《How to Break an Evil Curse》 Chapter One The Forest of Looming Death is, as one might guess by the name alone, a dreary place. To say the least. Through it runs the Brook of Dashed Hopes, which is as bleak a brook as one could imagine. It is full of bony, inedible fish which are the only creatures hardy enough to live there; the brook is where the coal mine upstream dumps all the byproducts of its mining operation. Since the fish are the only creatures living in the brook, they are cannibalistic by necessity. Just beyond this brook, and over the Bridge of Misery, it is just a hop, skip, and a jump to a cave which (unlike most landmarks in The Forest) has no name. But if it did it would be called The Dwelling Place of Mirabella the Traitor. The Forest was where banished criminals of the land were sent to live out their remaining days, and Mirabella had been a resident of its shades for nigh on twenty years. She was the sister of the Queen of the Land of Fritillary, and as if that wasn¡¯t enough distinction and rank for her, she was also the only person in all the land who did not have a soul. At least, no soul that anyone could detect. Most days since her banishment to the Forest of Looming Death, she spent her waking hours hunting, tending her vegetable garden, and fighting other criminals off her prime forest real estate. Most nights (Mirabella didn''t do much sleeping due to all the other banished criminals) she plotted revenge. She had been plotting with her partner-in-crime for nearly twenty years, so it was as nice a revenge plan as ever a villain could hope to concoct, full of twists and turns and heartbreak and (for her) sweet, sweet justice for all the wrongs she believed herself to have suffered. When our story first finds the soulless Mirabella she is bent studiously over a piece of paper on the stone floor of her cave, scribbling away energetically on the paper with a large black quill. She pauses, ponders for a full minute or so, and dips her quill in the bowl of raven blood she''s using as ink. She had made the paper herself by hand out of plant pulp and water, and -- since if you are going to do a thing you might as well do the thing well -- she had decorated the margins of the paper with various pressed wildflowers and pine needles, so it is quite fancy and arty. Mirabella writes a bit more, reads it all over, and with a pleased smirk on her gaunt face (adequate nutrition is hard to come by in The Forest) she breaths, "It is ready.¡± Then her creepily empty eyes turn their attention to a crudely-made sundial on a flat bit of rock just outside the cave entrance. "And just in time, too," she adds as she quickly scoops up the paper and adds it to a stack of others that sits on a small wooden table near the wall. She then glides around the cave, drawing a chair and an upended log that serves in a pinch as a second chair over to the table, grabs two cups from her meager supply of kitchen goods, and goes to the cave entrance to wait for her guest and tend to the fire that is heating a kettle for tea. As she waits she doesn''t fuss with her hair or worry about her appearance because, for one thing, she doesn''t care one iota about the opinions of others (a nice byproduct of her soullessness), and for another thing she is just one of those ladies who always looks good without trying. Though she''s spent half her life in a in a cave being harassed by murderers and thugs of all descriptions, she has unnaturally good skin and long, wavy black hair unsullied by any gray. Her face is a bit lined from all her brow-furrowing and squinting through late-night plotting sessions by the light of a single thin-flamed candle, and her ratty old clothes are pretty filthy, and she is way too skinny since she never really got the knack of hunting even after all these years of banishment, but all in all it could safely be said that she looked a lot better than one would think she should have considering her circumstances. If she had only not had those soulless eyes¡­ But then if she had had a soul she wouldn''t have been in a cave in the middle of The Forest of Looming Death and there''d be no need for me to be carrying on about how she looks pretty good all things considered. She had found that the lack of stress and worry that accompanies soullessness did wonders in the anti-aging department. A great horrible swirl of smelly smoke appears out of nowhere, startling a few chubby doves Mirabella has been eyeing hungrily, but not startling Mirabella in the least since this is the visitor she has been expecting, and his smoky mode of travel is nothing new to her. Her eyes still following the doves, she almost lazily waves some smoke away from her face and finally turns her eyes from the doves to watch as the great evil magician, Farland Phelps, strides all smooth and fancy from the depths of the thick smoke, too cool to cough. She often wondered how long it had taken him to perfect that, not coughing as he walked out of his big magic smoke column. Did he just hold his breath? Did the smoke seriously not bother him?The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°Mirabella,¡± says her partner-in-crime in his sleazy voice that one would expect more from a Vegas magician than a real live wizard -- it made it sound like he was thinking all kinds of slimy thoughts, when in reality his thoughts ran more toward the chilling than toward the commonplace slime of the everyday degenerate. ¡°Farland,¡± she responds. ¡°The plans are complete.