Текст книги "Cinderella Dressed in Ashes"

Автор книги: Cameron Jace

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

9

Of Tears and Sand

Where do people go when they die in their dreams? Do their dreams die with them? Do they fall one dream lower in the levels of the Dreamworld?

Shew remembered Loki talking about the Dreamworld being six levels deep, and that this level was just One Dream Under. She wondered what Six Dreams Under felt like, and if she had been transported Two Dreams Under when she died in the Wall of Thorns.

Why is this level of the Dreamworld full of ashes, and why am I still conscious if I died in my own dream?

Shew lay on her back, staring at the blue sky above. It was barely visible, blocked by a veil of endless ashes. They looked like a large black dress filled with tiny holes that occasionally let the thin light of the moon pass through.

Ashes stuck to Shew’s hands as she tried to wave some of them away.  She coughed. They were getting in her mouth, too.

She propped herself up on her elbow, discovering she’d been transported to a cornfield glowing with a faint magnificent color—a bright shade of gold.

Is this the afterlife? A cornfield?

A breeze of wind passed through Shew like a ghost, rattling the plants and brushing her skin. She needed to stand up to get the whole picture.

On her feet, she saw the cornfield was huge, encircled by the Wall of Thorns on all ends, all except a small gap in the distance that had burned to ashes. The wind puffed the ashes and sent them hanging in the air all over the corn.

“This is the Field of Dreams,” Shew mumbled. “How did I get here? Who burned the Wall of Thorns?”

Shew turned around in a full circle, looking for Cerené but couldn’t find her. Shew summoned her as loud as she could. Her voice didn’t even echo, blocked by the ashes saturating the air.

“Oh, dear God,” Shew said. “Don’t let anything bad happen to Cerené.”

Shew ran like a mad girl through the Field of Dreams. Had Cerené passed out and become buried in the corn? The cornstalks stood high enough that she had to crouch down to look for her.

Shew ran in every direction. The cornfield was like a maze. Its yellow color was alarming to the eyes, misleading, insinuating a sense of being eternally lost, in contrast with the black ashes falling from above.

Suddenly, Shew stopped in front of something amidst the cornstalks. She’d never seen anything like it. There was a girl lying on her back, floating upon a small puddle of water. The girl wore a red dress, hands folded upon her chest like a mummy.

Shew knelt down and saw the girl was breathing and in a deep sleep. She had never seen someone sleeping so deeply, as if dead.

You slept like this girl once before, Shew. Try to remember. The whole Snow White story is about a moment when you slept in a coffin and were kissed awake by a prince. This girl reminds you of yourself!

Shew quieted the voice in her head. She couldn’t remember being kissed by a prince, nor sleeping in a coffin in the forest—the only coffin she’d known was the glass one in the Schloss.

There were two glass urns on the sleeping girl’s sides, just like the one Cerené was holding. One urn held a small amount of water in it, the other was filled with grains of sand which were more greenish than yellow.

Shew looked closer. The sand was rather sticky, and when she curiously tasted the water, it was salty—she spat it out.

Looking back to the girl, she saw that some of the same greenish sand stuck to her sleepy eyes.

“Hey!” Shew shook her. “Wake up. Did you see Cerené? Do you know if I am alive or dead?”

The girl didn’t respond. She was a comatose sleeping beauty.

Strides away, she came across another girl dressed in red, sleeping on a bed of water with urns on her sides.

A few steps later, she found another girl, then another.

The Field of Dreams was filled with girls.

“Cerené!” Shew yelled, panicking now.

Somewhere amidst the corn, Shew heard a voice chanting what seemed like nonsense. It was Cerené. The quality of her voice implied she was shivering.

“London Bridge is falling down,” Cerené chanted as it to a baby in a cradle. “Falling down. Burning down.”

“Where are you, Cerené?” Shew yelled, still running hysterically and avoiding the sleeping beauties she came across.

