Author's Note: Finally, things are starting to somewhat take shape in my head as to where this is going—and I think it's going to surprise a lot of people. :)
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Also, my muse flew into a temper as soon as she was told she would have to visit me thrice weekly. She's a vain thing and dislikes being ordered around or being expected to show up when called. So it seems that three times a week, while remaining my ideal, is probably not going to happen, particularly now that I have a day job... Eheheh. But I will update when I can. :)
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In other news, author's notes are going to start disappearing entirely.
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This chapter begins the second act.
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Part II
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Adva lied curled on her side in the queen's bed. Her hands were curled next to her face, her eyes puffy and reddened.
She took in dimly the faded floral coverlet and rose-colored lace canopy. Light poured through the windows where she had torn down the heavy velvet curtains. Shards of glass ornaments littered the floor where she had cast them against the wall.
Clothes spilled out of the wardrobe in a tumbled silken knot. The vanity was splintered where she had kicked it, the mirror badly cracked. Its drawers had been tossed at the door, cosmetics spilling out and staining the carpet with creams and rouges.
She closed her eyes against the scene, exhausted.
The moment that Stefan closed the door behind him, a bolt of fear and anger shot through her entire body. Her heart pounded as it never had before as she beat and tore at the door. After she could scream no more she had rushed blindly throughout the room, grasping whatever she could find and hurling it at the walls.
She fell on the bed at last, drained, bruised, and hoarse, sleeping in fits. From the looks of the light coming in through the window, it was mid-afternoon now. Adva curled her body further into itself, clutching her hands to her aching chest.
Peter...
A lone tear made its way down her cheek, soaking the coverlet. Adva wiped the trail from her face angrily, sniffing. The light from the window was making it difficult to fall back asleep.
The window...
Adva pushed herself up onto her elbows, rubbing one eye, expression anxious. From the bed, the window only afforded a view of the horizon, towards which the sun was slowly making its way.
She sat up, her small feet touching the floor carefully, avoiding the shards of glass that littered the carpet and picking her way across knocked-over tables and scattered books until she was at the windowsill. Her palm pressed against the glass as she regarded the scene before her.
The queen's room was on the second floor, gazing out over the river that surrounded the castle and tumbled into the sea. Between the castle walls and the river was affixed a black iron fence topped with wickedly curving spikes, driven deeply into the sloping bank. The forest began at the edge of the riverbank, the trees bending towards the water.
She considered the distance from the window to the bank, her fingers curling into fists against the window.
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As she worked, she hummed to herself, taking time to glory in the sound. It had been a year since she had heard her own voice. She was pleased to discover that it hadn't lost any of its agility or tuneful delicacy.
Her hands twisted the sheets she had pulled from the bed into knots, tying each sheet to the next. There were five of them, all enormous, dazzling silk. A nail caught in the folds and tore painfully. Adva hissed, bringing the finger to her lips and looking about her.
She eyed the dresses bursting from the closet. They were heavily beaded, brocade-and-gold affairs meant for formal appearances. Adva crawled towards them cautiously, avoiding shimmering piles of glass.
Their material was stiff and coarse. She grasped a voluminous sleeve, tugging hard on it. The stitching held.
Nodding to herself, she began tying the sleeves together, her mind racing.
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Peter paced.
Where would he keep her?
He ran quickly through the places his brother had frequented before Adva's death. The kitchens. His chambers. The servant's quarters. The stables... The mill.
He rushed to the window, squinting. The mill was a little ways off from the drawbridge. Its wheel turned rapidly in the current from the river surrounding the castle. It was built tall and proud from dark stone that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, and a shingled wooden roof. Stefan had often visited there for the past year, sometimes with Peter and Adva, but generally alone.
The prince clutched the windowsill until his knuckles were white, teeth grating.
Yes. That would be a logical place.
He transferred his grip from the windowsill to the chair at his desk, lifting it with a grunt.
With full force and a wince he threw the chair through his window.
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Stefan tossed his cape behind him, cradling the basket of sweetmeats more firmly in his other arm. His expression, normally grim and weary these days, had begun to relax into something resembling a genuine smile. Alec tripped along beside him, still dressed in his linen suit, now complete with a white sunhat decorated by a jaunty blue ribbon, which matched Stefan's own. He took two or three steps for each of Stefan's long strides, occasionally grasping for the prince's hand to slow him.
They crossed the drawbridge without a word, inhaling the salty sea breeze. Alec's smile grew larger as they left the castle grounds and entered the woods. He now ran ahead of Stefan on a familiar, dusty pathway through the trees. Stefan tugged his hat from his shoulders and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow with a gloved hand. The afternoon had grown incredibly hot.
The mill's dark walls began to become visible through the trees. Alec skipped back to fall in step with Stefan, pulling on his hand impatiently.
“Mother is waiting. Smell!” he commanded.
Stefan did. He smiled at the scent of fresh bread and quickened his pace, letting Alec tug him along.
The door was small, made of scarred wood, with an iron knocker in the shape of a lion's head. Alec reached for the door handle without bothering.
“Mother! The prince is come!” he called out, dropping Stefan's hand and running into the house.
The prince bent down to retrieve some sweets that had fallen out of the basket, relishing the scent of straw and flour and baking bread. It was an earthy mixture he never grew tired of.
Before he could stand up, he felt a sharp rap on his head. Holding the injury, he glanced up, wincing. A young woman in a simple blue dress stood there with her arms folded, holding a wooden spoon. Her dark hair, which when free reached nearly to her knees, was currently pinned carelessly into a large knot at her shoulders. Green eyes flashed with irritation and amusement.
