The Fate of Chapter Nine

It's time for chapter nine. You'll get the whole one in this post. The chapter isn't long like the previous two-part post. 

I don't know about you, but I'm enjoying this. Who'd have thought posting chapters to one of my ms's would inspire me to do more writing. It might be the new year, or sharing this fun read with you but creative juices are flowing. 

This chapter is filled with action and, of course, strong emotions. This novel is filled with both, which is uncommon for me. LOL  I'm learning.

Anywho, enjoy the new chapter! 

CHAPTER NINE

Cold fear slices through me like a blade made of ice. I dig my heels into the gravel. The door is mere steps away, but I can't stop. No matter what I do or say, the shirt tugs me forward, closer to its victim.  

"No! Not here! Not this house!" The words rip from my throat, raw with panic and desperation. "Dacian?" I call out, searching for him in the darkness. He's not with me.

Light shines in the upstairs window of the manor. In his night robe, Father peers out, his face ashen, his wrinkles deeper than I remember. He's straining to see me, but it's too dark.

"Don't come out!" I shout to him, trembling and straining against the pull. "Stay inside. Don't open the door!" This can't be happening. Not again. He's suffered enough. Why more? Why now?

Rage engulfs me. I let out a warrior scream and throw my body backward. I'll run off a cliff if I have to, but I won't deliver this. The shirt doesn't surrender, not even an inch. Tears blur my vision and stream down my cheeks. To the night, the curse and the Washer Woman, I beg, "Take me! Take me instead!"

I shoot upright in the chair. My throat burns, and sweat coats my face. I'm in the cottage, not back at home with Father’s blood-stained shirt.

My heart races. I put my hand to my chest and urge myself to calm down.

"It was only a dream. Only a dream," I murmur until the panic and fear leave me.

When I open my eyes, the cottage is different.

It's not grimy or pristine, it's somewhere in between. Light oak panels make up the walls and floors. The furniture is sturdy yet slightly worn, like the furnishings at home in the manor. Soft light filters through the windows and warm oats sweeten the air. Breakfast is waiting for me on the table.

"Thank you," I tell the cottage, my voice still weak from my cries.

I stand and flatten my hand over my rolling stomach, still sick with worry. The last thing I am is hungry, but I don't want to offend the cottage by not eating.

At the table, I sit and nibble on blueberry and cream oats. I drink some orange juice, too. Neither eases the tension inside me. Nothing will make me feel better, except for seeing my family.

"All I want is to know they're all right." A tear slips down my cheek, then another. I don't wipe them away. One falls to the floor, darkening a small part of the white wood.

White?

The cottage is back to its cozy, clean self. Does it feel sorry for me? Does it know my pain?

Standing, I address the cottage. "Would you be so kind as to summon Dacian for me, please? I need to speak with him."

If I beg, he might take pity on me and help me get a letter to my family. I can't go on without communicating with them somehow.

"Please." My voice breaks.  

Nothing happens.

Instead of getting upset, I drag myself over to the chair and sit. My body feels heavy, weighted by emotions I’m not used to experiencing. Tucking them away is my specialty. Taking control and forging on, no matter the obstacles.

That's why I refuse to believe this is it for me or for my family. Determination fueling me, I pound a fist on the chair. There must be something I can do to change things in my favor. Something other than reading that book.

I glance at it on the table. It's too thick. If I had a month, I might be able to do it, but seven days is hardly enough time.

"Please help me." I look up to the Blessed Ones. "Help me to find a way."

Movement by the door snatches my gaze. A fat leaf falls to the floor.

Is the plant ill?

It appears to be healthy. The leaves hang in a relaxed manner. The coloring seems as vibrant as ever. Even the leaf on the floor is green. Gold writing glistens from it.

I snatch it up and read. Dacian will not be visiting until this afternoon.

"You can communicate," I gasp, even as my shoulders slump. Now I’ll have less time to convince Dacian to reach out to my family.

Another idea arises.  If my intuition is correct, the cottage and plant, maybe even the Blessed Ones, have taken pity on me. If I play my cards right, I might be able to use it to my advantage.

I draw in a deep breath. Please don't let this backfire on me.

"Might I offer you a trade? I'm worried about my family," I say, careful of my words. "I have younger sisters, twins who are lost without me. If I could be granted permission to let them know I’m all right, that I miss and love them, I would gladly clean and care for you in return for your kindness."

Moments pass in silence. When nothing happens, I gather the bowl and cup into a neat pile and use the napkin to wipe the table.

"You see? I'm quite good at tidying up. I have much practice caring for the home where I've lived for several years now."

Please work.

Next, I take the cloth napkin to the mantle above the fireplace and wipe it clean, though there isn't anything to clean off. Then, I fluff the cushions on the chair. I'm about to wipe down the small table when another leaf falls to the floor.

I squeeze my eyes closed with a silent prayer—please let it be good news—and bend to pick up the leaf. Gold words glint from one side.

You have been granted two hours. Do not be late.

I can leave? I can't believe it. I don't know what I was expecting but this—wait. What if it's a trap, like the bird.

The door isn't opening like the window did. And this came from the plant inside the cottage. Dacian said the cottage will protect me. Does that mean I can trust it to leave?

I don't want to upset the plant, afraid he'll take his offer away, but I need to be safe. "I hate to ask but is this a trap?"

The top leaf shifts to the side. A shake of the head?

"And I won't be punished?"

The leaf moves to the other side.

Still, nervous, I press in the gentlest way. "How is this allowed? Is it something other maidens have been granted or just me?"

A moment passes then another leaf falls to the floor. I pick it up and read the gold script.

No other maiden asked. Ask the right questions, get the right answers.

Dacian said a similar phrase to me. He also said the other maidens spent their time crying and begging to be set free. Perhaps, they never asked if they could leave and come back, or perhaps, my kind gesture of cleaning and trading favors made the difference.

Another leaf falls.

Go now.

My pulse jumps. "Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much." I put the leaves in my pocket and open the door.

Fear seizes me and I struggle to move. When my feet touched the ground outside the window, it turned black and tried to suck me under. Heart pounding, I glance at the plant. Its green leaves fall in a relaxed position. Does that mean it's safe? I hate that I don't know. I hate that I'm scared. This could be my one chance to see my family and I'm wasting time.

A nervous squeal bursts from my lips. The plant does nothing to assure me. I grip the door frame and ease one slippered foot onto the mossy ground outside. It remains solid under my weight. With my hands still clutching the door frame, in case I need to pull myself back in, I step down with my other foot and wait. No bird chirps. The woods don't darken, and the ground doesn't disappear.

 Two urges strike me, leaving me torn. Jump back into the cottage, or take off through the woods. Mother used to say, "If you think for too long, you often think wrong."

My legs and arms shake with my nerves. The plant hasn't moved, as if it’s sleeping. Shoving my fear to my toes, I let go of the door frame and run.

In my haste, I slip a few times on the marshy ground and bang my shin when I jump over a fallen tree. Panic keeps me going until I realize I don't know the way out of the woods. I've never spent time on this side of the forest. By my house, the woods get darker and thicker the deeper I go, and thinner where the trees meet open land.

Here, I don't see a change. Everything is thick and dark. I need to stop and check my surroundings. No matter how afraid I am to slow down, if I don't, I'll never find my way out.

My heart hammers and my faster breathing dries my throat. I'm not sure how far I ran, only that I can't find the cottage. To keep moving, I walk around trees, surveying the area. Nothing looks familiar. Panic builds inside me. How do I get anywhere from here? I'm lost. Lost.

My eyes sting with tears I refuse to let fall. I did this to myself. My breath hitches and a familiar scent fills my nose. The river. I can smell it in the air. I must be close.

If I can find it, I can follow the direction of the current. It will lead me to the village.

Relief transforms my fear into determination. Following the scent, I round trees and hop over roots jutting from the ground. The air grows moist and rushing water sounds ahead. 

A long row of hedges blocks my view, but I’m certain the river is on the other side. With no end in sight of the fortress-like shrubs, I choose to cut through them. Most likely, I'll get scraped up, but it will save on time.  

At the hedges, I search the leaves for a thinning area. Mumbled voices sound from the other side. For a moment, I think it's villagers, even though they never venture into the woods during the week of the Summer Solstice. I think they're here to save me, no matter how preposterous the idea. Then the air turns cold and dread seeps into my bones, alerting me to who is talking.