“Ring-a-round the rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down,” Cerené was hallucinating. She sounded like she had suffered a blow to her head or something. “London Bridge is falling down.”

“Keep singing,” Shew said. “It’s the only way I can find you.”

“Burn. Burn. Burn,” Cerené chanted. “I’m a pleasure to burn.”

Finally, Shew found her.

Cerené sat in the middle of the cornfield, showered with ashes falling from the sky. She had her knees pulled to her chest, her hands around them, and her head rested awkwardly on her knees. She was naked, but covered with her own protective arms and the ashes stuck to her skin covering her bruises from the past. The fiery aura in her hair was stronger. Her hair itself looked strange, bigger and lush.

Shew approached cautiously as Cerené hummed her eerie songs.  She was shivering with teary eyes.

Touching her would be foolish, Shew thought. The girl had a temper, and all Shew wanted to do was help her. The least she could do was cover her with some clothes.

Shew ran back to one of the sleeping beauties and undressed her.

One girl’s dignity is another one’s shame.

Shew didn’t leave the sleeping beauty totally naked, she left her lying in her corset. She noticed the girl had her own bruises as well underneath, but there was no time to investigate that part.

Shew ran toward Cerené with the dress.

Her hair had changed into normal again, blonde, uncombed, and less fiery.

She knelt in front of her and looked into her eyes so she would recognize her and allow her to put the dress on.

If I could only understand why you’re crying now.

Cerené’s watery eyes scanned Shew’s ashen face like an infant looking for its mother.

“You’re alive?” Cerené squeaked then jumped to hug Shew. “You’re alive, Joy! I thought you were dead.”

Shew fell on her back, tangled in Cerené’s arms.

Cerené was sad because she thought I was dead?

“When the Wall of Thorns caught on fire, I thought you died,” Cerené explained, holding Shew’s face with her hands. “I searched for you everywhere. Where have you been?”

Shew remembered she woke up in the middle of the Field of Dreams, oblivious of how she got there. Who knew what really happened? Who burned the Wall of Thorns down and saved her? She doubted she’d get answers from Cerené. She had been saved as well, just like Shew, and neither had any recollection of what happened.

Resisting the tears in her eyes and Cerené’s overwhelming emotions, Shew patted her back and sat straight.

“You need to get dressed,” she showed Cerené the dress.

“Oh,” Cerené blushed as if she just noticed she was naked. “My dress caught on fire so I took it off, I guess.”

Shew didn’t question the authenticity of her story.

Cerené put on the dress, which was too big for her and ran like a little child through the field, celebrating the new dress.

“I love it,” she said. “It’s the color of fire!”

“You have any idea what happened, Cerené?” Shew stood up and asked politely. She wondered why Cerené saw red as the color of fire and not blood.

“What happened?” Cerené turned around, blinking as if trying to remember. “You mean the Wall of Thorns?”

“Yes, Cerené. Who saved me? What set it on fire?”

“I—” Cerené looked as if she was really trying to remember. “I don’t know. You started dancing and were about to be killed. I wanted to help you, but you said I should stay away. I didn’t know what to do. I kept screaming, calling your name. I even tried to find you but the thorns stopped me, and then suddenly…”

“Suddenly what, Cerené?”

“The Wall of Thorns caught on fire, and I … think I passed out.”

“Listen, you’re alive,” Cerené said. “That’s what matters.”

“You’re right about that,” Shew said, knowing she could have just died in her dream. “What really bothers me is that the Wall of Thorns considered me an intruder. I mean, I love Sorrow. I was born here. I’m the goddamn princess.”

“Your father is Night Sorrow’s son, Joy,” Cerené said. “You and your father are still a threat to Sorrow unless you control yourself, and take sides. That’s what the mermaid told me about you.”

“I’ve already chosen a side,” Shew said. “I will fight for the good of people, against all evil.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy,” Cerené told Shew. “I mean you still feed on people’s blood. Don’t worry though, I’m sure the Wall of Thorns will accept you eventually. Besides, now that you crossed it, we can get the Heart’s third ingredient. Sand!” she waved her hands in the air.

