinking. Where? Where?

Of course! No wonder the painting had caught her attention: she had just read about the very same battle it depicted. In that very moment of connection, Sophia watched as Nedezda suddenly stepped forward, grab the side of the frame with both hands, and move to wrench it from the wall.

An impulsive cry left Sophia's lips. But, to her surprise, the artwork didn't crash to the floor. Instead, it swung to the side with a low, grating sound.

"Shut up, girl!" Nedezda hissed.

The painting, it turned out, wasn't merely decorative but a camouflage for a door. Past the threshold was darkness.

Nedezda stepped inside and then, after a moment, stepped back out, producing a fat, burning candle. Without so much as a word, she snatched the Prince's book out of Sophia's hand and thrust the candle into its place. She then grabbed her by the other arm and pulled her into the dark. Sophia had not a moment to react before a stale dampness overwhelmed her senses. Her instinct was to panic and she would have, if Nedezda's dark eyes, brilliant in the candlelight, hadn't warned her to remain silent.

"Down there." Nedezda pointed to a deeper shade of black, past the beams of the light.

For the first time, staring into the oblivion, Sophia doubted her. For the first time, she was skeptical of her intentions. "Why are you helping me?" she questioned aloud.

"Because we have the same fate," Nedezda answered solemnly.

Sophia was taken aback. "And what is that?" The moment she asked, she almost wished she hadn't; she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Staring into a void, Nedezda answered with hesitance, "He will grow weary of us both, in time. We will grow cold to him and he will take another."

"No," Sophia said, knowing she spoke of the Prince. "No. He would never do such a thing; I do not believe it. He—he cares about me."

"And he once loved me!" Nedezda said, and then her voice grew soft, distant, "He said it so often, too. He would whisper it in my hair, long after our sheets had cooled and late into the night. I would lie there, barely awake, and listen to him; 'I love you, my gem, my treasure, do you know how much? There will never be another….' And yet, here you are. And there will be another after you. And another, and another, as long as he wishes it. Can you stand aside and watch him claim to love someone other than yourself?" she asked abruptly. "Well? Can you?"

The words tangled up on the tip of Sophia's tongue and she stammered.

"No," Nedezda answered for her. "He will break your foolish, little heart. You silly child, how can you believe he, a prince, could truly care about you, an ordinary peasant? It's outrageous! Absurd! Has he resorted to such fanciful lies of tenderness to get you into his bed? And do you believe him?" She laughed with scorn. "A foolish, little heart for a foolish, little girl… You asked me to bring you to where you might find the Prince, and I have. Only a few passages away you will find the place where he spends much of his time. Where he keeps his secrets." She moved towards the door.

"Are you leaving?" Sophia croaked. Her stomach twisted nervously.

"I have other things to do than hold your hand," she said, and gave Sophia one last gleaming smile before stepping out of that secret hallway and pulling the door closed behind her.

As soon as Nedezda was gone, the silent darkness began to suffocate Sophia. She clutched the candle tighter, closed her eyes, and refocused.

Hadn't the painting been the same battle that was described in the Prince's book? Certainly it was a sign that she was going in the right direction, that she was getting closer to the Prince. That is what she wanted, of course. To find him.

She opened her eyes and had the determination to move forward.

The candlelight cast beams that barely went past the reach of her fingers; the walls and floors were gray stone and dirty; the air reeked of damp, stale filth. But she trudged deeper into the gloom. Behind her was the comfortable safety of the known, but before her was the possibility of discovery.

Secrets, Nedezda had said, this was where he kept his secrets. And, once again, Sophia's envisioned arriving in a snug, dim, candle-lit room, where she would find the Prince waiting for her. It seemed like him, to keep a little hideaway deep within the depths of the castle, far away from his duties and formalities. This was where he could be completely and totally himself. No more reservations, no more reason for hesitation. He would praise her for how clever she had been to find him and take her in his arms and kiss her on the mouth. With every step, her heart pounded faster in anticipation.

Eventually the corridor she traveled grew narrower and lower. The flat floor ceased and in its place were steep stairs that made a tight, winding spiral—a blind drop into some unfathomable abyss. One missed foothold, one moldy step, and Sophia knew she could be dead. So she stepped cautiously and pressed her hand to the inner wall for support.

Then down… down… down.

You will find the Prince, she reminded herself, as the steps began to feel never-ending. She had told herself that there had to be an end, that they couldn't just go on forever, but nothing helped like focusing her thoughts on the goal. You will find the Prince.

You will find him. But suppose someone else has before you, Fear prodded. Suppose Nedezda has found another way in first. Suppose he keeps a whole harem down here. Images of other women, gorgeous women, with their mouths and hands and bodies all over the Prince filled her mind. And she choked. The rank stench seemed to be growing stronger, making what tiny amount of air there was nearly impossible to breathe; slight perspiration sprung up across her brow. She, however, was resolved to continue on, to find out what, exactly, these secrets were.

Finally, she came upon a door. Small, wooden, braced by metal. There was a large, wooden bolt—the kind made to keep things in and not others out—pushed to the side. Unlocked. Not a hint of light showed from under the door or between the door and its stone frame.

