The Beauty of Mist, the Beast of Dawn {INDEFINITE HOLD}

Chapter 10: The Prince

"Hello there, Princeling. We need to talk." It is that voice, the voice that has haunted me since it cursed me.

I wriggle, attempting to free myself from the witch's grasp. "Why are you here?"

"Because we must talk, of course. Did I not just establish that seconds ago?"

I roll my eyes. The witch ignores my gesture. "And because I bear a gift."

"A gift," I echo skeptically. I do not demand it to be handed over as I would have when I was eight. I merely study here, waiting for her to crack. Despite my best efforts, she does not.

"Yes, Luka. A gift. Is that truly too difficult to believe?"

"A little, seeing as last time you cursed me."

She chuckles dryly. "Touché. Somehow, I still imagined you'd be more eager for this encounter. You have found information on me, have you not?"

"Indeed, I have been doing my research."

"Care to tell me what you've discovered? I can fill in any gaps."

I do tell her. I tell her everything I know about her name, her past life, her family, her magic. Her death. She tells me about her family, her sacrifices, and how hard it was for her to let them go. We discuss the price she paid and her witchcraft. By the end of our conversation, all of the fragments that are this mysterious witch are pieced together. Everything fits; everything feels right.

"My time is almost up," she says, and I know our exchange is about to end. "So, it is time you are given your gift. Unless you wish to refuse it." It appears as if she is raising her brow from underneath her hood, but it is still as impossible as ever to tell.

"No, I do not wish to refuse it," I reply coolly. Calmly. The last thing I want is to appear overeager. Excited. Greedy. Everything I am supposed to be. Everything 'the Beast' is supposed to be. "Any gift from you would be greatly appreciated."

She nods her head to herself, almost in recognition. "So, you are learning. But for all the wrong reasons."

Of course, I think to myself. Of course she would call me out on it.

"Still," she continues, "it should prolong the curse, hinder its effects. For now. It will not last, not when your behavior worsens. Not when your rages grow from rain showers to storms."

Her need to wax poetic chafes, and although I feel the need to defend myself, I do not speak. I have learned by now that my words often do more harm than good.

"As for your gift," she finally says, "I must clarify. It is not my gift to you, not completely at any rate. It is from your mother."

"My mother?"

"Yes, Princeling. Your mother. This was hers." With a flourish, she reaches into the empty air before her and pulls out a mirror. She hands it to me, gently, and I study it.

The hand mirror is simple in shape, basic with smooth, even edges, yet the designs engraved into the frame are anything but. Elaborate vines climb the handle, twisting and tangling, racing for the top. They are met by four roses and a single, lavender jewel. In the jewel, I can feel a benign presence. I can feel her. My mother's laugh, my mother's smile, the twinkle in her eyes—I can feel it all even though I never met her. I take the moment to stroke the gem before I turn the mirror over with the same gentleness as the witch had.

I hear a sharp intake of breath and whip my head around wildly until I realize it is only my own. Slowly, I return my gaze to the mirror. Etched into its back is a monogrammed "D" embellished by roses. If the lavender jewel is not enough proof of ownership, this "D" certainly  is. D is for Dalilah. For the late queen. For the mother I never met.