“How so?” Shew had no choice but to go with the flow.

“Let me show you,” Cerené ran to a spot where she had hidden her glass urn and Shew followed her.

They walked toward one of the sleeping beauties then knelt down and brushed her hair softly. “Isn’t she beautiful?” she said in awe.

“All of them are beautiful,” Shew said. “Who are they?”

“The Sleepers,” Cerené said matter-of-factly. “They keep the Field of Dreams alive.”

“How is that possible? They’re sleeping and they look almost dead.”

“That’s because each one of them is enchanted to sleep for a hundred years,” Cerené explained.

“How so? And Why?”

“They are girl that had been killed by Carmilla,” Cerené explained. “Someone, probably the Sandman himself, brought them here. That’s why you’d notice they have bruises and wounds underneath their dresses. Some of them have bite marks on their throats.”

“Why did the Sandman bring them here?” Shew was curious.

“To resurrect them,” Cerené said. “The Field of Dream is a magical place of Art. It can resurrect the unrightfully killed.”

“But they are sleeping, Cerené,” Shew noted.

“Remember when I told you magic has a price?” Cerené said. “In order for them to live again, they have to sleep in the cornfield for a hundred years. They pay their price by feeding the field, and they wake up a hundred years later and get a second life. Until then, they are safe here,” Cerené looked at the Field in Between which was encircled by the Wall of Thorns from all sides.

She followed her gaze, spotting the part where the Wall of Thorns had been burned, “What will happen to the gab in the Wall of Thorns?” she said.

“I think it will grow back on its own once we leave,” Cerené said. “Come, let me show you what these girls are doing here,” she pulled Shew down to kneel beside her.

“You mean the price they pay for a hundred years until they wake up?” Shew wondered.

“You see the urns on both sides, one filled with water, the other with sand?” Cerené pointed.

“Yes.”

“The Sleepers are all dreaming. Think of them as plants in the Field of Dreams. They feed the Field of Dreams with their dreams. When they dream, they have either good dreams or nightmares. Those who have nightmares cry and produce the Tears of Beauty. Those who dream happily produce grit in their eyes, the way we all do when we’re asleep. The sand is called the Sands of Beauty.”

“What’s the use for the sand and the tears?”

“When the urns are full of water, the water spills over, seeps into the earth and helps the corn grow,” Cerené said.

“And the grit in their eyes—I mean the sand,” Shew inquired.

Cerené grabbed a fistful of grit in the urn and showed it to Shew, “this no ordinary sand. It’s the third ingredient of the Heart element,” she poured a big amount of it in her glass urn. “The element of the Heart has been completed.”

“This seems very strange, Cerené,” Shew said. “I mean the Field of Dreams, the girls, and the sand from their eyes.”

“It’s not strange. It’s beautiful,” Cerené said. “This sand belongs to the Sandman himself. He owns this field.”

“You told me about that.”

“You know the Sandman who came into our rooms when we were just kids and poured sand in our eyes while we slept so we could dream? Where do you think he gets his sand? Here, from the Field of Dreams.”

“Is the Sandman around now?“ Shew whispered curiously. “I mean I’d like to see him.”

“Grow up, Joy,” Cerené said. “He is the Sandman. We can’t see him. It would spoil the point of his existence.”

Shew thought the story was promising considering she lived in a world where Snow White was a vampire and traveling between dreams was possible, however, she didn’t remember hearing anything like that when she was a child. The idea that the Sandman saved the girls her mother slaughtered seemed noble, but she thought feeding the field for a hundred years was a long price to pay.

Think of it, Shew. The girls will be given a second life. They wouldn’t mind sleeping for a hundred years.

She decided the Sleepers weren’t her priority. Cerené was. What worried her most was how Cerené knew about evil Rapunzel plants, the Fields of Dreams, and the Sandman.

