Growing Up and Other Tall Tales

Chapter 52

"So this is the little princess."

I blink and try to at least garner the basic physical features of the woman, no, a girl leaning over me. It's like trying to look through the haze of flames, my field of sight is as stable as ripples on water. Distracted by my inability to not visually register by surroundings, I ignore the ringing noise in my ears. Church bells.

Wincing, I try to get onto my knees while holding my ears and curling into a fetal position.

And then she crashes her fist against the side of my head, the way someone would hit a broken TV until it worked. I groan but the ringing stops and a little more blinking lets me properly look at her.

It's a blinding sight. She had white locks framing an angular face, hair that dissolved into the background that was only a shade lighter. Her face is as fair as her hair, and the red lipstick slathered over her full lips makes her look almost animated. Something out of Alice in Wonderland. She's adorned in white: a white dress as if it was molded out of her skin. But despite her Elsa get-up, what held my gaze were her eyes, framed by snow dusted eyelashes. Electric blue with rings of gold-green. I think I've seen that before.

Also, I'm cold.

Very, very, cold.

"Hello princess," she says quietly

Hi?

"What do you want?" I manage

"Where's your mommy, princess?"

Stop calling me that.

Who are you? Where am I? What the fuck is this?

Elsa. The North Pole. My forthcoming doom.

"She died. A long time ago."

"I don't think so."

"I don't care." I shoot back and then internally writhe a little bit: probably not the best move to make

She smiles. And something sharp, something cold tilts my chin up. Her face moves in closer and I smell nothing. Either that or my nose has been blocked by the cold and I'm rapidly losing awareness of my vital senses.

"Maidera Jane Adara. Ring any bells?"

"The only bells that are ringing in my head are from the concussion you gave me." I tell her, my fingers sought out something to lean against

"You've got quite the mouth on you," and a blade presses against my mouth

"Believe it or not, you are not the first person to tell me that."

She sighs and the sits on the floor beside me, her face hardens a second before soothing out into her natural callousness. And then I see why. She's very, very pregnant. The knife twirls in her fingers glinting mischievously.

"Lyra Donovan," my name rolls in her tongue as if she's tasting it on her lips; like wine or tamarind, "You are going to tell me everything."