"You should be more cautious about visiting, child," the Washer Woman says, her voice dripping with such sorrow and pain, I physically ache.

Warnings fire inside me, screaming for me to leave before she catches me or lightning strikes the rocks, but my legs are frozen, my feet anchored in what feels like blocks of ice.

Like a lasso around my neck, my head jerks toward a small break in the hedges. Fog rises from the river like plumes of smoke, masking two figures. Their dark silhouettes appear to be standing on the surface of the water. Both are tall and human in shape. Who is this other person?

"You know why I come." Dacian's voice rings clear.

Panic and terror blasts through me, melting the chill from my skin, and still, I can't force my legs to move. What if they hear me? What will they do?

"Praya," Dacian says.

My heart lodges in my throat. They know!

"She's not like the others," he adds, and I can breathe again. "She's smarter, braver, and irrational in a way that works to her advantage. We talk. She asks questions. She pushes the limits and it’s changing things. It's making me stronger. I can influence my powers in ways I couldn’t before." 

"This is not for my ears, Dacian. You know better." Anger grates in his mother's voice. The fog darkens to a stormy gray. "I cannot stop the consequences if we're caught."

Caught? By who?

"Then help me," Dacian implores. "Tell me the right answers to seek. She could be the—"

 "Silence," she bellows. Lightning strikes in the fog, bright and blinding.

The hair on my arms stand. I shiver and cover my ears to lesson the loud boom that often follows a bolt like that. It never comes.

From the hedge, a black snake slithers around my feet. It's orange tongue flickers from its mouth with a hissing sound. The tail brushes over the toe of my slipper. I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from shrieking. It circles back into the bush, leaving me in tremors—part from the snake and part from the situation.

I need to run away. I want to, but they might hear me.

Footsteps trudge over debris, drawing closer. I squat low to the ground and hold my breath. The snake could be beside me in the bush, waiting to strike. The Washer Woman could enslave me for a year after my service for breaking the rules. This could be it for me. The end.

"What is it, my dear?" the Washer Woman asks, the endearment sounding off in her glum voice.

The footsteps stop on the other side of the hedge. "It's a snake," Dacian replies so close that if I stuck my hand through the shrub, I bet I could touch his leg. "A big black one. We're fine."

"We are never fine." His mother declares. "Stand back so I can kill it."

Dacian's shoes scuffle away.

I need to go. Now. Rising, I lift the hem of my dress and run.

Light flashes through the woods. Thunder clashes and a whoosh of air sends me stumbling forward. I fall and throw out my hands to catch myself. My arm and cheek scrape against a twig sticking up from the ground.

Water gushes behind me, like the falls at Mount Loras. I glance over my shoulder, terrified its rushing toward me.

A wall of water crashes over the hedges where I was squatting a moment ago. I blink, not trusting my eyes. Like a flood, the water sweeps away the hedges and recedes to the river.

I jump up and push my legs to go as fast they can. My heart pounds. Every part of my body shakes. I can't breathe or think, but I keep going, afraid any second the Washer Woman will call for me and I'll be forced to greet her.

Happy New Year

Wow. I can't believe another year is gone. Time really does seem to fly by as you get older. It's freezing in Florida. My blood is too thin for this weather. #Floridagirl 

I hope you had an amazing New Years Day! Stay warm, friends!

CHAPTER EIGHT (continued)

Dacian straightens to his full height, and I imagine a huge smile is on his face.

We pass under the arched branch and step into a small clearing. Wisteria trees surround the area, perfuming the air with its sweet scent. White flowery vines wrap around the trunks of the trees, and the ground is covered with a thick layer of floral shrubbery. My slippers sink into soft flowerbeds as we move to stand in the center of the small meadow.

Dacian stops and faces me. Excitement radiates from him. I can feel it charging the air. "What is your favorite color?"

Ever since Mother died, I've answered that question with yellow, but the color I love more than any other belongs to the Plumerias that grow in the gardens at the manor.

"Bright pink," I tell him, eager to see what he does.

"Close your eyes."

I scan the green and white scenery one last time and then do as he says.

"Now open them."

The leaves, the vines, the thick shrubbery on the ground are all pink, bright glorious pink. The color is everywhere, except for some green leaves sprinkled throughout and what little bark you can see.

Beaming, I twirl and take it all in. "How did you do this?"

"Do you like it?"

"I love it!"

"Pick another color." His breath is as heightened as mine.

Thinking of the girls, I blurt, "Lavender. Do I have to close my eyes again?"

"No. Just the first time so it would be amazing."

He lifts his arms to the side. The fog swirling his body turns lavender. Then he snaps his arms at the elbows as if to release the color into the air. In a blink, everything is lavender.

I giggle, smile, and come so close to shedding a tear. "This is the twin's favorite color." It makes me miss them even more.

"What are their names?" Dacian asks.

"Calyssa and Carys." Before I can stop myself, I babble, "Calyssa is headstrong and too curious for her own good, while Carys is as soft as a summer breeze but loyal to her sister to the point that she'd follow her anywhere." I make a soft laugh. "They have so much of my mother in them, like they each took half of her personality."

"You loved your mother dearly?" he asks as if this puzzles him.

"Of course, I did." I shrug. "Don't you love your mother in some way?"

He draws in a deep breath, and the color fades from the trees, returning to white and green. "We should go."

Worried I upset him, I don't dispute his need to leave, even though I want to stay here longer.

The trip back to the cottage seems shorter than it did on our way to the wisteria garden.  The sun stays hidden behind clouds the entire way. The straw roof comes into view first. Though dirty, the yellow color stands out against all the greenery. The wood framing of the exterior looks as gloomy as it did when we left. I assume the inside is the same.  

Dacian stops at the door, mist swirling his tall form. "This is where I leave you."

"What? Why?" I blurt, only then realizing how dramatic I sound. "I mean, why are you leaving now? We just got back, and I thought we could read the book together, or rather, I could read it to you."

"It's easier if I leave here. I'm cloaked, so you don’t have to keep your head down," he explains with a lift of his shoulders.

"Is it because of what I said about your mother?" I’m convinced this has something to do with his sudden desire to part ways. "I meant no harm by it, no judgment. She's your mother," I say with compassion. "You must have some emotional connection to her, whether you want to or not."

He doesn't say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me. To know their color would be wonderful. Maybe he could tell me.

"Dacian?" I reach up to touch his face.

He catches my wrist, his grip soft yet firm. "Read. Rest. If death chooses another victim, I'll come for you at sunset."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then I'll see you in the morning."

I force my feet to stay in place when he walks away. He follows the big tree to left like he's headed for the back of the cottage.

"Thank you for today!" I call out before he vanishes from my sight. "It was kind of you to share that with me."

Again, he pauses but only long enough to say, "You're welcome."

Then he's gone.

The woods are quiet and dim like the sun has set, even though it hasn't. In the summer, an orange glow always appears before it does. Part of me wants to explore the area and see if I can find where Dacian goes. Does he visit his mother? What does she do during the day? Hang out by the river, or return under the water until dusk? Perhaps these are the questions Dacian referred to and the answers are in the book.

When I turn to enter the cottage, the door is open. Fear flashes through me but fades when I notice the inside is light and cozy. The cottage is happy with me again. Why? Because I'm calm, because I want to go inside, because I was kind to Dacian and thanked him?

It's all such a mystery.

"Thank you," I tell the cottage as I climb the step and cross the threshold.

Everything inside appears clean and new. A fire crackles beneath the stone hearth. Even though it's summer, the warmth is nice, not too hot.

On the table, a glass of juice, a cup of tea, bread, and a bowl of soup wait for me. My nose tells me it's chicken soup, and my stomach rumbles.

Something shimmers on the other side of the room. The gold etching of the book ripple as if calling to me. I bring it to the table so I can read while I eat.

When my stomach has had more than enough of the delicious food, I move to the chair and nestle into the soft cushions. The lights dim slightly, making the room even cozier.

I set the brooch on the table and continue reading. So far, I haven't found anything new about Bretta and her jealousy for Queen Alys. Even as a child, Bretta acted spitefully toward her older sister.

The next page shows a portrait of them. The original hangs in the castle hall. I saw it from a distance long ago when Mother and I were in town.  

It must have been hard for her, looking so different from everyone.  I imagine it didn't earn her any favor with the people. Maybe that added to her bitterness toward her sister.

My mouth opens wide with a yawn. I rub my eyes. How long have I been reading? Outside the window, it looks black. Night has fallen.