“Listen to me, Cerené,” Shew held her by the shoulders. “I have never met someone who knew about these things. I need to ask you how you know all this.”

“I told you I read a lot of books in the school’s library,” Cerené answered casually. “Did you know its real name is Bedtime Stoories?” she snickered. “The two ‘o’ letters in the middle represent the secret pair of eyes that stare back at you from the bookshelves. They belong to a blind man called the Skeliman.”

“I am sorry, Cerené, but I don’t believe you learned this from Bedtime Stoories,” Shew said, not paying attention to any of the fluffy details mentioned. She wanted to know how Cerené got her precious knowledge. “If the secrets you know were so easy to find, I am sure I’d have met someone in my family who knew about them. I’m the Princess of Sorrow, remember? My family created this kingdom. I am sorry but I dare call you a liar because I am sure you didn’t learn any of this from the books in the library.”

Cerené rubbed the rim of her urn while avoiding Shew’s eyes. Shew lifted her chin gently to face her.

“All right,” Cerené sighed. “I learned all this from Bianca,” she said with an undertone that implied shame, as if Bianca was bad.

“Who is Bianca?” Shew needed to confirm her suspicions.

“My mother,” Cerené titled her head and her lips twitched again.

Be careful when her lips twitch, Shew, or she will lose it again.

“I thought you were an orphan.”

“I am,” Cerené said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I will understand. All you have to do is trust me like I trusted you in passing the Wall of Thorns,” Shew didn’t comment on the fact that she shouldn’t have trusted her, but she knew that Cerené had meant no harm.

“My mother is dead!” Cerené stood up, sparkles of anger floating in her eyes again.

“So she taught you all of this when you were younger?” Shew stood up. She had to pressure her to learn more about her.

“No,” Cerené stomped her feet. “I told you that you wouldn’t understand. Bianca died a long time ago, when I was about three years old.”

“This doesn’t make any sense, Cerené.”

Cerené said nothing.

“If Bianca died that long ago, how did she tell you all of this?”

“In my dreams,” Cerené said, her back still facing Shew.

“I see,” Shew nodded, although this wasn’t a satisfying conclusion at all. Was her mother a ghost, another Dreamhunter, maybe? “Do you have an idea what Bianca’s last name is, or what she did for a living?”

“She…” Cerené started shuddering. “She…”

Shew knew she had pressed her too much, but she wouldn’t stop now.

“People said she was some kind of a witch!” Cerené turned back, on the verge of exploding. The ghostly breeze chilled the cornfield and lightning struck somewhere in the distance, illuminating the ashes hanging in the air. “Are you satisfied? She burned things, many things. She even burned towns. They burned her back by the stake! They way they had burned a humiliated so many witches. Burn! Burn! Burn!” Cerené, hugging her urn, ran away toward the Wall of Thorns, her red dress fluttering over the yellow corn and beneath the ashes.

“Great job, Shew,” Snow White mumbled, angry with herself. She shouldn’t have pressed her that hard. She should have been careful since Cerené had run away last time when She asked too many questions.

Watching Cerené run, crying, shattered her heart.

Frozen in place, Shew watched her disappear behind the gap in the Field of Thorns. There was no point in running after her this time. Cerené was hurt and she doubted she could help her.

The ghostly wind spiraled again around her feet, and she felt unsafe, alone in the field among the sleeping beauties. With Cerené gone, Shew had the feeling  she was being watched. Something other than the girls hid in the cornfield, maybe in the Wall of Thorns itself. Shew began walking slowly toward the gap, wondering if it was Bianca.

Each of her steps echoed in a dreamy sort of way. She dared not look back but was sure someone was following her. She swallowed hard.

Her steps quickened.

Who’s behind me?

She began running, the footsteps behind her following her.

Shew stumbled over one of the sleeping beauties.  In that moment it occurred to her that whoever was behind her wasn’t chasing her, they were following her.

On her feet, she turned around to face whoever it was.

Remember you’re the Dhampir. You shouldn’t be scared.