Here it was. At last. Her greatest desire, beyond all things. The moment when she would finally get a glimpse of his world. She needed to know what he kept hidden away in such shadows. She needed to know everything about him there was to know. She needed to be closer to him than anyone else. She needed to know his true nature. She had to find a way into his heart. And, in that small instant of hesitation, with her fingers frozen in place just about to grasp the handle, she knew that she loved him.

She loved him in a way she had never loved anyone before. She loved him more than she ever thought possible. This final confession to herself was overwhelming; tears sprang to her eyes. How long? How long had she loved him? How long had she not realized? How long had she denied the truth? Now she could no longer deny it. She loved him. She loved him! The feelings inside her now were thrilling and terrifying and everything between. This was what it was like to be in love? She wasn't sure. But that was not important; what was important was that she know what was behind the door in front of her. She closed her trembling fingers around the old, worn handle, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

No stretch of the imagination prepared her for what she found.

No welcoming Prince, no Nedezda, no other mistresses, not even anything remotely resembling a hideaway, only more darkness. Only darkness, a darkness unlike the first. A profound, impenetrable black that the light of the candle could barely to pierce. It reminded Sophia of something, something buried in her memory, something on which she couldn't put her finger. There was the same stench of decay from before, only now it was much, much stronger. Whatever was the cause of it, she thought, was in the darkness beyond the door.

Everything screamed at her to turn around, to climb those stairs back to the light, to forget all that she had seen, but she couldn't. She had gone too far now. And she wasn't going to leave until she had found some clue of to why the Prince kept this chamber, in particular, so carefully hidden away.

A few cautious steps in and Sophia found herself stopped by what curiously appeared to be a suspended veil. In the candlelight, the tiny threads shimmered like fine Chinese silk, woven in intricate, delicate patterns. She lifted a hand to touch it and the material bowed and warped under her fingers; when she went to pull away, it stuck. She pulled more and then the threads snapped, and the entire thing came down. The second it fell over her head, like a restraining net or funerary shroud, she saw through the wondrous illusion she had created in her mind to the reality of that which it truly was: a spider web.

Her reaction was instantaneous. She danced around and shook her hair out like a mad woman. The thought that spiders, with their eight, hairy, little legs and tiny, glowing eyes, could be on her made her skin crawl wildly. Even after she had pulled every sticky strand out of her hair and off her dress, checked, and checked again, she couldn't stop the creeping feeling from attacking her skin. She attempted to catch her breath.

The hazy, sprawling arch of light from her candle illuminated some of the gloom, and darker shapes and forms emerged before Sophia's eyes. But one in particular caught her attention.

It was him.

Masked in a nearly opaque gloom, he stood at full height, silent, unmoving, against the far wall. She called out to him. The resounding of her own voice was the only response; he didn't even make a movement to acknowledge her presence. An irrational fear gripped her, a fear that he would disappear into the shadows. With her free hand, she pulled her skirts out of the way of her feet and ran to him.

As she speedily closed the short distance, she could see that things were not as they had appeared. The Prince was not there to throw out his arms and catch her; she lurched to a halt.

Sophia had been so filled with relief and joy, but in a single second all of that was snatched clean away. In front of her stood the object she had mistaken for the man she loved. It was no wonder why; it took the rough form of a human. Her curious fingers reached forward and touched the strange dull gray matter. She withdrew instantly with a small gasp. It was ice cold. As cold as iron.

She stumbled backwards, her head spinning as everything came crashing together. This was no sculpture, no bizarre work of art. It was a device of torture. Filled with spikes, it would impale a victim everywhere but the places to kill him, drawing out his pain and suffering. She had never seen one in the flesh before, but knew it by description. And that it had the name Iron Maiden.

What sort of place was this?

Her eyes search further for the answer. But part of her already knew it.

Along the wall—how had she missed them?—were rows and rows of chains and shackles. Something rustled beside her and she spun on her heels to see a filthy rat weaving through what looked like the bases of stripped trees. She followed them up and up and up, above her head, dreading what she knew they were, but unable to look away. Crude images assaulted her mind of the hundreds of invaders that had been impaled on the outskirts to the village; their heavy, muscular bodies that had slipped far enough down to reveal bloodstained points rising from their mouths and throats; the birds that circled over their rotting bodies and picked the flesh from bone; the putrid smell that made the bile rise up in her throat. She shuddered violently and then pushed the memory away. Beside the stakes, an almost innocent-looking stretching rack took up a large amount of space. And then more chains. Sophia could hear the blood pounding in her ears. If this was a room for torture, a dungeon, where were the ill-fated people?

Her feet moved of their own accord, dragging her away from the horrors; she backed into a wall. Tears swam in her vision and she closed her eyes and told herself not to cry. This was not what she wanted to find. Not at all. She felt something brush her arm, feather-light but heavy enough to feel through the silk of her dress. Every muscle tensed and screamed in reluctance as she turned her head to see what it was. Five mangled, bony, white fingers had encircled her arm.

She screamed.

