Page 55 of Once Upon an Enchanted Castle

“I can’t tell you,” Bella finally said, her voice quiet. “But I want to. I want to tell you everything, Em, but I…I cannot. It’s not my story to tell.”

Emmaline rushed to her then, reaching for her and taking her hands. She squeezed them. “Don’t go back, miss. I can see the burden this translation has placed upon you. You haven’t slept well in days.”

She wanted to tug her hands free but refrained. “How do you know that?”

“Your eyes are tired. And I fear that returning to this castle will cause you more harm. Don’t go,” she pleaded.

This time, she did pull her hands free as she turned away, focusing on a yellow dress with tiny white daisies. “It’s not that simple, Em. I wish it were. I have to go. I have to finish the translation.”

As she said it, a low and ragged whisper breathed through the room. Emmaline’s head snapped toward the book, her eyes wide and round. She heard it, too. The sound still lingered, coiling in the silence like smoke—not a voice exactly, but intent. Present. Listening.

“That book is cursed,” she said, her voice rough. The fear was evident in her features.

Bella remained silent. If she acknowledged that the book was, in fact, cursed…well, she didn’t want to take a chance Emmaline would leverage the help of Gerald and Edith to keep her here in this house. Shehadto see about Leopold. She had to know if he was all right. She focused her attention on the yellow dress and then reached for it.

“I have to go,” was all she said as she held the gown out to Emmaline.

The girl had no more objections as she helped her dress and pin her hair into a low chignon. Then she pulled on her bonnet and her gloves and picked up the book.

“I’ll be back by nightfall.”

“Promise?” she asked.

Bella nodded and gave her a reassuring file. “You have my word.”

The carriage ride seemed to take an eternity. Bella peered out the window the entire time, watching the landscape flash by and silently urging the driver to go faster. Worry gnawed at her. Worry for Leopold.

When she arrived, he did not greet her at the door as he usually did. Instead, it was Dickens waiting for her. He waited on the stoop, apprehension creasing his features, indicating the situation must be dire.

As soon as the carriage came to a halt, she was out of it, not waiting for the footman to help her down. She clutched the book to her chest as she came face to face with Dickens. His dark eyes glittering with concern met hers.

“Come with me, my lady,” he said, as though expecting her question.

She followed him inside the castle, the door closing with a soft snick behind her. Dickens went to the stairs and headed up and then down the hallway—the same way she had gone when she found Leopold’s private sitting room with the hourglass that ticked away every day of his life.

But moved beyond that, down the long corridor that was dimly lit with overhead candelabras casting the blue-white light down onto the floor covered by an ostentatious patterned runner. With every step they went deeper into the castle, her pulse raced harder. Drumming a fast rhythmic beat.

Dickens paused at a closed door with iron hinges. With his hand on the knob, he turned to her.

“He is…not well, my lady,” he said, almost sounding as if it were a warning.

“He was injured last night,” she said. “I saw it happen.”

He nodded, his face solemn. “It will be difficult for you to see him like this. But he asked I bring you to him the moment you arrived.”

Her mouth turned to ash. “He did?”

Nodding, Dickens turned the knob and pushed open the door. She got her first glimpse of what mystery lay behind that threshold.

His chamber was large but dim, draped in shadow even in the light of day, though the light of day never really touched this castle. Tall lancet windows stretched along one wall, veiled with heavy midnight blue curtains to block out what light seeped into the room. A small slash escaped between an opening, leaving a puddle of light on the floor covered in a thick garnet rug.

A hearth flickered with warm, yellow light, casting its shadows across the room and splashing toward the bed. The large bed dominated the far wall. It was a massive four-poster of dark oak carved into a motif of vines and thorns that twisted along the footboard, headboard and posts. Amber light illuminated his ashen face where he lay propped up against a mound of pillows, the layered bed linens tucked neatly under his arms. A thick bandage was across his chest and abdomen, the only covering, tinged red from blood.

The brand on his arm was red and angry. She recalled seeing it the night before beneath his fur when he was in the form of the beast.

She halted there a long moment, stiff and panic-stricken as she watched for signs of life. But then she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept.

The space felt too large for one man. A faint scent of cedar, old magic, and bloodied linen hung in the air. Books lay stacked nearby. Some open, some face-down as if abandoned mid-thought. One chair, pulled close to the bedside, still bore the shape of someone having recently sat there. Dickens, no doubt. The room was quiet, but not peacefully so. It was the silence of waiting, of recovering, of regret.

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