Book One: The Marigold's Larkspur ~ A tale of mystery, magic, and obsession.

Chapter Five

The jail cell was not cold, at least.

Even as Cressida sat on the empty floor, the thin fabric of her nightdress pressed against the rough wall, her bare feet pressed against the stone brick, she wasn't cold.

She had the hot climate of Ashlar to thank for that.

Or perhaps the fact that summer season had begun, warming the night from the day's residual heat.

Or perhaps she was in shock.

Her eyes scanned the small cell for the tenth time, searching for any sort of distraction.

Directly in front of Cressida was a wall of vertical and horizontal iron bars, separating her from a larger room filled with at least twenty identical cells. All empty as far as she could tell. She hadn't exactly gotten a good look when the guards led her into the cell, and it was far too dark to see inside them from her position on the ground.

The walls to her back and sides were made of seamless bumpy granite, and the floor was made of laid grey bricks divided by rough black mortar.

Cressida's cell was entirely bare of furniture, save for a medium sized wooden bucket tipped on its side in one corner. If you could call that furniture. She supposed she could flip it over and sit on it, but she knew that was far from its intended purpose. Luckily, she hadn't been in the cell long enough to have to use it for that.

The sound of a distant door slam caused Cressida to jump. She thickly swallowed and wrapped her night shawl tightly around her shoulders.

She raised her eyes to the cell door, and fixed her posture, waiting to see if anyone was coming. After a few moments of agonized silence, she let out a slow breath through clenched teeth, and relaxed her back against the wall once again.

Her fingers drummed on her sternum against the fabric of her shawl.

What was going on?

What was she supposed to do?

The guards who had escorted her – in the loosest definition of the word - had not been forthcoming with information despite her frenzied attempts to get a clear answer.

They simply told her she was under arrest, and then dragged her barefoot through the halls.

At least the floors had been clean.

Even the jail cell was spotless.

There was a long, thin, rectangular window at the very top of the back wall, letting in a sliver of moonfall which bathed the cell in dusty grey light.

Cressida extended her hand, catching the moonlight in her palm. She clenched her hand into a fist and played with the way the light reflected on her nails.

How long had she been here? It felt infinitely longer than it was, but it had to have been only an hour. Perhaps even less, although every minute felt like eternity when she didn't know what was going on.

Cressida wasn't cold, but a chill ran through her regardless of the temperature in the cell. It started in her chest, until it spread, peppering rough goosebumps on the skin of each limb. She wrapped her arms around herself once more, curling into the soft fabric of her shawl, glad for its comfort.

It was completely silent save for the sound of crickets and other night creatures singing their songs of freedom. The window must not have had any glass, because she felt a gentle breeze play with the fringes of her night shawl. She raised her head, looking upwards to where the window was placed on the wall, marveling at how the wind could have possibly reached her.

"Princess Cressida." A smooth, viola-like voice rang through the air.

Cressida jerked, jolting to her feet like she had been struck by lightning. Her eyes darted to the source of the sound. A dark figure stood to the far left of the cell door in one of the shadows cast by the large iron bars.