Dacian never came for me. No one will die this evening. I should be relieved, but tomorrow is a new day with the chance of another victim, and I've yet to find anything in this book that can help.

I let out a frustrated groan and slam the book closed.

The lights flicker and turn off, leaving me in the dark.

"Sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean it. I'm frustrated, and I shouldn't have done that. Please forgive me."

The cottage remains dark. I can't even see my hand in front of my face. I could apologize again, beg for forgiveness, but it wouldn't be genuine, and I'm certain the cottage would know.

The truth is, I'm tired, homesick, and desperate to see my family. And now I can't even read more because this overly sensitive cottage is angry with me.

A chill spreads through the room. I shiver and draw my legs close, huddling in the corner of the chair. It no longer feels soft and cushy. The cottage must have turned back to its rotted self.  Will I ever be enough to please it? Is that even possible?

Instead of working to charm the cottage into its cozy state, I accept the punishment as payment for not being honest with my family about Tristin, for allowing them to think everything would be fine, and for not being there now to take care of them, like I had promised Mother I would.

SAY THIS FIVE TIMES FAST

Five days left of the twelve days of giving. Say that five times fast. LOL

It's crazy that I've been able to stick with this given how tired the holidays makes me. It could be all the extra carbs and candy. What goes up (my blood sugar) must come down. The cold weather is not helping, either. I want to live in my furry jammies 24/7. Yes, I said cold even though this is Florida. Next week it will be in the thirties at night. What? That's cray! Cray!

Anyway. (Not trying to rhyme) Here is the next chapter. It is long so I cut it in half, a little more than half. If it is a little less than clean, I apologize. It was either proof it, again, even though my eyes water everytime I focus on my laptop's glowing screen, or post it. The alternative--miss a day. Would you forgive me?  

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Hope?" I ask and twist on the floor until my body faces the sound of his voice.

"Let's take a walk," he says.

"Where? The cottage isn't that big."

"Outside."

"Outside of the cottage?"

"Yes."

"Outside in the woods?" I ask in disbelief.

He laughs softly. "Yes, Praya, in the woods."

I sit taller. "Can we do that? I thought it was against the rules."

"I told you, there are some things I can control. Now remember, no peeking." Long fingers curl around my hands and pull me to my feet. "Get dressed. I'll meet you by the front door."

The new lightness to his tone fills me with warmth.

I suspect I'm the reason for his happiness, but I don't know if the pride running through me is warranted. For all I know, this new emotion of his could work against me and go against his mother's rules. The curse’s rules. I don't want to take it away from him, though. To have never laughed is such a sad thing. I want to hear him do it again, harder and louder, so he can experience one of the best feelings in the world.

The bedroom door closes with a soft thud. I open my eyes. As soon as my vision clears, I spy my white dress on the hook. It's freshly laundered, the butterfly brooch clean and safe in the pocket. The cottage is clean, too, the ragged condition it changed to now gone.

The wonders of the place. "Thank you," I murmur to the cottage.

I slip into my dress, put on my beaded slippers, also clean, and hurry to the bedroom door. Before opening it, I bow my head, staring only at the wood floors. 

Dacian's boots are visible when I approach the front door. "You look lovely," he says.

I touch my hair, aware of how messy it is and wonder if he's teasing me. But Dacian doesn’t tease.

"I forgot to pull it back." The strands hang loosely around my face, the curls at my waist, frizzing at the ends.

"I like it," he says, a soft smile in his voice.

"Is this allowed, us leaving?" My muscles twitch.

"We won't be long." Now his tone is deep and direct, so different from a moment ago. He takes my hand and opens the door.

"We don't have to go for a walk," I say. "I'm fine with staying here."

"I wasn’t talking to you. I was telling Amus, so he doesn't worry or act out while we're gone. He can be quite loud."

"Who?" Is there another person with us? Should I be concerned?

"The plant." Dacian says.

We step outside. Soft grass cushions my feet and a cool breeze caresses my skin. The day is picnic-perfect. I want to take in the surrounding woods. Instead, I keep my head down and focus on my slippers as he leads me to a narrow trail on our right.

"The plant has a name?" This is bizarre, but then so is everything about this situation.

"I gave it to him. He's the closest thing to a pet I've ever had, no matter how annoying he can be."

I can't help but laugh. "He annoys you, too?"

"Only when he lets out that obnoxious squawk. Since it's his job, it might be unfair of me to hold it against him."

"What do you mean, his job?"

Fallen leaves and twigs crunch beneath our steps.

"Rousing my mother's attention. It's why I first made friends with him. I trained him to report only to me. It's worked for years, though I still get nervous, knowing he can alert her."

I stop. "We should go back. I don't want you to get in trouble—or me."

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. "We won't. There are things I want to say that should not be spoken in his presence. It's why I suggested the walk. That and I wanted to show you something, which reminds me you don't have to avert your eyes. We're outside. You may look where you please." The smile returns to his voice.

I lift my head. His misty hand clutches mine, the outline of his dark form cloaked in fog like a cloud. I wish I could see his face, to know the curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes. I suspect he has both features, though I also suspect they are not normal, hence his need to keep them hidden.

"You choose to look at me when there is a beautiful forest around you," he says. "It is quite lovely in the daytime. I would think you'd want to see it with all the darkness around you lately."

An unfamiliar and incredibly delightful feeling stirs inside me. I smile at his hazy face and then glance around. Sunlight filters through the tall trees, glinting off the different shades of green like gold. The breeze sets everything a flutter, like the wings of a butterfly. Birds chirp from somewhere to my left, and twigs snap to my right. Is it a bunny, a squirrel?

The forest is most lovely during the day. I feel I've been away from it for too long. Was it just the other day I had been taken? It seems much longer.

"Thank you." I sigh, so grateful for this.

"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the best part."

Dacian and I walk farther down the trail. At some point, he got ahead of me by a few steps. I use the opportunity to study him.

Sunlight filters through the trees and shines directly on him. It makes the mist hugging his body near transparent. His shoulders aren't too wide, just enough so that his torso tapers into a trim waist, creating a nice "V" shape. His legs seem strong and in proportion with his body. Nothing appears deformed or unusual. Perhaps, his skin is disfigured. The back of his head is dark with about half of his neck visible. Either he's wearing a bulky hat or his hair is black and grown out.

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" I ask, assuming we're far enough away from the cottage for anyone, even a plant, to hear us. Maybe he's going to tell me why he hides himself from me.

"Have you read more of the book?" He brushes a low branch out of the way.

"Not since the other day. Why?"

He glances back at me. The fog shifts ahead, leaving a trail. "The book has answers to questions you've yet to ask." 

"What kind of questions?"

"I am not permitted to say. When you learn information from the book, you can ask me about it. I can't open the dialogue to you."

So he follows rules, too. Interesting. "How would that have worked if I were still bound to the rule of not speaking unless directly spoken to?"

"It wouldn't have. It's taken me decades to learn what I can and can't get away with, even longer to try them for fear of retribution."

I'm about to say from your mother but change it to, "From the curse?" 

He stops and looks at me. "You're finally understanding."

"Not as much as I'd like to." I catch up to him, hoping to glimpse the mask or something of his features through the mist. Other than a blurry outline of his head, I can't see much.

He doesn't turn away. Is he studying me the same way I’m examining him? Heat crawls across my cheeks.

A bird swoops low, close enough to touch my hair. I flinch and watch as it soars toward the sky. It's small with bright yellow feathers, Mother’s favorite color. Most of her dresses and skirts were of that shade. It was bright and cheery like her personality.

A deep ache fills my chest, as if a dark cloud were swallowing my heart. How are Calyssa, Carys, and Father handling things? Are they angry with me?  Does Father hate me? When we lost Mother, Father drowned his sorrows in jugs of ale. It took the staff and me weeks to sober him up. Is he back to drinking, and if so, how are the twins holding up? Surely, they blame me. I didn't get to explain what happened. I didn't even say goodbye.

"What's the matter?" Dacian asks.

"Nothing." I lower my head.

This is why I don't think about them. It's too painful.

He places a misty hand under my chin and lifts my face. "You don't need to keep your feelings from showing."

"That's not what I'm doing." I turn away.

"It wouldn’t be the first time I've seen a girl cry. I have experience in comforting maidens."

My head swings back to him. "You comforted them?"

What is that stirring in my stomach? It's dark and deep, and I don't like it.

