Once Upon A [Hidden] Time - [Stolen] Series IV

CHAPTER 2

MYRA
17 JUNE 1415

"What are you doing, Edward?" I asked as Edward pulled my hand away from the book, shutting it with a loud thud.

"Look at your hand," he grumbled. I observed my hand. I had blisters across my right palm. When we started Jasmine's story, my hand had become accustomed to the heat. I didn't realise it would leave this mark. "Enough of bloody witchcraft."

"Do you think she was a witch?"

Edward remained quiet while we sat on the library's cold floor, our eyes fixed on the book. Under the mantle of darkness, it looked like the spectral forms of the book maze. The candle projected its bubble of steamy light on to the floor.

In her book, she didn't know who he was yet. But we knew he was David, who fell hopelessly in love with Jasmine, who accepted her with all her powers and curses. Edward was the replica of David, and I was like a reincarnated version of Queen Jasmine. Were we tricked through this book by our over-active twisted imaginations, showing us our own faces in these characters who had died two hundred years ago? That generally happens when you fall in love with a novel. You imagine yourself as the main character and your lover as your hero. As a reader, you wish to see yourself indulging in those romantic moments that are not possible in real life, and only sound plausible in a novel. The narratives, the beautiful poetry that David recited, the quickening of Jasmine's heart, the temptation to own him—they all looked like a part of a beautiful romance novel, created by an artistic wordsmith—one that I never wanted to end.

But what about Edward finding Jasmine and David? Was it also in his imagination that he dreamt of a romance without any curses, where he could easily confess his love without the fear of losing me? Were we both swept away in the storm of beautiful words?

And if it wasn't our illusion, without the tampering of ghastly witchcraft and black magic, Edward and I couldn't be the lookalikes of David and Jasmine. The association of ideas seemed to me both grotesque and downright improbable.

I glanced at Edward, who was so still that, for a moment, I thought he was frozen.

"Can you read minds, too?" Edward asked, regarding the book with iron concentration.

"No. But see, she still couldn't read David's mind."

He blinked, looking up at me. "Was it too dark or too bright for her?"

"I don't know."

"Do I truly look like him?" Indeed, he was trying to mentally grasp the reality of his image.

I stared at him for a while. "Same eyes, same hair, same voice." He knew the answer, but his eyes widened, as if he could detect symptoms from my tone and was composing his own diagnosis.

He ran his fingers through his hair, perhaps pondering over my words.

"I am not from his lineage." He blinked at me. "I descended from his brother Andrew."

I knew his ancestry, and I was also curious as to how it was possible, but him resembling his great grand uncle from two hundred years ago was still possible because of family genes. But where did I stand in all this? Who was I to Jasmine and David?

"You inherited the gift of poetry from David," I remarked. He bit his lower lip on my words. "Wooing me the same way your forefather did."

A small smile cracked his lips, twisting my insides. It was a rare sight and sexy as hell. I was glad I was able to make him smile each day. It was a sight for my sore eyes.

"Have you read Troyes?"

"No," I answered. "But I do know the story of Alexander and Soredamors."

"Have you noticed they are a decade older than us?"