“Well, what took you so long?” she asked. “I was about to give up on you coming today.”
Stefan stood with a grin. Standing up straight he was a full head taller than her. He patted her on the head patronizingly, causing her to scoff and pull away.
“How are you, Catherine?” He grasped her hand as she turned from him and pressed the fingers to his lips.
She flushed and took her hand away. “How many times must I tell you, I'm not one of those fine ladies from the court. Don't do such things.”
Stefan threw back his head, laughing as he followed her to the kitchen, where a simple set of dining chairs had been placed around a small table. In the center of the setting was a bowl of flowers cut from the garden, and a block of soft cheese. The prince laid his basket on the table. He took off a glove and let his hand run over the table, enjoying the rough, unfinished feel of the wood.
Catherine eyed him over her shoulder as she took the bread from the oven.
“Stop pawing my furniture,” she said absently. “Honestly, Stefan. You have always had such a queer taste for unrefined things.”
He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow and she blushed, turning back to the bread. She set the pan on the counter, reaching for a long knife that hung from a rack strikingly similar to Alice's.
They passed lunch simply. Alec chattered about his pageboy lessons, answering Catherine's smiling questions about castle gossip with help from Stefan. Every once and a while, the miller would glance up at the prince and frown at the dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged somewhat.
Once, their eyes met with question, and Stefan shook his head quietly, nodding at Alec, who was too busy telling a story to notice. Catherine nodded and let her eyes slide back to her son, laughing at his description of Alice finding a troop of crickets nesting in one of the abandoned castle rooms.
After Alec had been persuaded to go upstairs and change out of his white suit to something more practical, Catherine stood up and moved behind the prince, settling her small hands on his shoulders. She worked her fingers into the tense muscle there, kneading and rubbing until he relaxed under her fingers. Stefan closed his eyes and leaned forward a bit to accommodate her.
Catherine smiled down at him and gently pressed her lips to his hair.
“Stefan.”
“Yes?”
“What is it? What's troubling you?”
The prince raised his hand to rub his eyes with a sigh.
“Things are difficult right now. Peter is... And Father thinks I am merely ambitious. He and Alice are both suspicious of me, watching me every moment I am near them. They don't understand, nor wish to.”
She smoothed a hand through his hair, stepping around him to see his face.
“You have not yet told them everything?”
“And I cannot, not now.”
Her fingers paused in his hair. “Has something changed?”
Stefan sighed, pulling away from her hand reluctantly. “Yes.”
“Well?”
“Adva. Adva is alive, and back in the castle.”
Catherine raised a hand to her throat, eyes wide. “She's alive? But how?”
“I still don't know,” he admitted, clasping his hands together on the table. “She will not tell me.”
She studied his expression carefully. “No. She has told you. But you do not believe her.”
He turned his face away almost imperceptibly.
“Because she tells you the same thing I tell you,” Catherine sighed. She began to loosen her hair, biting her lip, unable to hold back a smile. “I was right. I was always right.”
“Catherine, please,” Stefan said, looking away from her. “Don't start.”
“You call them fantastic stories, Stefan, but Alice has lived three of your lifetimes and she swears they're true!” Catherine's green eyes were now gleaming with excitement. She grasped his hands. “Don't you see, if they are true then all of your brother's strange behavior makes sense. You called him bewitched, perhaps he really was!”
The prince forced a smile, squeezing her hands affectionately. “Catherine. Please. I have no patience for fantastic stories.”
“You have no imagination,” she scoffed. “And were never a child.” She turned away from him to grasp a broom from the corner, sweeping hard and sending up clouds of flour and dust.
Stefan sighed and then became silent, looking out of the window. For several minutes, the two were quiet. Alec came down the stairs in a simple brown shirt to announce that he was going to go outside to play, and promptly raced out of the door. Catherine watched him go with a distant look in her eyes.
She turned back to Stefan, then looked away again, dragging the broom beneath the stove to sweep up fallen ashes.
“Don't you wish for your brother to return to himself?” she said, raising her eyebrows.
“Not at the cost you and your mother name,” the prince said, standing.
Catherine smiled. “Stefan, she's not even human. Not really. Surely you believe at least that.”
He moved towards the door, reaching for his hat without an answer.
She dropped the broom and rushed for him. “You only just arrived, what takes you away so suddenly?” she queried, grasping his arm.
Stefan turned to press a quick kiss to her hair. “I will come back. I have only just remembered that she will need something to eat soon.”
The miller scowled in his arms, grasping his cloak. “Why are you feeding her at all?”
“I can't let her starve,” he said, voice alarmed.
“You most certainly can. I've told you, and Alice has told you—if she dies, her hold on your brother is broken.”
“That didn't work the first time,” Stefan said, leaning away from her as she tried to rest her lips upon his. “Rather, Peter was broken instead.”
“And you were angry with me,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “But you see that I was right. She wasn't dead at all.”
He was silent, trying to pull away from her, but her hands were firmly fisted in his cloak.
She persisted. “Let her die, and let her curse on your brother die with her. You call Alice and I superstitious, but even you can sense that we are telling the truth. You always knew there was something strange about her. This impossible return only confirms it. She isn't human, Stefan.”
Then she let go of his clothes and he stepped away from her, straightening his cloak and donning his hat as he headed for the door.
“She's human enough,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear, as he left.
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