¡± ¡°Excellent,¡± he sleazes, and follows her into the cave to see what she¡¯s put together. She holds out the stack of papers to him, and he begins to scan them, cackling evilly at what he reads. He laughs harder with each page, until he¡¯d flipped too many pages for that to be sustainable, and then the laughs remain at the same intensity for the rest of the stack. It is really a pretty big stack of paper. Again she suspects him of pretension and that those demonic chortles are perhaps rehearsed. It takes him so long to peruse the papers that she has time to make a mug of tea for each of them, which she puts down on the table just as he finishes up and says, ¡°Perfect. Perfect. These plans are all I could have dreamed of. And,¡± he adds, impressed, ¡°the paper is quite pretty, too.¡± ¡°Oh, thank you,¡± she says. ¡°I made it myself. Be careful not to touch the red flowers. They¡¯re poisonous. Just a little safety measure to keep the information between us alone.¡± He quickly and gingerly readjusts his hold on the papers and says, ¡°Very clever.¡± ¡°Tea?¡± she asks, gesturing to the table. ¡°Oh, lovely!¡± They sit across from each other and sip in silence for a few moments. Mirabella is thinking about her garden and wondering how the asparagus crop is faring, and Farland is thinking about Mirabella. The closer they get to the completion of this revenge plot, the more acutely aware he becomes of the fact that over the span of these twenty years of plotting with her something has happened to him: he has fallen in love. Or something like it, anyway. She was smart and pretty and funny (if you liked mean-spirited sarcasm, which he did). He has not analyzed his feelings too much so he isn¡¯t sure of whether it is love exactly, but he knows for sure that he really likes being around her and that all too soon he will no longer have a reason to be around her, and that knowledge makes him gloomy. She has never expressed any interest in doing anything other than plotting revenge with him; no walks along the riverbank, no picnics, no anything; so he has a good feeling that once their plans are completed she¡¯ll be fine parting ways forever. ¡°Good tea¡± he says, wishing she were weak-minded so that he could read her thoughts. He can only effectively read the minds of people who are not very smart, and Mirabella is the exact opposite of not very smart. ¡°It¡¯s from my garden.¡± Ack. He''s looking at her with that sappy expression that she¡¯s been noticing on his face more and more in recent months. ¡°Ah.¡± Pause. ¡°Weather been good out here in The Forest?¡± ¡°Yup.¡± It had been a mistake to make tea and give him a reason to stay. She sips a small sip from her cup. Stares at him witheringly over the rim. ¡°Because it¡¯s been raining like crazy in the capital.¡± ¡°Mmm.¡± Sip. He shuffles about uncomfortably on his seat. She taps her fingers on the table and stares at the roof of the cave. Stalactites. ¡°OK, well I guess I¡¯ll be off then. Gotta get these plans moving,¡± he says at last, looking toward the stack of poisoned papers. ¡°No time like the present.¡± He sets down his cup. ¡°I¡¯ll come back in a week to keep you abreast of the developments.¡± Genius! He''s manufactured a reason to see her again soon! ¡°No need,¡± she responds, looking at him coolly. ¡°But won¡¯t you be curious to--¡± ¡°Nope.¡± ¡°But --¡± ¡°I don¡¯t like you, Farland.¡± His face turns red. ¡°I never said --¡± ¡°Your sappy eyes as good as said it.¡± He stands up quickly, embarrassed and angry. ¡°I ¨C I --¡± ¡°It¡¯s nothing personal. Farland, you know I don¡¯t have a soul. I can¡¯t like people.¡± When she had been younger and hadn¡¯t known herself quite as well as she did now she actually had considered him as a potential husband, but since her banishment she had had plenty of time to think it through and now knew that marriage (to him or anyone) was not for her, no matter how dreamy and smart he might be. ¡°Yeah, but I thought maybe, given time...¡± She laughs. ¡°Right. Whatever. Look, you¡¯re a good-looking guy and I like the way you think, but I--¡± He cuts in sharply, unable to take the embarrassment of rejection a moment longer. He grabs the papers. ¡°I¡¯ll be going now.