Shew saw nothing but yellow corn, ashen skies, and blurry thorn bushes afar.

“Loki!” Shew screamed from the top of her lungs, thinking he was the one after her, “what are you waiting for? I’m here!”

Nothing.

No one called back, no evil Huntsman.  Shew let out a sigh and turned around. She walked slowly toward the gap in the Wall of Thorns.

She could hear the steps behind her again.

Running, she passed through the gap in the Wall of Thorns—the gab was large and the nearest thorns weren’t close enough to slash at her. It occurred to her that she could have passed through the wall if she’d ran through with a fast horse.

Finally, Shew entered the Black Forest. She managed to look back briefly and finally saw someone in a black cloak in the distance. Whoever it was, they were not riding a unicorn, but followed her on foot and stopped once she looked back. From such a distance, recognizing this mysterious person was impossible.

Silently, they stood watching, expecting and waiting. Their silence crept across Shew’s skin, giving her Goosebumps.

She turned and ran as fast as she could, hoping she could remember the way back to the Schloss.

Fifty strides later, she tripped over a log, bumped her head and fell unconscious. Her pursuer approached.

10

The Girl with One Glass Shoe

 Shew opened her eyes, not to the person following her in the black cloak, but to the Queen of Sorrow.

Shew understood immediately that she had awaken in another time because Carmilla had her favorite mirror next to her, which meant she’d met Bloody Mary already.

All other mirrors in Shew’s room had been covered with white blankets so they wouldn’t reflect Carmilla’s true nature. Shew watched her check out her crown and her braided hair in her beloved mirror. Bloody Mary wasn’t present.

 “We need to talk,” Carmilla said, sitting by the edge of Shew’s huge bed.

Shew sat straight up without uttering a word. She thought she’d better listen to what Carmilla had to say first.

“I know you’re lonely, Shew,” Carmilla said. “Because you’re part vampire we have been forced to separate you from everyone for your own good. Soon you are going to be cured. You just need to be patient.”

Shew was a Dhampir who needed to feed, but Carmilla was a vicious murderer of young girls.  Shew was ready to scream at her and tell her that her situation was nothing compared to the queens, but held back.

“However, this doesn’t mean I will allow you to be friends with that Slave Maiden. What was her name again, Tabula?” Carmilla clicked her gloved fingers without looking at her.

“Chi-re-ney,” Tabula answered, her hands rested upon each other in front of her, her chin almost touching her chest.

“Yes, Cerené, what kind of name is that?” the Queen rolled her eyes. For some reason, Shew thought the Queen knew Cerené, but was pretending otherwise. It was that devious sparkle in her eyes.

Uncomfortable by Shew’s suspicious stare, the Queen’s face changed, now acting as if the name rang a bell in her mind. “Isn’t that an Italian name?” she said with a smirk.

Italian? Shew grimaced. Cerené is Italian?

“You ever heard of the Roman Empire, Tabula?” Carmilla said.

“I heard the king mentioning it,” Tabula said. “He said it ended up being something called Italy. What does it mean my majesty?”

“Italy is a shoe-looking island,” Carmilla brushed something off Shew’s mattress with the tips of her fingers. “There is a myth that says the Creators of the World shaped Italy after a glass shoe. A rather romantic notion, some would argue.”

Shew didn’t understand why Carmilla was glaring at her. It seemed like she wanted Shew to read between the lines she spoke.

Why does she know such things about a Slave Maiden, and what is so special about a foreign land shaped like a shoe?

“But why did the Creators of the World shape it like that?” Tabula asked. “That’s rather strange, shaping a kingdom after a shoe, not romantic at all.

Shew knew Tabula was an immigrant from exquisite lands in the Eastern Realm of the world where raising a shoe in someone’s face was considered an insult.

“Wrong question, Tabula,” Carmilla said. She was checking her fingernails, breaking her gaze with Shew. “The Creators are always right. They always have a reason for everything that happens, even our suffering.”