A tiny chuckle escapes him.

I glare. "Are you laughing at me?"

"I’m surprised." A smile is evident in his voice. "I’m always surprised by you, Praya, who is stronger than anyone I've ever met and doesn't need comforting when she's sad."

He means it as a compliment, but instead of lifting my spirits, it has the opposite effect. For the first time, I feel wrong for the way I protect my emotions.

"You are like your mother in that way," he says, tone soft and reassuring.

My breath freezes. "How would you know?"

"I was there when she was chosen. I always accompany the Messenger."

It's as if the world disappears. My heart pounds in my ears, and a few moments pass before I find my voice.

"You saw her?" It comes out in a shocked whisper. "All this time I could have asked you what happened, if she was scared, if she felt pain, why she was chosen?" I step back. "You should have told me when we first met."

"That would not have been a good first day for you. The first day is hard, the second day even harder. I wasn’t sure what to make of you, either." He lifts his face to the sky and murmurs, "The girl with eyes of the grass and sky will end the curse before she dies."

 "That's an odd saying." I tense a teeny bit. "What does it mean?" 

"It's a rhyme I learned long ago." He picks up a fat leaf, green with yellow veins, and twirls it in his fingers. "I thought it was about your mother, and I thought it died with her. I'd only glimpsed her eyes a moment before she touched her clothing. I would have saved her if I could have, despite the consequences, whatever they would have been. I would have done it to be free. So we  could all be free." He pauses. "I thought it was over. But then you were chosen as Messenger, and I realized you could be the girl in the rhyme."

Ending the curse, now that I hear it might be possible, must be my focus on so I can get back to my family.

But for me to do that, I need to know one thing about the death of my mother. Hopefully, it will pacify my aching heart. For now, anyway.

"Is she at peace? My mother. After they go, are they all at peace?"

He's quiet for a moment, as if he's searching for the right answer, or perhaps, he doesn't know. Please let him know.

Finally, with a confident nod, he says, "I believe they are at peace."

I smile, and my eyes fill with tears. Even though his answer isn't the yes, they're in a better place I hoped for, it's enough. Dacian may be many things, but a liar isn't one of them. If he believes those who have been Fated to Die are at peace, then I will, too.

"Thank you." I let out a shaky breath, the pain in my heart easing a tiny bit. Then I do what I do best, tuck the emotions away and focus on what is important. "Tell me about the rhyme. Is there more to it?"

He shakes his head. "Not that I'm aware of."

"What about the book in the cottage? Could it have information?"

"I don't know. I'm forbidden to read it. I leave it for the maidens, hoping they'll come across something of importance, but I've never been able to talk to one of them like I do you. They feared me, blamed me, or wanted nothing to do with me."

"Sounds familiar," I murmur, reminded of how the kids in the village always treated me. I give his hand—the leaf still in it—a squeeze. "Now you have me. We'll figure this out. Together. All right?"

He sighs with a hint of awe. "You really are something."

I can't stop my lips from turning up. "We should head back and get started."

"But we're here." He uses the leaf to point out white bushels of wisteria, cascading toward the ground. One of the full branches curves, creating a shadowed archway.

"It won't take long," he adds. Quiet excitement hums in his words. "I really want you to see it. I've never been able to share it with anyone."

It'd be cruel to deny him this, and I suppose I am a little curious. "Show me then," I say.

6 Days Left of Fated Giving

Today is my youngest son's birthday. He is now 15. I can't believe it! We are heading to Top Golf and Andretti's indoor karting and games to celebrate. Living in Orlando is never lacking in fun stuff to do.

Only 6 days left of giving and FATED TO DIE. Posting the chapters is reminding me of how much I love this story. It was so fun to write. Enjoy!

CHAPTER SEVEN

    

I wake up groggy and weak. My body is warm and at peace. There's no pain, no ice under my skin, just warmth, like I’m resting in bath water.

Moist fingers brush hair from my face. "You truly are beautiful," someone murmurs. "And you have no idea who you are."

"Dacian?" I crack open my eyes.

He's close, really close. My cheek is nestled against his misty chest like he's cradling me. I try to lift my head. Water splashes and my hair feels weighed down.

"Where are we?" I whisper.

"A hot spring. You passed out when I was carrying you here. How are you feeling?" He slides his fingers through my hair.

"Better." I let my eyes close, too exhausted to keep them open.  "What was that? I felt like I was freezing to death."

"You would have had I not brought you here in time."

Despite the warm water, a chill shoots through me. "I would have died?"

"No. Not exactly." His gentle tone is almost as soothing as the water. "You would have thawed when my mother called for you, so you could deliver another garment."

I stiffen, and my eyes spring open to his misty form, visible in the moonlight. "I broke a rule, didn't I? I spoke to him."

"Relax." Dacian brushes the back of his fingers across my cheek. "You're not enslaved to return under the river with her. The freezing was punishment. It will be your punishment every time you speak to the victims."

"Mrs. Potterfield," I gasp, my heart squeezing with pain. "She's dead because of me."

"She is dead because of the curse."

Tears of shame fill my eyes. I close them before any can escape. "She was innocent, kind." The sweetest lady I knew. "Why would your mother choose her?"

"Death chose her. It does not pardon those who are kind. It simply takes those whose time has come."

"It isn't fair." I turn my face toward his chest, seeking what … Comfort? Peace? Do I deserve, either?

"Life isn't fair," he says. "Why would death be any different?"

I shake my head. This is too much to think about right now. My brain hurts. My body is still too weak to move, but I don't feel like I’ve earned the right to rest.

"The next time I break the rules," I say because I surely will, "and am punished, let me freeze."

Dacian exhales, and I feel his body tense. He's disappointed in me. For some reason, he thinks I'm special. I’m not. I’m stubborn, desperate, and now a murderer, or at the very least a murderer's accomplice. By the end of this week, I might want to return under the river with the Hag. Then I think of my sisters and father and know I can't let that happen.

"Sleep," Dacian says.  "Things will be better in the morning. I promise."

"Why are you being so nice?" I slur, as sleep starts to creep over me. "You're supposed to be cruel."

"I am cruel," he murmurs, but I'm too far gone to care.

                                   ***

This time when I wake, I'm in the pretty bed with lavender flowers on the canopy. The cottage is light and cozy. I'm dry and in a nightgown. My muscles are soft, my body revived.

Dacian springs to mind and his final words before I passed out. I am cruel, he'd said.

How can he think that? I don't. He saved me from that horrid pain. He brought me back, tucked me into bed, and made everything better for me. Better, when I didn't deserve it.

I killed a person last night. A kind loving person. A woman who didn’t turn me away when others in the village did.

She gave me a discount, too. She’d never admit it, but I know she did. And now she’s gone. Who will run her bakery, the only bakery in town? Will it close and life go on as if it had never existed? Will people forget her like they do all the maidens who have been sacrificed to the curse?

The families of the Messengers mourn them by walking around in black for days or months. No one dares to challenge the rules or complain about who is sacrificed to the Council, though. 

Mr. Winthrop, the Head Councilman, holds service every Sunday in the castle's great hall. He tells horrific stories of past families and Fathers who went after their daughters and the Hag, and how the moment they entered the woods they were never seen again. 

He says during the week the Washer Woman rises, the curse wraps the woods in its cold claws, taking aim at anyone who enters in challenge. 

There will be no one to save me, not that Father would try. Once strong and proud, he’s withered mentally and physically since losing Mother. He was more like his old self than he's ever been on the day of the Choosing Ceremony, but I ruined that for him, too.

Maybe, I have withered along with him. The younger me, the girl angry at the world for losing her mother, would have risked her life for any chance to destroy the Washer Woman. Last night, I stood before and coward. 

Dacian is wrong. I’m no different from the other maidens. I’m not strong and brave. 

Time has changed me into a girl who spends her days caring for the manor and Father, making sure he remembers to tend the sheep so we can trade the wool and milk for coins. When I’m not giving lessons to the twins and loving them as Mother would have wanted, I care for the gardens she adored, preserving them the best I can so the girls can know the beauty their mother had created. 

A sharp pain stabs my chest. I bury my head in a pillow. I miss the girls so much. I miss their soft curls, golden like mother’s hair had been. The way they laughed and begged me to play chase in the maze as mother had done with me so many times. If they lose me, who will care for them? Who will care for the manor and Father? 

I shouldn’t have lied to them about Tristin. I should have done as Father asked, begged. I should have—wetness touches my cheek.

