Page 60 of Once Upon an Enchanted Castle

“There is a writing desk in his bedchamber you can make use of. You should be able to find parchment and a quill and inkwell there as well.”

She hadn’t seen it when she entered the room, but then, her sole focus was on Leopold lying ashen-faced in the bed.

“Thank you, Dickens.”

As she turned to go, his voice stopped her. “I do hope you find the answer, my lady.”

“So do I, Dickens. So do I.”

He didn’t offer to escort her back to his room. She was able to find her way alone. She headed back up the stairs, the blue-white candelabra following her the whole way. She paused at the door, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, and then she pushed open his door and entered once again.

He continued to sleep. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in deep.

On silent feet, she walked into the room, closing the door and heading through the chamber. The heavy curtains on the window blocked out all the light, not that there was any to block. She headed for the writing desk Dickens mentioned. A pile of books were haphazardly stacked on the floor to the side of the desk. The top was cluttered with papers, scrolls, more books, unopened letters, invitations to long-ago balls that had gone unanswered. A navy coat hung over the back of the chair as if he had put it there only moments ago.

The unlit hearth was cold and dark. She peered at it a long moment as she recalled when he told her the tale of his cursing in his private sitting room. How he said one word, and it sprang to life. She clutched her elbows, warding off a shiver. The room was chilled. So, she approached the hearth, peering down at the gray and black ash that was under the grate.

“Fire, please,” she whispered.

And moments later, the hearth lit with a crackling, vibrant fire that immediately warmed the room.

She smiled, pleased. “Good. Now, keep it going.”

Turning back to the room, her gaze swept over it. The ornate wardrobe carved in a flowing elegance was to one side. The door was left ajar, as though someone reached for something in haste and forgot to close it. A pair of boots sat nearby, polished and perfect yet with a scuffed bottom, worn from pacing or walking halls he rarely let himself leave. Shoes and clothes of a man who kept himself together on the inside, even as he frayed on the outside.

There were no portraits here. No tapestries or family heirlooms here. No crown on display. No reminders of his distant past. Nothing to show he was once a prince.

But that wasn’t right, was it? Dickens called him prince, but Leopold was truly a king. When his father was killed, he had taken the crown of the kingdom—a kingdom that now only existed in books of myth and legend. The remnants of it swept away into the shards of the past.

This place, this room with its solemn quiet and palpable loneliness, was his throne room. Even the light moved differently here as it dragged across the rug-covered floor in long, sweeping lines. The way the shadows stalked him. He called himself a recluse. But she had met him in daylight. In a bookshop. Surrounded by stories. Was it coincidence? Or something more?

Fate, perhaps.

She wasn’t here by accident. She felt that now, deep in her essence. She was meant to be here, just as she was meant to find the rose among the thorns.

Bella shook herself out of her thoughts and tidied up the desk to give her enough space to work. When she had all the loose papers neatly stacked and put aside, she returned to the chair beside the bed to pick up the cursed book. As she approached, he emitted a faint moan, as though he were in pain.

She halted there, frozen mid-reach as her gaze landed on him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He still breathed but his face was contorted in pain. Despite her better judgement, she moved to the side of the bed. A desperate need to touch him skipped through her.

Leaning down, she intended to whisper to him, to let him know she was there, to give him that comfort. As she did, he lifted his hand and touched her cheek, as though he sensed her nearness. His skin was cold, clammy and yet the moment he touched her, every part of her sang in elation.

His eyes fluttered open, meeting hers. Her breath halted, pooling deep in her chest as they locked eyes. Her pounding heart throbbed, and she was certain he heard it, too. As he looked at her, she saw there such deep, raw emotion it nearly ripped her in half. His features softened. His hand brushed over her cheek again, sliding to the back of her neck and resting there, tugging her closer with a gentle nudge.

She did not resist him.

Oh, he was going to kiss her. She sensed this deep within her and suddenly it was her dearest wish. To feel his lips brush against hers when she had only felt them on her hand. The breath she held shuddered out of her.

“Bella.” Her whispered name was on his lips as though it were a longing.

But he made no move to pull her closer.

“Yes?” she finally said, her voice trembling.

He didn’t answer. His eyes fluttered closed, and his hand dropped as though all strength left him in a rush. In moments, he was asleep once more. The absence of his hand on her cheek left her mourning the loss of his touch.

She straightened, trying to calm her ragged breathing and the wild beat of her heart. She pressed her hand there, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. It was stilly to think he was going to kiss her. She shoved away the thought, then snatched the book. She hurried to the desk and got to work.

Bella did not know how long she hunched over the desk, writing and scribbling and scratching out words. She was no closer to solving the strange language than she was that morning. Frustration edged through her. She tossed the quill on the desk in annoyance.

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