¡± And he goes. Poof! Mirabella gives a cry of frustration and makes her way, coughing and bumping into things all the way, out of the smoky cave. He could have at least had the decency to have disappeared outside the cave; now it was going to take ages for the place to air out. Chapter Two Dear reader, you¡¯re probably wondering at this point about the revenge thing, so let me give you some backstory. Come with me now, back, back, back through the shades of time. Back just a bit more, to when Mirabella and her twin sister Lillian were wee toddlers. Lillian, chubby and sweet, Mirabella, distant and (even at two years of age) gaunt, though their parents gave them both the same meals and snacks and such, so her gauntness made no sense. Both girls were early talkers, Lillian¡¯s first word being ¡°Mama¡± and Mirabella¡¯s being ¡°never¡±. Sentences were soon to follow, and with language came proof their parents feared that something was not right with the surly, withdrawn toddler. For, with speech came nothing but insults, precocious and snappy comebacks, and unsettling observations. Their parents requested the assistance of the great wizard, Wendell, to do some magic and see if he could find a glimmer of a soul in the empty-eyed little bad seed. But, when he had finished waving his wand, muttering under his breath, and sprinkling all sorts of shimmery powders on her, his results proved inconclusive. However, considering that in all her life she had never said a kind word, and caused nothing but heartache, calamity, and trouble wherever she went, the general public decided that for all practical purposes Mirabella the Traitor was soulless. Though at this point she was not yet a traitor. That came about when she was nineteen. She and her sister lived with their parents on a small asparagus farm in the South of Fritillary. Their asparagus crops were known far and wide as being the most crisp, and the most pure. Even if you boiled them too long they didn¡¯t go all mushy, which, if you¡¯ve ever over-boiled asparagus, you¡¯ll have to agree is pretty neat. The reputation their asparagus had was a point of pride in a land where asparagus was as essential to the daily diet as grain products are to you and me. Also, asparagus tips, when dried and powdered, were essential elements in the highest forms of magic. So perfect were Mirabella¡¯s parents¡¯ asparaguses that the majority of their crop went straight to the Magical Commerce Division at the Capital, where it was then numbered, cataloged, and distributed to wizards who were lucky enough to be able to afford such top-of-the-line goods. The day that Mirabella earned her suffix ¡°The Traitor¡± started out like any other day down on the farm. Lillian woke with the sunrise and hummed a contented tune as she prepared for the day, combing her long, black hair until it shone, which didn¡¯t take much time because she was always brushing it. ¡°Get up, Lazy Bones!¡± she laughed with a musical trill that had been likened by many to the merry tinkling of fine crystal wind chimes. ¡°How can you lay there abed while there is such beauty in the world?¡± She then flung open the window of their bedroom. ¡°Oh dear, dear sunshine, blessing us with your warmth!¡± she said as she spun around in its rays. ¡°Lovely, lovely little robins serenading us with your sweet songs!¡± she added as she spotted one representative of the species perched on a tree branch just outside their window. It eyed her distrustfully and gave a chirp. ¡°Mirabella, look! Look and hear! This little dear is singing us a song!¡± She extended a gentle hand, crooning softly to it, her finger offered as a perch. It flew off, alarmed. No matter how kind you are, a wild animal is not going to sit on you. Lillian gave a pout, then flounced off to find her apron. Mirabella abandoned her pretense of sleep, opened her eyes long enough to give her sister a cold stare, then rolled over and contemplated the blank white wall, her back to the sunshine. ¡°Oh, Mirabella,¡± Lillian sighed. ¡°You silly dear. Well, if you don¡¯t care to see this beautiful morning, and if you don¡¯t want to go out and pick asparagus in the sweet sunshine, then it¡¯s all the more for me!¡± With that, she giggled and skipped out the door. As the door shut behind Lillian, Mirabella rolled onto her back and regarded the ceiling as she listened to her sister in the next room. ¡°Good morning, Mama! Good morning, Papa! No time for breakfast now. That asparagus won¡¯t pick itself!¡± They all shared a good chuckle. In a few more minutes Mirabella could hear, through the open window, Lillian singing as she went (probably skipping or dancing) over to the asparagus field. Mirabella shuddered and decided she¡¯d might as well get out of bed. If she didn¡¯t, her mother would soon be knocking on the door insisting that if her industrious sister was already up and picking asparagus then Mirabella should jolly well be doing the same. She slowly got into her clothes for the day, but unlike her sister who wore her hair down, Mirabella braided hers tightly and wrapped it into a knot on top of her head, making her appear even more severe than she naturally did. Stalking out into the main living area that was combination kitchen, dining room, and family room, she nodded slightly in response to her parents¡¯ greetings, and went straight out the front door without touching the breakfast that her mother had set out for her like she did every morning -- no matter how often her daughter ignored it. Mirabella shut the door behind her and picked up her asparagus basket from its place on the porch, then walked out to the field, and started picking in a row so far from her sister that they wouldn¡¯t be able to speak. The morning progressed uneventfully for two