I sit up and feel the pillow case. It’s damp. I rub my eyes. I’m crying? I don't cry. I survive. I push through. I fight.

I didn't last night, though. I killed an innocent person.

No. Don't go there. I need to be strong. I know strong. I’m good at it. I need to get through this for the girls. For Father and memory of Mother, I've worked to honor for years.

Besides, I have support. Dacian helped me last night. He stopped the pained and cared for me in a way no one ever has. It may be his duty, something he's done for other maidens, as well. I suspect otherwise, though, and need to ask him about it—after I thank him, of course. He deserves a huge thank you.

I shove back my hair, climb from the bed, and open the sheer curtains the way I do at home when I need an extra boost before starting the day. 

To my surprise, the woods are lovely and alive, glinting with morning light. Like rain drops, sunrays sprinkle the shrubbery and leafy ground. Trees with moss-covered trunks stand tall, their bushy green leaves appearing yellow.

Such a beautiful day after such a tragic night.

Sadness weighs on me and my shoulders sag.

"Fight it," I whisper to myself. This is what comes of being the Messenger. I’m not the first or the last. 

A bird flies by the window and lands on a sunlit branch near the cottage. Its feathered body is gray while its wings are a shimmering blue. How rare.

The bird chirps in a rhythmic way as if it’s singing. 

If I were home, I’d open the window and welcome him inside like I did the little Sparrows that used to visit me.

I touch the glass. "Hello, little birdy. Good morning." 

It looks my way. 

"Are you enjoying the warmth of the rays?"

The bird springs from the branch and swoops toward me.

"Slow down." I tap the glass. Can it not tell the window is closed?

It keeps coming.

"No. Don't." I smack the glass pane.

The bird crashes into the window and bounces off, falling to a bed of leaves on the ground.

 I gasp and jump back in shock. No. The whimper rattles from my chest. I creep closer and stare down at the lifeless bird. This is my fault. 

Without thought, I grip the bottom of the window and lift. A breeze wafts through cooling my skin. Realization hits, and I freeze. I opened the window.

My gaze shoots to the closed bedroom door. Why isn’t the plant squawking? Does it not know, or is this his allowed? It can't be. A maiden could escape.

Perhaps, a protective barrier blocks the way. And lets a breeze pass through? Not likely.

I bend and inspect the opening, then I chance it, and stick my hand outside. It passes through with ease. I snatch it back, and wait for the plant to react. 

Nothing.

I do it again. Cool air and warm sunrays caress my skin. Could it be this easy, a glitch in the curse? A determined maiden would take advantage of situation.

The thought of seeing my sisters and father sends excitement whirling through me. Has no maiden ever discovered this?

No stories tell of Messengers trying to escape the Washer Woman, but then there is so little we know about their enslavement. No one knows about Dacian or the cottage, and the week of the reaping is never consistent.

In the beginning, tales say the Washer Woman killed for seven straight days. In my lifetime, my parents and grandparents as well, the Messengers can reap five lives in one summer and only three the next.

The Council likes to recall a summer, decades ago, when only one life was claimed. One life. They say we had sent a worthy maiden that week, and she must have served the Washer Woman well for the village to have been so blessed.

If she were so worthy, why didn’t she earn her freedom and return home? The Council was wrong about only losing one life that week. We lost two, the maiden and the fated victim, but no one speaks of it in that way. 

I take in the poor bird still on its side. Its furry chest puffs with a short breath. He's alive? 

Anger and guilt coil inside me. I might not have been able to save Mrs. Potterfield, or whoever else I’ll be forced to claim, but I will save this innocent bird. 

I push the window open all the way.

The plant doesn't squawk. 

Again, I consider climbing out and making a run for it, just to see what happens. What if I make it home? What if I discover a new way for maidens to break free? What if I die? I’d never see the girls again. I may never still.

Get the bird, think about escaping later.

I send my legs through the opening and try to reach the ground with my foot. It's further down than I thought. Turning, I rest my belly on the wooden sill, my upper body still in the room, and ease myself down slowly so I don't land on the bird.

The inside of the cottage darkens, the dinginess returning. Oh no. I freeze, unsure of what to do. Climb back in—will it matter—or save the bird. Had I truly believed I could do this without being penalized?

Before pulling myself back inside, I glance over my shoulder. The bird no longer lies on the ground, because the ground is gone. Blackness swirls beneath me. Bony fingers made of dark fog clasp my ankle and pull.

I shriek and slip further outside.

The bird, trees, woods, breeze, everything is black. My heart thunders. Fear sends me scrambling to get back into the cottage. I tighten my grasp on the window sill.

The hand yanks harder on my leg, drawing me closer to the darkness. It twirls faster with the center spiraling inward, like a throat opening up to swallow me.

My arm muscles burn, straining against my weight and the force pulling on me. Sweat moistens my palms and my fingers slip. One of my hands loses its grip.

I scream and call out for help. "Dacian! Please, help me!"

A second bony hand clasps my other ankle and jerks me down.  

I slide further down, my body completely outside as I struggle to hang onto the windowsill with only my left hand. One more tug, and I'll be gone, sucked into the dark abyss.

What have I done? I'm didn't mean to. I didn't know. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Tears choke my words. I don't know who I'm apologizing too. The cottage? Dacian? My family?

A loud bang sounds from inside the room. A strong hand clamps onto my wrist. Hair covers my face, blocking my view to who is helping me.

"Dacian?" I ask, assuming it's him.

My body jerks upward and I'm pulled through the window. My chest slides over the windowsill. My waist, my hips, my thighs. The fingers on my ankles tighten, keeping me from going further.

Wind whips through the window, sending leaves and dirt over my body and into the room. Everything turns black like the darkness is following me inside.

The person holding me roars and wrenches me so hard the force lets go. I shoot across the room and slam onto the wood floor. Face down, I stay that way, working to catch my breath. 

Panting from the other person sounds to the right of my head, like he's on the floor too.

"Dacian?" I roll onto my back, too weak to do more. Hair covers my face like a blanket. I leave it.

"You were trying to escape?" he says, his voice a mix of shock and sadness.

"I ... I wasn't. I swear. I thought about it, but I didn't try." 

"Then why were you out the window?" Anger deepens his tone.

"The window opened. I saw a bird. It hit the wall and fell. I tried to help it. I didn't think, and then the ground disappeared, and something tried to pull me down." I shiver with a bout of panic and fear. "I wouldn't have left. I thought about it, but I wasn't going to do it. I-I don't know what happened. I’m sorry."

"The curse happened." He sighs, sounding both weary and annoyed. "Like the cottage, it punishes and rewards. It also lures you to do wrong when the opportunity presents itself. Earn the cottages trust and it will protect you."

"The cottage tried to kill me?"

"It was teaching you a lesson. You wouldn't have died, but you could have suffered more. Treat the cottage with respect and it will do the same to you."

"You're mad. I can hear it in your tone, and I hate that I put it there." I turn my head toward him. Hair falls away from eyes, and a gloved hand is shoved in my face.

"Don't look at me," he snaps.

I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut. "Sorry. I didn't see you. I swear. I'm not … I don't mean to mess up, I just—" I clamp my mouth shut cutting off further excuses. That's all they are.

For a few moments, we both lie in silence. I focus on his breathing and notice it's slower than it was before when he was mad at me. Does that mean I’m forgiven? 

"Dacian?" I ask, curious of his response. Will he huff, or has he calmed?

"Hmm?" His tone is soft with a hint of sadness that is so often there.

"Why am I not allowed to look at you?"

He sighs. "I can't say."

"You can't say, or you don't want to?"

No response.

"Is it for the same reason I can't see your Mother?"

"No."

"Is it because you're disfigured?"

"I can't say." His words are tight, like he's frustrated, but I don't think his upset is directed at me.

Is he ashamed of how he looks? Bothered by something that might be different? Could he have an anomaly, like I do with my eyes? 

"Dacian?" I start again.

"Yes," his draws out, his tone emotional in a way I can't place. Agitation and a mix of something else … humor? Doubtful.

I don't let it deter me from what I have to say. It's important. "I want you to know your appearance, no matter how different it might be, won't bother me. How you look cannot and will not change the way I feel about you. I know you too well for that. I even consider you … a friend, no matter how warped that may be. I don't have many, any really unless you count my horse, Daisy. My point is, as my friend, I'd like to be able to put a face to your name. It's incredibly challenging not being able to look upon the person I spend all my time with. Can you understand that and understand that I would never judge based on your appearance?"

