Elwanda

Chapter 12 - Spells and Suspicions

At dawn of the next day, Elwanda was escorted out of the prison briefly to allow a few metalworkers craft a special contraption inside.

The endless grating and drilling sounds made her teeth clatter uncomfortably and it felt like more torture than anything else she would be made to endure. But at last, the men trooped out one after the other, covered in sweat and carrying heavy machinery.

After being shoved back into the room, Elwanda's heart sank at the sight of two gaping holes in the wall with a distance of about an arm's length in between both. Heavy metal chains protruded out of each hole and spilled to the ground in a coil.

A similar depression in the ground, which was roughly two feet away from the wall itself, contained metal projections meant to house the head of another pair of shackles.

Even before they were clamped around her wrists and ankles, she knew just how cold the bounds would feel.

Every movement she made was complimented by the soft clinking of metal and it aggravated her embarrassment because then she did bear the image of a real criminal.

A few hours later, The Steward came in to inspect the finished work.

To her surprise, he did not speak at all.

With one arm crossed comfortably over his torso and the other placed in front of his mouth as if he were lost in deep thought, he stared  for a long time at the chains with an occasional squint and his eyes never for once found Elwanda's.

When she thought he would leave just as quietly, his hand dropped from above his lip and he looked straight at her.

"On the bright side, witch," He marched toward the door. "If such a term applies to you diseases, you get to wear some decent jewelry before your demise."

As the door jammed shut, Elwanda closed her eyes in utter disdain, offended.

How could she be attracted to someone that rude and impertinent?

Nonetheless, when he showed up the very next morning in a black and maroon tailcoat and trousers, his hair well trimmed, and his eyes sparkling with ambition and authority, she melted into a helpless puddle again and could not help the wild imaginations that stole her away in the form of daydreams even while she listened to him rant on and on about how pointless festivals were and how much he hated to attend them, pretending to enjoy himself when all he wanted to do was find some peace and quiet.

As quickly as morning came, night fell too.

The festival was not something Elwanda could properly witness from up in her tower because the little prison window looked out into an empty valley instead of the rest of the kingdom. She had never even heard of such a festival before because in the little village of Barrowley, there was hardly any festivities save for an annual market day and random parties.

Although she was curious to learn what the festival was and what it meant to the locals, she doubted anyone would be generous enough to tell her anything. Besides, her newest wardens seemed like children of the Steward – they hated her to bits. She suspected that the Steward himself had appointed such hard hearted men so as to prevent her from striking any kind of cordiality with them.

The only thing she found real solace in was sleep.

After the demeaning breakfast of hard crust bread, week old oats and little water, she usually fell into trances regardless of being chained in a way that restricted certain movements.

Levitation was not possible either because her leg chains were too short and did not permit lying down. When she tried, they pulled at her skin and burned with cold, merciless friction.