Page 65 of Once Upon an Enchanted Castle

She was stunned. “Thank you, Gerald.”

“Do get some rest, my lady. You look exhausted.”

With that, he left her standing in the foyer shocked to the soles of her slippers. It took several moments for her to regain her senses. He didn’t understand she had no time for sleep, though he was correct in that she was exhausted. Fatigue pounded through her, making her weary. Somehow, she found the energy to push onward through it all.

She glanced down at the letter in her hand desperate to read what her father had to say and hurried to the library where she shut the door, enclosing herself in deafening silence.

The window was still boarded, but the glass was cleaned up. She placed her things on the writing desk and quickly lit the candles to give the room a warm glow. Then she sat and stared down at the letter with the Port Leclare seal. Taking a deep breath, she broke the seal.

The penmanship was not his normal, careful script. It looked as though he hastily scribed or was under duress. Ink blotches appeared along the page and a few scratch-outs existed here and there.

When her father arrived back in Port Leclare, he was immediately taken into custody. He was in a portside jail awaiting the formal inquiry to conclude. Then he would appear in front of the local magistrate to attempt to clear his name. They suspected he was a smuggler of some type of contraband. His crew was dispersed. The manifest confiscated. His accounts seized. His merchant license suspended.

It was worse than she thought. Her hands shook as she read the last few lines.

I begged to write this letter to you so you would hear from me the situation. By now, I’m sure the gossipmongers are doing their swift work. I did not do these terrible things, Bella. I am not a smuggler and would never put our livelihood at risk, nor would I put our reputation in jeopardy. But I fear this terrible misunderstanding will have cataclysmic consequences for both of us. I hope you can forgive me.

Stay in Hawthorne Hall for as long as you can. Do not come to the port to see me. I will not have you be a part of this abhorrent situation, too.

Numb. She was numb. There was no other word for how she felt at the moment as she read her father’s letter. Lord Vincent didn’t tell her he had been apprehended. Perhaps to save her feelings.

What was she to do now? He didn’t want her in port. She understood that, and she agreed with his assessment. If she showed her face in the port, then she would face ridicule and haughty derision from the locals. Her father had carefully built his merchant reputation over the years and now it was in tatters.

She stared down at the cursed book, certain it was to blame for all the ill will that came to her and her father. With a careful hand, she refolded the letter and placed it aside, then reached for the book.

Her hands still shook as she cracked it open to the last page she was studying before she left Leopold’s. Now, she was determined more than ever to find the answer and be rid of the book forever.

Silence encircled her. The only sounds were that of her shallow breathing and the scratching of her quill against the parchment, pausing only to dip it into the inkwell. The clink of the tip against the glass seemed deafening in the quiet.

Her hand wrote furiously, scratched out, wrote furiously again. As she peered at the runes, they seemed to move and transform before her eyes. As through rearranging when she was close to a breakthrough. If she didn’t know any better, she suspected the book did not want her to find the answers buried there amongst the thorns.

Dropping the quill, she sat back in the chair, immense frustration edging through her. She covered her face with her hands, the hot tears pounding her eyes and threatening to fall. It took all her self-control not to swipe the book and the parchment with her notes to the floor.

She shoved up from the chair and paced the small confines of the room. Her back and neck muscles were stiff. Her hands ached from the tight grip she had on the quill. Her fingers were stained with ink.

The hope she would find something useful in the final translation of Lord Vincent’s book diminished when she completed it. The story was nothing more than a child’s bedtime fairytale. It did not aid in her translation of the cursed book at all. Another irritation.

What was she missing? What was she not seeing? There had to besomethingthat eluded her. She halted there in the middle of the room, clutching her elbows and glaring at the book still open on the desk, the parchment next to it.

As she stared at it from across the room, she thought she heard a puff of breath. Then the parchment next to the book stirred. She remained where she was, frozen in place, as her eyes went wide and round.

There appeared to be faint movement on the page. As if the thorny vines and brambles shifted.

It had to be her imagination. She rubbed her tired eyes. She should retire and try again tomorrow. Forget about this cursed book for the rest of the night.

Outside, the mournful wail of the wolf’s howl.

She glanced at the boarded window, expecting something to barrel through it. The beast. Or perhaps anotherveil-shade.But nothing happened. Nothing else stirred.

The candlelight flickered over the page, the shadows dancing across the aged paper. Again, she thought she saw the twisting vines moving across the page. And then it formed a word followed by an eerie whisper. As though it rearranged itself for her while she stared.

Tentatively, she moved closer, still clutching her elbows. When she was close, she peered down at the page. The word appeared before her tired eyes.

When

That was all. Nothing more.

Excitement pumped through her. She reached for the quill slowly hoping the book did not see her do it. Holding her breath, she picked up the pen and then inched closer to the desk. Standing behind the chair, she waited.

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