He's quiet for a while. Considering my request? Finally, he says, "Yes. I can understand your needs. But I can't show you myself. Not yet."

Yet? Hope blooms inside me, along with ideas I should squash at once. Have I learned nothing.

Still, I ask, "Are the rules I break to you different than the rules I break to your mother?"

"You know they are." Movement stirs around me like he's sitting up. "But don't get any ideas. There is only so much I can control."

"Can control." I shoot upright, keeping my eyes closed. "What does that mean?"

"It means no more breaking the rules," he says, his tone reprimanding in a way that almost makes me laugh.

"I don't mean to break the rules. I truly don't." I explain, wanting him to understand me better. "I've always done things my own way. It's not an excuse. It's a habit. I wasn't raised to think my defiant nature is bad. If anything, my mother praised me for it. Passionate and fearless, is how she described me. And when kids in the village ridiculed me for my unusual eyes, she me the difference made me special. I am sorry for the trouble I've caused you, and I am thankful for your help. You saved me last night from agonizing pain and you saved me again today. I will try to be more like the other maidens."

I cross my legs under my dress and fold my hands together in my lap, my head high and my eyes sealed.

"I never asked you to do that." He whispers in my ear, suddenly at my side.

My breath hitches, and I fight the urge to open my eyes out of surprise. "You're so quiet."

"When I want to be."

"But you don't want me to be like other maidens?"

"I want you to be like you." His warm breath flutters my hair.

"I don't understand."

He slides away, his presence gone from my side. "I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry I did."

"You don't have to apologize to me. You had every reason to yell. I keep messing up. I promise I'll try harder. I'll be better. A better me. Not like the other maidens." He said he didn't want that. "But better than I was."

He makes a soft noise, similar to a chuckle.

I turn my cheek toward the sound. "Did you just laugh?"

"I think I did."

"You think?" He doesn't know?

"Laughter has never been a part of my life." His tone dips to something somber. "Most maidens are filled with sorrow, always crying and begging me to free them. When they're not sad, they're terrified of breaking a rule and becoming enslaved for a year, which always results in death." He pauses. "You are different in so many ways. It gives me hope."

7 Fated Days to Go!

Your nightly reading has arrived! This chapter gets to me everytime a read it. Waterworks galore. Read it and weep ... or cringe ... or laugh--if you're into that kind of thing. 

CHAPTER SIX

Outside the cottage, Dacian takes my arm by the crook of my elbow and leads me through the woods.

I keep my head lowered and my eyes on the dark ground. We follow a narrow path. The glow of dusk turns the shrubbery we pass to a vibrant green. The beauty of the woods at sunset and sunrise used to take my breath away. Now, I fear I'll never view them in the same way.

The further we walk, the quicker my heart beats. With each step, my muscles wind tighter and the hold I have on my nerves slips.

As if Dacian feels my tension, he says, "Remember who you are doing this for. Your family. Your freedom. Do as she says without question. Follow the rules, and all will go well."

Like a mantra, I repeat the rules in my head.

Do not look at her.

Do not speak.

Follow her instruction.

Do not run away in fear.

The last one I add myself.

Sloshing sounds ahead. Is the river that close? Tremors jolt through me.

Dacian leans toward my ear. His breath flutters my hair. His hands slide up and down my forearms, warming the chill from my skin. "I must leave you now, but I won't be far away. I'll rejoin you as soon as you're on the path of deliverance."

"The what?"

"The path of the one Fated to Die," Dacian explains. "The clothing will lead you where you need to go."

We stop at the edge of the woods. Moss-covered rocks and pebbles meet my slippered-feet. I can't see the river, but I know it's only steps away by the mineral scent in the air and the sound of the moving current.

More sloshing sounds. It's loud, close. Is it her, washing the clothes, or wading to me? I shiver. Blessed Ones, watch over me. 

"Be brave," Dacian says. His hand slips from my arms, and his steps crunch the ground as he walks away.

I cling to his words. Be brave. Mother used to say I was brave. Could she have known this would be my fate, or was she just complimenting me the way she often did? Regardless, the memory offers a sense of peace. I hold onto it, imagining her by my side. "Come closer," a female says.

Her voice is mature with a regal air, nothing like the monstrous sound I expected to hear. The urge to see what she looks like builds inside me. I bow my head lower.

It's darker now. I can barely see in front of me. My slippers sink into mushy dirt and the hem of my white dress darkens with the mud. At the edge of the river, I stop and wait for more instructions.

The water looks as black as night. It ripples in my direction, and my mind conjures a different color, blood red.

A putrid scent taints the air. My stomach pitches and I fight the urge to gag.

I lift my hand to cover my nose before realizing my action and forcing it back to my side. Please don't let me have broken a rule.

My eyes and throat burn. Breathing becomes painful. Each inhale draws bile up my throat.  

The water swills and ripples in my direction. Dizziness joins my churning stomach. It's a struggle to stay upright. How much longer before I pass out or get sick?

The air grows frigid and thick as if it's turning to ice. My body quivers with such force I fear my bones will shatter. More swilling. Are those flecks of snow floating on the surface? I want to hug myself, to curl up in a ball in the mud and try to get warm. How is it so cold?

I draw in a sharp breath. It's like inhaling frost. A new scent fills the air, a floral one I recognize. Mother taught me about all the flowers in the gardens. The fragrance is strong and sweet. It belongs to hyacinths. The flower is used in the village when burying the dead.  

The air grows warmer, and my muscles relax from their shivering state.

"Reach out your hand, child," the Washer Woman says, agony ringing in her tone. "Take the garment and deliver it to its owner. Do as you are told and you shall be free come the seventh day."

Squeezing my eyes closed, I lift a shaky arm and reach for the garment, even though I want nothing to do with it.

Wet material touches my hand. I almost jerk away and have to force my fingers to grip the clothing. What is it? A dress? Shirt? Pants? Is it bloody? Am I touching blood?

I fight a shriek and keep my arm extended, not wanting the garment close to me. The material suddenly tugs, lurching me to the side. It jerks again, whirling me toward the woods, I think. I stumble and risk opening my eyes a tiny bit. Fear has me slamming them shut. Will it count as breaking a rule? I didn't see anything.

The garment draws me forward until crunching sounds under my shoes. I'm in the woods. Does that mean I can look where I’m going?

When I stumble again, almost going down, I decide it's safe to stare at my feet. I should be far enough away from the river, from her.   

The garment pulls me forward so fast I can barely keep up. Where's Dacian? He said he wouldn't be far. I want to look for him, to cry out his name. I'm unsure of what to do next, of what I can or can't do. The rules for this part haven't been said, and I’m scared. What if the garment takes me to someone I know? Someone I care about? What if it takes me to my house? Will I be able to deliver the it then?

Absolutely not. If it is between me becoming a slave or someone I love dying, I will break every rule necessary to keep them safe.

"Slow down," Dacian calls out from behind me.

"I can't."

"You can. You're strong and brave. Calm yourself. Take control." His calm, confident tone grounds me like an anchor.

I draw in a breath and another, easing the bounding of my heart. My steps slow and the garment begins guiding me rather than wrenching me along.

"See?" Dacian says, drawing closer. "By controlling your emotions, your fears, you control the task."

"I wish I could look where I’m going."

"You can." He appears at my side, mist swirling his boots.

Right. Outside he's cloaked. Inside he's not. I lift my head and focus on the trees, not the garment in my hand. Seeing what it is, whose it could be, will make this harder. Like a cut or bruise that doesn't hurt that much until you glimpse how bad it is and the pain is suddenly worse.

The woods are dark. I can barely see where the clothing is leading me. Is it glinting? My gaze darts there before I can stop it. No! Copper light outlines a blouse. The victim is a woman.

The night of my mother's claiming breaks free in my mind. The heartache of her loss. The fear and regret. I shove it back, knowing I can't do this with that nightmare circling my thoughts.

Doing what I do best, I harden myself against my emotions and imagine I’m made of stone. For once, the nickname Stone Beauty will serve me well.

"How are you doing?" Dacian asks, making me aware of our faster pace.

Oh no. I focus on slowing my breathing and therefore slowing my steps. "I'm fine."

I glance at him with a double take. I'd forgotten about the mist. 

Tall, dark, and swift, he moves through the woods like a creature of the night, graceful and agile as if he can see in the dark.