She spun around to see a face inches away from her own. It was whiter than white, the skin clinging to bone, with lips pulled taunt over a few rotting teeth, and sunken, glassy eyes. The face of death. In a fright, she dropped her candle—her only light source—and all went black. She took off running without a second thought.

In the darkness, she could see more startling white faces appear, more hands reach for her, even as she ran. She stumbled over the grimy, uneven stones and almost tripped multiple times; she kept her hands out in front of her, feeling for anything that she might run into. The tears in her eyes now spilled over her cheeks and she cried hard. Soon—too soon—her hands hit a wall and she could barely stop her feet quickly enough to keep from hitting it. She pressed her back to the stone, knowing she had cornered herself.

Why did she have to be so curious? Why did she have to go looking for him? She always got herself into positions like this. Why couldn't she learn? Why, why? Her mind reeled back to years ago, when at the tender age of six, she had wandered unsupervised into the village, clamored up the mossy stones, and peered into the depths of the well. It seemed so bottomless, and yet she had stretched and stretched her stubby arm and fingers to touch something of it. Rather fascinated, she hadn't realized until it was too late that her supporting hand was slipping on the slick stones. The well had begun to swallow her up, like a great monster, she thought, and only just in time, her mother had snatched her from its greedy jaws. Only, now, there was no one to save her. Her knees knocked together with every sob.

This couldn't be the handiwork of the man she knew. It couldn't be! The man she knew—and had grown to love—was attentive, thoughtful, gentle. Hadn't he said his utmost desire was to be a fair and just ruler? How could this be fair and just? How could he say one thing and then do another? Why else would he keep a place like this, hidden away beneath his private wing of the castle? Could it be possible that the same hands that held her so tenderly had also wielded such terrible things? It was as if he were once more a stranger.

She was distracted from her despair by the feel of a cool, wet substance seeping through the fabric of her shoe. She bent over and realized that the floor was much darker than the stone should be. And the air—it smelled metallic. Her heart skipped a beat. Blood. Blood! She was standing in a pool of someone's blood! She opened her mouth, an attempt to scream, but only a choking gurgle came out. It is hopeless, she thought. I am going to die here. I am doing to die. Her head swam and she thought she was going to faint, and then she felt a tight grip on both her arms and was pulled, face first, into a wall of solid black.

"No!" she shrieked instinctively; the sound was muffled. "No, no!"

She thrashed about and strained against the grip that held her fast; she succeeded in freeing her hands and began clawing and pounding into whatever mass was in front of her.

"Sophia. Sophia!" a voice boomed over her. A familiar voice; a comforting voice. "I have you. Calm down. I have you," it repeated.

Abruptly ceasing her struggle, she squinted into the darkness above her head. Could it be? She knew the sharp, angular lines of that face and those brilliant eyes.

Yes, it could. The Prince.

And now she cried a different sort of tears and pressed her face against his coat like a child hiding from some imagined monster.

Not another word was spoken as Sophia was borne from that place. She wasn't sure how long her feet shuffled or which way she was directed; she kept her eyes shut tightly the entire time, numbly allowing him to lead her. Never again did she want to see that place. When they finally stopped, he spoke.

"You can open your eyes now, darling."

The light was brighter than she expected and she flinched. It took a few blinks to focus.

"Are you hurt?" he asked softly, brushing the stubborn tears from under her eyes with his thumb.

She shook her head.

"Are you all right now?"

"Yes," she managed with a croak.

He scrutinized her face skeptically as he pried her fingers, one by one, from his coat. They were shaking. He cupped them in his own.

"Sophia," his tone was gentle still but very serious, "why were you down there?"

"I was looking for you," she answered in a small voice.

"How did you get down there? Who told you?" he demanded, and impulsively his hands tightened around Sophia's. She flinched, and only then did he realize what he was doing and loosen his grip.

She didn't answer. There was the sudden urge to cry; she hadn't meant to make him upset.

"Nedezda," he hissed resolutely, scornfully.

Sophia averted her eyes.

"It was Nedezda. Was it not?" There wasn't much of a question in his voice.

Sophia remained silent.

He nodded, apparently satisfied enough with that wordless confirmation. But then he took her chin between his fingers and turned it up so she could look into his eyes; there was no gentleness in them. "You do not go down there again. Is that understood?"

His voice chilled her to the marrow. "Yes," she said meekly.

"Good." He let go of her chin. "Now, I have someone I need to speak to."

He left her quickly, without another word. Sophia eyes inadvertently fell to the floor, to her feet, and a new dizzying wave of shock and bewilderment came over her.

There was no blood staining her shoes.

There you have it. My update. Ahh, it feels good to FINALLY get it posted. So good.

The original idea for this chapter was my own, but I took a lot of inspiration (especially during my struggles with the Block) from Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber. An amazing read, I highly suggest it. Oh, and as an interesting note of wtfwhoa-ness: I was informed when I got the edit for this chapter (which means I wrote it without knowing!) that Vlad Tepes really did have private torture chambers in Tirgoviste. Does that mean I think like a crazy, tyrannical ruler? Uh oh…

REVIEW! Or I shall put you on skewers! All of you!