“Then what is the right question, if I may ask my majesty?” Tabula said.

“Why one shoe, not two, would be a good start,” Carmilla’s lips waved into a slow smile. “Didn’t you ever notice that most important things in life come in pairs?”

“What do you mean my majesty?” Tabula questioned cautiously, a little worried why the Queen was having an actual conversation with her. Carmilla rarely talked to her servants. Even today, she wasn’t actually conversing with Tabula. She was sending Shew a message through Tabula.

“Most things in life come in pairs,” Carmilla repeated. “Shoes, couples, eyes, night and day, sun and moon, and even good and evil come in pairs. I guess it is the universe’s mysterious way of trying to create balance. Why only one shoe then? Don’t you agree, Shew?” she gazed back at the Princess of Sorrow.

Shew said nothing. She quietly wished the Queen would leave so she could investigate this dream further, but no one had ever dared to leave when Carmilla was speaking.

“I’ll tell you why,” the Queen finally said. “There is an old story I was told when I was a kid in my father’s castle in Styria. It was a story of a poor girl who lived with her stepmother and stepsisters. Of course, like any other boring fairy tale, her stepsisters were evil and the poor girl was naïve,” Carmilla rolled her eyes. “One day, the poor girl wanted to attend a ball to see a cute prince she had a crush on—remember the yummy prince, Shew?“ However, the evil stepmother and the two nasty sisters didn’t let her attend the ball. Do you know why? Because the poor girl was much more beautiful than her sisters were. The villainous stepsisters feared she would catch the attention of the prince, so they trapped her in a small, cramped room covered with cinders of its fireplace, and went to attend the ball. It’s no secret that the rest of the story is agonizingly predictable,” she sighed with one gloved hand on her heart. “A Godmother—there’s always a Godmother—” she leaned forward, whispering and winking at Shew, “the Godmother appeared and helped the poor girl with her dress and a coach so she could attend the ball.  Of course, the prince fell madly in love with her without even asking her name. Love at first sight, you know. The girl had to get back home before midnight; afraid her stepmother would punish her and lock her inside the ash-covered room in their home again. And finally, we come to the most important part when she leaves a single shoe behind,” Carmilla’s eyes glittered, talking slower, and examining Shew’s face.

Shew thought it was amusing, compared to the way Carmilla had told the beginning of the tale. She’d been talking fast with no attention to details or passion in her voice, as if she were reading a grocery list.

“It was a single shoe that eventually led the prince to find his lost love. He walked around town, asking every girl he met to try on the shoe promising he’d marry her if it fit—some stupid prince, I must say.”  Shew wondered why the Queen told this tale if she thought it was so predictable and hated it so much.

“Some stupid prince indeed,” Bloody Mary suddenly appeared in the mirror, growling in her gushy voice.

Shew leaned back in her bed and looked away. Bloody Mary was young, but genuinely ugly and scary.

“Shut up, Mary,” the Queen said firmly. “Go back to whatever hell you came from. You’re scaring my daughter.”

“As you wish, my Queen,” Bloody Mary vanished from the mirror and Carmilla checked her beauty in it once more.

“So where was I?” she questioned, adjusting her crown.

“Stupid Prince, my majesty,” Tabula said. “I assume he found the poor girl eventually.”

“Ah, yes. One of the evil stepsisters, being unable to accept the fact that the prince liked her stepsister better, cut her toe off. Can you believe that? The little brat cut her toe off so the prince would choose her. I am always incredulous about the way girls are portrayed in these tales, helpless, disadvantaged, and afraid to be alone and never married.”

“You’re right, my majesty,” Tabula commented. “Women should be much stronger. What a horrible thing this stepsister did.”

“Well, let’s not be too harsh on the little brat,” Carmilla waved a hand in the air. “I did worse than cutting someone’s toe off for Angel—I’ve given him my flesh and blood. Right, Shew?"

Shew nodded, worried about the Queen’s suggestive implications.