Maybe he can.

I stumble out of the trees and onto the bridge that leads to the village. I knew I'd end up here, but seeing it makes it that more real.

Fear chills my skin. I shudder.

The garment tugs me toward the quiet village. The only sound comes from the patter of my slippers on the cobblestone. The street lamps burn low, giving the village a haunted look. All the windows on all the tightly packed homes are closed, as if that will keep the curse out. It won't. I know because my arm aches from being extended, and although my steps have grown sloppy, the blouse hasn't eased one bit. It has a destination and won't stop until it's with its owner. Victim.

The garment swings right and drags me forward for a few blocks. I've never seen the village so empty of life, but then I've never visited it during the week she comes. I'd only heard about how families lock themselves inside their homes, too afraid to go outside.

My arm jerks to the right again. Four blocks this time.

"I'm tired, Dacian," I whisper.

Immediately, I feel bad. Someone is about to die, and I'm complaining about being tired.

"It's almost done. You're doing quite well. If you keep it up, things should go smoothly."

Before I can ask what he means, the blouse veers left and stops in front of a blue door. There’s only one royal blue door in town, and I know who waits on the other side.

I try to step back, but my feet feel glued to the front step.

"No." I shake my head. "I can't do this."

I glance behind me to see if Dacian is still here. He is.

"I know her."

He shushes me. "You are not to speak. Not even to me. Not in this moment."

His tone is urgent in a way that frightens me more.

I stare at the door, the brass knocker at my eye level, unsure of what to do. The rules didn't cover this part.

"Open." The voice that called to me at the ceremony slithers through the air.

I cringe.

The doorknob twists on its own.

A male inside shouts, "Don't open it." His deep voice grates with horror.

The door cracks open.

"I'll always love you." Mrs. Potterfield say over her shoulder, her voice the sweetest sound. The scent of sugar wafts from her reminding me of the bakery she owns.

It's the only shop in town that allows me to enter despite my anomalies. Mrs. Potterfield adored my mother and therefore adores me. She knows my sisters favorite treat, raspberry buns, and that I get two for them during the last week of every month.

Her sad blue eyes meet mine, the crinkles around them deepening. Her round cheeks, no longer puffed with a smile, sag with a frown.

My heart clenches. No! Not her! Not the kindest woman in the village. I won't do it. Tears flood my eyes as I try to jerk my arm away. To move my legs. Nothing works. The shirt is like a magnet pointed at its match, and I’m not strong enough to stop it.

"It's all right, dear." Mrs. Potterfield steps toward the garment. "It's not your fault." She lifts a shaky hand.

"No!" Her husband lurches forward and embraces his little round wife. "She's all I have left. Please, don't take her from me."

His plea sends me over the edge, that and the forgiveness in her eyes.

A scream wrenches from me as I use all my strength to throw myself backward. Nothing. I don't even budge.

"No!" I sob, hating myself, hating my weakness, hating this horrid curse. "Please no." I don't know who I’m crying to. The Blessed Ones. The curse. Dacian, hoping he can help me save her.

My knees shake. I wish they'd give out. No matter how hard I try to push away, to move my arm, to turn around, nothing works. 

I twist my head, the only part of me able to move, and search for Dacian, desperate for his help. He's gone. Where? Why?

"It'll be all right, my love." Mrs. Potterfield's voice jerks my head back to her. She cups her husband's cheek and kisses him. "This is how it has to be. For now. We'll meet again someday." She glances at the stars and manages a small smile.

I don't miss the deep swallow in her throat.

Mr. Potterfield shakes his head, tears sliding down his red cheeks. "If you go, I'll follow you. I can't live without you. I won't."

More sobs rip from me, choking my throat and stealing my breath. Is this how Father reacted the night Mother was taken? Is this how he felt? Helpless. Powerless. No wonder he never recovered from her loss.

If ever I wanted to destroy the Washer Woman, it's now. If I had an ax, I’d swing at her the next time we meet. I’d slice her in half and not even blink. I hate her. I hate Princess Bretta for what she did. I hate the Mystic. I hate them all!

Fingernails dig into my palm as I tighten the hold I have on the shirt. If I don’t let go, maybe she'll live. Again, I try to wrench myself down the step, away from the door, from sweet Mrs. Potterfield.

Without breaking eye contact with her husband, Mrs. Potterfield reaches for the blouse. He doesn't seem to notice she's doing it, too busy planting kisses on her cheeks, and forehead.

I open my mouth to warn him, but no sound comes out, like my vocal chords are frozen now too.

Her fingers touch the copper glinting shirt and she disappears. There's no sound. No coppery dust. No whoosh of air. Nothing, as if she and the shirt were never here. 

Her husband stays bent over, kissing the air before realizing his wife is gone from his arms. His gaze slides to me. Aguish flashes in his eyes, then his skin reddens as rage sets over his face.

I stumble back, surprised I can move.

"You!" He points at me as he stalks down the step. "I will never forgive you. Never!"

I flinch and trip, falling onto my tailbone. "I'm s-sorry," I cry. "I didn't want her to die. I loved her. I never would have—"

"Silence!" Dacian appears in a whirl of mist.

Mr. Potterfield jumps back into his house, his features wide with fear. He slams his door.

A second later, pain stabs my skin like a thousand shards of ice. I scream and collapse onto the cobblestone road.

"I told you not to speak," Dacian scolds. He shoves his hands under my back and knees.

The pain grows stronger, like the shards of ice are penetrating my bones. My muscles clamp tighter. My blood burns like it's freezing in my veins. Violent tremors wrack my body.

A whimper escapes my chattering teeth.

Help me. Help me.

"Hang on." Dacian's voice breaks through the haze of pain. "We're almost there."

The coldness reaches my head, tightening around it like an icy crown.  

Too much. It's too much.

8 Days Left of FATED TO DIE

Yollo. Ollo. Ello. Hello. Yes, I'm losing it but only slightly. I promise to be better after this weekend. I hope you're liking the story and questions are starting to fill your mind. Not confusing ones, the good kind. The kind that make you want to read more. 

As promised, another chapter. Finally, we're getting closer to the Washer Woman and her big reveal. Hopefully big. LOL. Enjoy!

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Curious and maybe a little angry that Dacian left, I try the door. As soon as I clutch the handle, the plant on the shelf comes to life. The leaves flap, and two in the center part like a mouth opening. High-pitched squawking blasts throughout the cottage.

I cover my ears and cringe. The room darkens back to its dismal, grungy appearance.

"I’m sorry," I shout over the squawking, apologizing to the plant and the cottage. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

I back up across the room and huddle in the corner, my hands still pressed to my ears.

The plant finally calms down. The leaves fall, curving in a natural way.  

Slowly, I straighten and lower my hands from my ears. Ahh. The silence.

Deciding never to do that again, I take slow steps to the chair and ease onto the lumpy cushion. The title on the book twinkles in gold. The Royal Family. Does the cottage want me to read it? The book is the only constant in this ever-changing space. With nothing else to do but wait for Dacian to return, I pull the heavy book onto my lap and begin reading.

The story is about the monarchy that ended a century ago. I learned about it in history lessons. Queen Alys and her sister Princess Bretta were rare beauties, though different in every way. Alys was fair skinned with strawberry blond hair, which is common among our people. Bretta's skin was olive and her hair as dark as night. Their personalities were opposites too. While Alys was kind and gentle, Bretta was jealous and hot-tempered.

Tired of being second to her sister, Bretta sought a Mystic who had been exiled from the village by the late king for practicing dark magic. She made a deal with him, promising to welcome him back to the village as her private Seer if he would curse the queen to lose the throne to Bretta.

The Mystic agreed, but only if the princess made him her Royal Commander, a position Bretta had already promised to her lover. When she countered with the offer of Royal Seer or nothing at all, the Mystic cursed the village instead, causing us all to suffer.

Every Summer Solstice when the Washer Woman rises, it's a harsh reminder of Bretta's betrayal to her sister, the crown, the village, and the scorned Mystic.

Some people believe the Washer Woman is courteous, often choosing elders or the sickly as her victims. I know otherwise. If she were kind, she wouldn't have chosen my mother, a woman whose sole existence was to please and care for her family. There wasn’t a selfish bone in my mother's body. She wasn't ill nor was she old when the Messenger delivered Mother's blood-stained blouse to our manor.

