Barracks (War of Hearts)

27- Sleep

In the dim candlelight, I surrender to the embrace of sleep, my mind a tempest of tangled thoughts. The night whispers secrets, and I listen—each murmur a thread weaving through my consciousness. When dawn's feeble light creeps through the casement, it finds me weary, my thoughts like unruly steeds galloping in every direction.

Alone in my chamber, I unfurl my plans for the day. 

The queen's sanctum beckons. The grimoire is my priority. 

Melissa's true identity is puzzle I want to put together. There has to be something I am not able to figure. 

Anastasia dances on the precipice of danger and I want to help her. But it is the monster—the shadow that prowls the castle's hidden corridors—that gnaws at my resolve. Its malevolence clings to the stones, whispering ancient curses. I vow to shield her, even if it means crossing the abyss. 

And then there is Vermont—the elusive kingdom rumored to possess answers etched in starlight. 

Yet survival trumps all. Each breath feels costly, as if the very air conspires against me. My pulse echoes the castle's heartbeat. I smooth my hair, the bruise on my jaw fading like a waning moon. The pain is a reminder that I must be cautious.

As I gaze into the tarnished mirror, a movement flickers—a phantom in the glass. Cecile, ethereal and inscrutable, perches on the bed. 

"How did you get in here?" My voice quivers, for her presence defies reason.

She grins, eyes like shards of moonstone. "Missed me, did you?"

"What do you want?" My fingers clench the brush. Cecile's proximity is perilous; her motives veiled in mist.

"This is my place," she purrs. "Why feign surprise?"

"Reveal your true identity," I press.

Her laughter tinkles like wind chimes. "You believe I am a shapeshifter. Oh, please Dear. Be more creative."

If not a shapeshifter, then what? "You brought me here?"

"Always by your side," she murmurs. "Across lifetimes, through veils."

My breath hitches. Impossible. "This is illusion."

Cecile leans closer. "Illusion, reality—what matters? You're bound to me."

I turn to the empty bed, my heart a caged bird. Have I conversed with shadows? Perhaps Hatti is right: my dormant powers strain against their chains, threatening to rend my sanity. Survival demands more than breath—it demands mastery of the unseen. 

I decide to soothe my senses before leaving the room through a bath. The sundrop flower given to me by Melissa, exudes an otherworldly fragrance—not of my liking. As I immerse myself in the bath, the water embraces me, its liquid tendrils lulls promises of clarity until I fall asleep.

But the dream ensnares me. In it, I thrash, voiceless, until bubbles form in the water. My lungs ignite, flames licking at my resolve. Desperation drives me upward, breaking the surface and the dream. Yet, instead of air, I find myself submerged in the water—an impossible paradox.

No mortal logic can explain this aqueous torment. My trembling hands seek answers, but they elude me like wraiths in moon-misted forests. I search the room for my killer but there is no one.

Dripping, I stagger from the tub, heart a leaden weight. The dream fails to come back though my heart aches with sorrow. 

My cloak clings stubbornly, defying my efforts. Dressing becomes a battle of wills. Thoughts churn—a tempest of doubts. Do I want to tell Xavier? I shake my head. He deserves no part in my unraveling. Himley? Well, with her forthright gaze, she is a mirror I dare not face. As for Aldaire, he wields skepticism like a blade, ready to brand me "crazy."

"Lady Leizabeth!" A maid, clad in yellow and white, intercepts me on the second-floor stairwell. Her hair, a neat bun, frames a face crowned with a maid's hat. "Princess Stefani summons you."

Now is not the time. "I have other matters to attend."

"She insists you'll be intrigued."

Curiosity draws me like moth. I follow the maid, my steps echoing on cold stone. 

Stefani's room is on the same floor as Aldaire's. Before his chamber, Cecile materializes once more—a phantom in royal blue. My heart leaps to my throat, for these apparitions have become a haunting refrain. Panic coils within me like a serpent, but I refuse to yield to madness.

Cecile's gloved hands rest before her, and her white hair frames her porcelain face—the same ethereal countenance that graced my cottage that fateful night. The maid trailing behind me casts an odd glance, oblivious to the spectral drama. Yet, I know this is no ordinary encounter. If the queen herself stood here, she'd be rending the air with desperate cries, not maintaining an eerie calm.

I follow the maid, desperate to escape the ghostly tether. I refuse to accept that I am going crazy.

Stefani's chambers lie on the opposite wing of the third floor. As I enter, her frown dissolves into a sly grin. "There you are." She clings to the bedposts, her corset being laced by diligent maids.

"Here I am," I sing-song sarcastically.

"I had to see you," Stefani confesses. "Last night's events troubled me. For my father's impulsive actions, I apologize."

A wry grin tugs at my lips. "Impulsive? A generous description."

She scans me openly and doesn't say anything.

"Is that all?" I ask referring to the way she was looking at me. "I have other things to do"

"Like befriending Anastasia you mean? She doesn't need your help, trust me."

"Says who? Your father or you?"

She dismisses the maids and walks to her drawer. From its depths, she retrieves a small box, its wood polished by time. "Let us not dwell on past transgressions. Accept this as an apology."

I shake my head, wary of debts owed. "No need."

"Please," Stefani insists, pressing the box into my palm. "It eases my conscience. A blue garnet—a gem of rare beauty. Wear it, and perhaps our tangled paths will find clarity."

I open the box, and the clover-shaped stone gleams. To keep her off my back, I accept. I quickly put it in my pocket and hope to be dismissed.

"I also apologize for what you saw the other night," she says.

Stefani's words hang in the air like mist—apologies, a currency she trades with ease. But I am no stranger to her courtly dance, where her true intentions are veiled. Aldaire and I share no relationship.

"There is no need for that," I say but I am instantly sorry for saying anything to her.

"You are very comprehensive. A trait befitting queens and courtiers alike, especially her." 

"Like her?" I ask confused.

"The queen." Stefani muses, her eyes alight with secrets. 

" You mean the queen?"

"It might only be me," she shrugs.

I don't have time to figure out her words. Time is a merciless tide, and patience wears thin.

 Stefani's father storms into the room. My knees quiver, for his presence rattles the very walls.

"Dear you look stunning as ever," he greets her, his eyes assessing me. "A walk, perhaps?"

"Of course, Father." 

"What is she doing here?" 

"Don't worry," Stefani murmurs. "She departs."

Finally, freedom. But shadows cling, and Stefani's gift—the blue garnet—rests heavy in my pocket.