hours or so, Lillian and Mirabella harvesting asparagus while their parents took the wagon to the market. Mirabella worked mechanically, never once pausing to look up and admire the beautiful countryside that stretched out below their hillside farm, or to appreciate the majestic mountain range looming behind them. Lillian, on the other hand, often took little breaks to enjoy the scene and breathe the crisp air. In spite of all this shillyshallying, Lillian still somehow always managed to pick more asparagus than Mirabella, who rarely even looked up from her task. It was a great source of frustration for Mirabella that Lillian so constantly outshone her at every task, since the fact so often meant unwelcome comparisons from their parents and neighbors. Why couldn¡¯t people just leave her alone? She stood up to stretch her back, and saw a regal procession making its stately way down the dirt road that led to the farm. Shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, she detected tan banners with puce dragons embroidered on them. She smiled a creepy smile (the only kind of smile she had). It was the Prince, coming to visit her sister. And that meant... She searched the procession again now that they were close enough that she could make out the faces of the individuals in the party, and sure enough, at the prince¡¯s right side was his personal wizard, Farland Phelps. Farland was, as usual, the very picture of dark and mysterious, with his black cape, and his black hood casting shadow over his face. At this point in our tale, Mirabella was still young and didn¡¯t yet know herself too well, and Farland hadn¡¯t yet lived long enough to get too pretentious; Mirabella knew that her dark heart was incapable of love, but if it had been, she would have pledged it to Farland Phelps. He was the second-greatest wizard in the whole Land of Fritillary (the first being, of course, Wendell), and he was intelligent, and (as was the talk of all the royal court) both available and quite a looker. All around a prime slice of fella if you were a young lady of the court who was not quite so delusional as to hope to sink your talons into the prince himself, but still delusional enough to think you could sink one of his most powerful underlings. But all these fine qualities of Farland¡¯s aside, the true reason that Mirabella would have loved Farland if she could was that he was pure evil, and, if she was ever to pledge her affection to a man, he had to be evil. It was #1 on her list. A young lady should have a pre-set list of priorities when man-hunting so she can refer to it when her head gets clouded. Man-hunting is a most dangerous game, after all. You¡¯re welcome for that advice, girls. Yes, Farland was evil. Even as he pretended to be the Prince¡¯s best friend, he was secretly planning to murder the whole royal family, saving the Prince for last. Phelps didn¡¯t even want to take over as the king when the dust settled; he just wanted the Prince to suffer, consequences to the kingdom be darned! The seed of his foul plan had been sown when he and the Prince had been mere lads -- it had been some youthful dispute on the croquet field -- something to do with the Prince picking the gardener¡¯s son, Walter, for his team instead of picking Farland. But over the years the initial reason no longer mattered, morphing from revenge for the Croquet Episode to various different revenges for all kinds of accumulated little wrongs both real and imagined; then, eventually, when he was in his young twenties and fancied himself a revolutionary, to the takedown of the entire monarchy, because monarchy just isn¡¯t the wave of the future, man. But don¡¯t go thinking he¡¯s some misguided progressive guy with the idea that the ends sometimes have to justify the means on the road to a greater society, because (1) Farland¡¯s fancies ran more toward anarchy than democracy, and more importantly (2) killing people is pretty much never the best solution to a problem unless we¡¯re talking Hitler or Pol Pot or some such. But in this case we are not; while the Royal Family was quite self-absorbed and entitled, one must admit that those qualities just go with the profession; there is almost no getting around that fact that royalty thinks more highly of themselves than they probably should. The meaner members of this particular royal family could be rather oppressive to their subjects and had unreasonable taxes and laws, but no more so (and often less so) than their cohorts in neighboring kingdoms. Even the dungeon they spirited some of the more unruly citizens off to was smaller than most, and stocked with fewer sadistic employees than might be expected. So yes, the Royal Family of the Land of Fritillary was sort of bad, but not bad enough to justify all this hoopla on Farland¡¯s part. Mirabella knew his plans and was helping him to make his dream come true. How did she know, you ask? Well, let me tell you. The reason she knew he was evil at all when the rest of the kingdom thought he was a pretty awesome guy was simply that he needed her help. If he wanted to murder the Royal Family he needed a VAST quantity of powdered