If I had been the one to answer the door, I would have burned the blouse and knocked the Messenger unconscious. Maybe I would’ve kept her prisoner in the barn until the Washer Woman returned to her home under the river.

My muscles clench with a potent mix of anger and guilt. If only I'd been stronger, back then. Wiser.

A thought crosses my mind. I close the book and sit taller in the chair.

I can't change the past, but maybe I can change the future. Fate chose me as Messenger for a reason. Mother always said I was special. Could my destiny be to seek vengeance for my mother's death by destroying the Washer Woman? I've never thought of myself as a violent person, but perhaps I could do it to save my sisters and innocents in the village who are Fated to Die.

No one has ever broken a rule with the Washer Woman and survived, but has anyone tried to destroy her? Is it even possible?

The leaves on the plant point at me, as if it knows what I’m thinking.

Tensing, I wait to see what it does. Release that deafening squawk? Spit poison at me?

The big leaf at the top moves up and down like it's nodding.

I gulp. It can hear my thoughts.

A moment later, the leaves soften to their restful position.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Such a strange place.

Clearing my mind, I set the book on the table and stand to stretch my stiff legs.

A knock sounds on the door, two quick raps.

I turn away and close my eyes.

The door creaks open and footsteps fall onto the wood floors.

"Dacian?" I ask.

"You're not wearing your blindfold," he says, shuffling closer to me.

"Should I be?"

"You turned around. You're learning. Whether you are ready to face my mother remains to be seen. We are out of time to train you, and you cannot wear the mask in her presence."

I lift my head but keep my eyes closed. "Why is that? So I'm more likely to break a rule?"

"Are your eyes closed?" he asks instea, spuring my frustration.

I smash my lips together and give a curt nod.

"Good. Keep them closed. I'm coming around to the front of you."

A shadow blocks the small amount of light shining behind my closed eyelids. The scent of cloves hits me next. I lift my face to where his would be before realizing what I’m doing.

Hands brush my long hair behind my shoulders.  "Do you never wear your hair up?"

"Does it bother you down?" I ask, hopeful. It'd be nice to have something over him since he has so many things over me.

"No." His voice is soft. "If it were up, I couldn't enjoy the pale shade and soft curls as much as I do. It is lovely, though uncustomary. Proper maidens don't wear their hair down. Not the ones I've known."

My back stiffens. It's a compliment yet it feels like an insult. The kids in the village used to say similar things.  Maybe not in such a nice way. Still, it sits wrong with me. That and the idea of him with other maidens. His job is to care for them. It shouldn't bother me. Still, I can't keep from saying, "I bet you've known many maidens in your lifetime." Bitterness laces my tone. Goodness. What is my problem?  

"Sadly, yes. More than I care to have known. They didn't deserve to be here any more than you do." He tugs the sleeves to my dress, startling me.

I lean away. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you look your best for when you greet—"

"Your mother," I mutter chest tight with fear.

"I was going to say the Washer Woman." The skirt to my dress pulls like he's straightening wrinkles.

I almost open my eyes to make sure he gets them all.  To ensure I don't, I lift my face to the ceiling.

A puff of air brushes my skin, alerting me that he's close, looming over me. I can feel his gaze on my face. It makes me wonder what his eyes are like. Big? Slanted? Animallike? Human? When I first met him, they glowed silver. Are they like that all the time or do they change? Father says my eyes get darker when I'm angry and that Mother's did the same.

The logical part of my brain says I should be afraid of him, but I’m not. Perhaps, it's his gentle nature or the sadness in his tone. He seems lonely. Is his face, human or not, as expressive as his voice? I may never know.

He tucks a stray hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing my cheek with a touch so light it could have been a butterfly wing. Had he meant to do it, or was it an accident? Why do I care?

My skin tingles where he touched it in the most pleasant way. I stop myself from cupping my cheek. I don't want him to know what I’m thinking or feeling. Helpful or not, I have no reason to trust him, even if he did give me permission to speak.

"Have you ever cared for one of the maidens in your keep?" I'm only asking to get a better feel for his character and see if he's capable of deeper emotions. It's harmless.

"It is my job to care for them while they stay in the cottage."

"But have you ever cared for one of them in here?" In a bold move, I place my hand on his chest, hoping it's near his heart.  

He makes a small gasp but doesn't back away or remove my hand.

Light thumping pulses under my palm. My lips part with a smile. "Your heart beats like mine."

"That's because I am human, regardless of the curse. And no. I have not held affection for any of the maidens in my keep. I am forbidden to care for them beyond my duties." Sorrow and frustration ring in his tone, and I find myself wanting to soothe him.

"How are you young? The curse has been around for a century."

His hand slips from mine. "What makes you think I'm young?"

"You sound it, and you sound a little torn. Most people my—our?—age are. It's hard to always do what is expected of you. I imagine it'd be more fun to go where the moment takes you once in a while."

Air brushes my cheek. Is he about to touch my face again?

"I am seventeen," he says to my surprise, not because of his age, but because he answered my question directly. "I have never opened my heart to another. Never courted a girl. Never kissed one." Soft fingers glide across my cheek down to my chin, that pleasant tingle following his touch.

"Would you like to try a kiss on me?" I ask. The offer is to win him over, If I can get him to fall for me, to trust me, I can use him to help me carry out my plan of ridding the village of the curse.

"Yes." He answers in a whisper, the yearning in his voice making him sound grateful for the offer.

My heart flutters against my will. I should not be excited. I should be scared. He says he's human, but that doesn't mean he looks like one. He could be part animal with sharp teeth. I didn't think this through.

I open my mouth to take back the offer.

 "But I won't," he says before I can speak. " Not now. Perhaps not ever." Would you like me to repeat the rules before I take you to meet her?" His voice sounds distant like he's moved away.

I nod and try my hardest to focus on his words, but my emotions keep budding in. Why did he refuse my kiss? I've been told I'm pleasing in appearance. Tristin thought so, and I've caught boys in the village staring at me when they think no one is looking. I might be able to tempt one of them to kiss me despite the jaunts, but not Dacian. Not the boy whose soft voice is like a song I long to hear, whose touch is as gentle as a whisper, whose calm demeanor makes me want to scream at him until he's as angry as I am. Maybe then he'll understand how frustrating it is to be held captive, and by someone you can't look at, or how heart-wrenching it is not to tell your family you're all right, when you know they fear the worst.

I don’t even know I’m shaking my head until Dacian's hands cup my cheeks. "You need to rid yourself of that inner fire before meeting her. She will not turn a blind eye to it."

Inner fire. The comment bites at me, bringing back old memories. "My grandmother used to talk about me in that way. She said, I have too much fire in my soul. My mother always disagreed, calling it passion, but Grandmother never saw it that way. To her, I was unacceptable.  To the village and Council, I'm unacceptable, yet it's fine for them to ridicule me for my differences, as well as sacrifice innocent maidens to the curse. How is that fair?"

Hurt and anger claw at my throat, threatening to break my composure. I swallow them down.

He lifts my face and his clove scent brushes my nose. I squeeze my lashes tight fighting the urge to open my eyes.

"You are unlike anyone I've ever met," he murmurs. "Strong-willed and fierce. While admirable, both traits will get you killed. Do as I say, and perhaps you will be the first girl to live through this and reclaim her freedom. I'd so hate one as special as you to lose the battle before it even begins."

His words seem genuine. I wish I could believe him.

"I'm not special. If I were, I wouldn't be here." Isn't that what Tristin said?

His hands leave my face. "Have you read the book?"

"Book?" It takes me a second to catch up. "The Royal family. Yes. I did a little. It's nothing I don't already know."

"I promise you there is a lot more in it than what you think you know. Special things a girl with two different colored eyes should want to know."

My head snaps in the direction of the table, my gaze wide on the book.

"Do not move," Dacian says, tone grave. The wood floor creaks with his footsteps.

"What happened?" I whisper.

From a fair distance behind me, he says, "Your eyes are open. That you are unaware of it is most concerning. One mistake, one rule broken, and you will not be the special girl I believe you to be."

From my peripheral, I spy his tall dark form in the corner. So tempting. I force my eyes close and curse myself for the stupid mistake. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be focused. It's time to go."

He's right. I need to be strong, stronger than I've ever had to be, so I can get through this and do what must be done. Fear dances at the edge of my mind, threatening to take over. I breathe through my nerves and harden my emotions the way I do before entering town. I can do this. I must.

Drawing on every ounce of courage inside me, I straighten my spine and say, "Take me to her."