Of course, you’ve done worse, you child killer!

“So where was I again?” Carmilla wondered.

“The girl cutting her toe off,” Bloody Mary snickered from inside the mirror without showing herself.

“I know you love this part, Mary,” Carmilla said. “So although the world conspired against the prince and the poor girl’s pure, puppy, pitiful love, he finally found her in the home of her stepmother.”

“Didn’t the shoe fit her stepsister?” Shew finally interacted.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Pigeons warned the prince about the stepsister and urged him to look at her foot after she had tried the shoe on. The prince saw that the stepsister was bleeding from the cut, and immediately knew the girl was an imposter.”

“She got what she deserved, my majesty,” Tabula said.

“Yes, she did, but we’re not talking about the stepsister. She is by no means the main character here,” Carmilla said. So, in the end, love, in its most clichéd state, finally prevailed in this little Italian bedtime story. And the Creators clapped their hands, applauding the girl who went from rags to riches and won the prince’s heart,” Carmilla clapped her gloved hands elegantly, her palms barely touching.

“So what’s the point of this boring story, mother?” Shew dared to ask.

“I’ve always loved how impatient you are, Shew. You know impatient girls always get what they want, don’t you?” Carmilla said. “Here is the point of this glass shoe story—I told you the Godmother had given her a pair of glass shoes, didn’t I? Long boring story short, the love  between the prince and the girl made the Creators cry,” she pretended to wipe tears from her eyes, the way pantomime actresses did in old black and white movies. “So the Creators decided that to honor their love, they’d redesign the landscape of Italy into a shoe, an epitaph to the single shoe that saved the love of the shoe-crossed—I mean star-crossed—lovers.”

“So this is basically the story of how Italy came to be,” Tabula said. “I understand now.”

Shew wondered if Carmilla was talking about Cerené. But how was that possible? This story happened centuries ago. Maybe she was talking about Bianca, or Cerené’s ancestors.

“So back to that Slave Maiden,” the Queen said. “Her name means ashes in Italian. Suits her fine, actually,” Carmilla said. “She is a low life, will live a low life, and will die an even lower life. I’m only telling you this story so you’ll know the only thing she wants is to meet a prince. She wants to get rich without deserving it. Her friendship with you isn’t real. She’s playing with you. I won’t allow you to be fooled by a Slave Maiden like her.”

Shew wasn’t going to argue. She was now even more curious about Cerené.

 “I don’t want to hear that you’re talking to her again, understood?” Carmilla said.

“Of course, mother,” Shew finally said, wondering where Cerené was at the moment.

“Hmm,” Carmilla leaned slightly forward, looking in Shew’s eyes as if trying to see behind them. “Politeness is not one of your virtues, princess. I wonder if you’re trying to fool me. You know the consequences will be dire if you don’t do as I wish,” she patted Shew’s cheeks.

Carmilla’s words left Shew confused. Carmilla was putting on some kind of show, the same way she warned her about Cerené’s fake act of friendship. She knew Shew as stubborn, and that warning her would only encourage her to break the rule and meet Cerené again. Why would Carmilla do that?

“You know I make sure you feed, so you don’t want to keep away from me, believe me,” Carmilla said then showed her a small liver-shaped box. “Look what your mother brought you,” she said, opening the box.

Shew looked inside the box and felt dazed; her body leaned forward against her will, her fangs drawing out.

She was staring at a fresh liver.

“It’s ripe,” Carmilla said. “And it’s young,” she licked her lips. “I want to feed you the best, dear.”

 Shew pulled the liver up to her mouth and bit into it, sucking the blood dry. She didn’t know how the liver had been preserved. It was more like a bag filled with blood. The blood quenched Shew’s thirst, and she felt guilty for liking it.

This was a dream, a memory, nothing more, she told herself. The Queen was feeding her, awaiting her sixteenth birthday when she could either turn her into a vampire and fight on the side of Night Von Sorrow or kill her and eat her heart if she disobeyed.