The Seventh Petal

Part One: The Castle

Prologue: West Wing

Candlelight buried itself in the folds of her night-skirt, trembling in its river beds like fool's gold. Only a fool would be awake at this hour, the young girl chided. He's coming back tonight. The thought blew into her mind like dandelion seeds, trailing into her earlobes and nesting in her house of mirrors.

As she neared the top of the stairwell, the light winked at her reflection. Dull, bronze hair cast in shadow, a ghostly face just as dark and shallow. She was a pool in a forest that no creature dared enter.

She stood facing a heavy door, one that was usually locked, except when the master was at the local town bar. He wouldn't return until every last drop of his mug had been devoured. Loneliness tended to last longer when it was dark out.

Turning the knob, the girl knew that after this moment, she would be free. Maybe not physically, but mentally at least. She gave a sigh of relief, and pushed. The barrier swung open, and, with it, so did her eyes.

There he was. The moon, illuminating his broad shoulders-ones that she knew, all too well, were vined with gorilla muscles and a strength not at all human.

"You're back," the girl whispered coldly, a mask to the frost that did not have to be inside to warn her bones.
The man-or rather, creature-swiveled around, blasting an armchair to the other side of the room as he did. His fists, clenched in a ball. His breath came out squeezed, the way lemons are when one wants to drink their juice. It was sour, and raw, and empty.

"HOW DARE YOU? How dare you think I could ever leave?"

Chapter One: Wrong Routines

Mireya was not a prisoner in the castle. She was not forced to live with the man others called "The Beast." She was not unhappy, but she was not happy, either. Every morning she awoke at 5 sharp to feed the hens in the front yard, then she would tend to the garden, and afterwards, make a hot cup of tea for the master. The day continued as followed: she would wear an elegant ball gown to dinner, which was usually spent alone, and the only company she had were a talking candle and clock. The only problem was, "the Beast" stayed locked in the West Wing, a room she had been forbidden to enter ever since the first day.

Everything revolved around the first day-whether her life would be different if she had not stayed, and undoubtedly, it would have been-whether or not she should stay, and more importantly-whether or not he cared regarding her decision.

Mireya had made up her mind one Tuesday morning in February. It had been a week since she went on a little adventure late at night to the daunting West Wing, and she was not sure whether or not he had forgiven her yet. But he must, Mireya thought, for enough time has passed, and so little wrong have I done.

So, once more, Mireya's thoughts led her up that long, winding staircase to find him in the dark, hellish room. He looked so alone that she wanted to wrap her arms around him in a hug-not out of lust, but out of pure companionship.

"How long have you been here?" She said, knocking the pen straight from his fingers, which looked as if they had been chained to the paper. They burned scarlet before her eyes. He was writing a letter, she realized just in time.

"And where," She repeated her attempt at conversing, "is it that you are going?"

The man scoffed. He was at least five years her elder, and yet, there was a sparkle in his eyes that reminded her of youth. His brow wrinkled, something in which a ripe young soul in his late twenties should not have to deal. She couldn't remember the shape his face made when he smiled. But she wanted to.

"M," Lewin Chandler chortled, "it's too much for you to wrap your darling head around."

So he does like me, she thought. Maybe he will care that I can't stay. Mireya's eyes dove to the ground-long, black lashes peeling over them like the tapestry hanging beside the window. She had never been in this room when it was daylight, and was surprised at its elegance. The walls-painted a milky shade of ivory-were like the moon itself. It must have contributed to his concrete silhouette, one that she had seen a week ago but would never forget.