asparagus tips. He couldn¡¯t just buy it because the sale and purchase of asparagus powder was closely monitored by the Magical Commerce Division. So he needed an accomplice on the inside of Big Asparagus. An accomplice who knew the best asparagus and could make the powder for him. An accomplice, also, who was evil, otherwise there was a risk of him being turned in by a repentant softie. In his Evil Fortress, Farland had gazed into his magical pool of raven blood and asked it to reveal to him the person who would assist him in his evil plan. The magical pool of raven blood was quite temperamental and rarely condescended to divulge any information to Farland, so he was surprised and pleased when, as he stared into its deep red depths, he saw a vision of Mirabella shimmer into sight; then the magical bowl of raven blood had heartily warned him against confusing Mirabella with her twin sister who was the essence of all things good. So that¡¯s how the wizard Farland Phelps found, and then secured the help of, Mirabella. On his very first visit to the farm, Prince Conroy came along on a whim in order to do some mingling with the commoners -- his PR guy had been hounding him about rubbing elbows with the peasants lately, saying mingling was a good way to keep public opinion of him high without having to actually mess with things like taxes or employment or whatever else goes into making a populace happy through competent governance -- Conroy had no clue since he¡¯d totally zoned out when his private tutor had gotten into all that stuff. Boring!! So anyway, Conroy came along with Farland, and there Conroy met Lillian, and BAM! Love at first sight. Said love was deeply reciprocated, so the Prince kept visiting, handily supplying Farland with an excuse to come to the farm to collect powdered asparagus tips from Mirabella. Fate can be quite convenient sometimes. # As Mirabella watched the procession draw nearer, she became suddenly aware of her sister beside her, hopping giddily from foot to foot and clapping her hands. ¡°Oh, Mirabella! It¡¯s Prince Conroy!¡± she squealed. ¡°Oh, but Mama and Papa aren¡¯t at home! I cannot see him without a chaperone!¡± ¡°What are you blithering about?¡± Mirabella spat in her cold voice of venom, never taking her eyes off the face of the ever-advancing Farland Phelps. ¡°People would talk if word got around that the Prince and I conversed without appropriate supervision!¡± Mirabella doubted this. If that is what counted as gossip these days, then life in the royal court was dull indeed. But she didn¡¯t bother wasting her breath trying to convince her sister of this. For one thing, there was no point telling Lillian to do anything if she had already deemed it improper. And for another thing, Lillian was already making a beeline toward the house, probably with the intention of barricading herself inside. Mirabella strolled to the stables, and waited there for the procession. The Prince and the wizard were the first to reach her. They dismounted, and two pages who had been scampering along behind them scurried up to tend to their horses, who, in the presence of Mirabella, pawed nervously at the ground as if they were being circled by a predator. Farland retreated to the shadows where he paced back and forth looking mighty out of place by a big bale of hay, waiting for the opportunity to speak to Mirabella. The Prince strode toward her with confident, princely strides, head of shiny hair held high, broad shoulders thrown back, hand on the hilt of his fancy sword. His gleaming hair and sky-blue twinkly eyes made Mirabella squint, even in the shade of the stable. His black boots shone, and his purple cape fluttered in the almost-nonexistent breeze. A cookie cutter prince if ever there was one, but no less impressive for the fact. Mirabella gave a grudging curtsy as the Prince halted before her. ¡°Mirabella. Good morning,¡± he said in a deep, smooth, manly baritone that was every bit as princely as the rest of him. ¡°A lovely day.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Eh.¡± The Prince raised a royal eyebrow. ¡°Is your sister home?¡± Prince Conroy enquired, choosing to switch from small talk to the real reason for his visit. As much as he tried for Lillian¡¯s sake to get along with Mirabella, he had to confess it was no cakewalk. He could find no common ground with her, and it wasn¡¯t as if he hadn¡¯t tried. Also, he just couldn¡¯t bring himself to look into those empty eyes of hers without shivering. Eyes like that he had only ever seen on dead people, so it was, to say the least, disconcerting to see them in her head when she was quite obviously living. ¡°Yes, she¡¯s home. Locked herself in the house and will not see you,¡± Mirabella said, trying all the while to meet his gaze. It amused her to watch him try to avoid her eyes. Most -- possibly all -- people she encountered were repelled by her gaze, but for all his manliness the Prince had an especially tough time of it. The big tough military captain couldn¡¯t even meet her gaze without quaking in his shiny boots. She sneered. ¡°Ah, your parents are out then?¡± he asked the space over her left shoulder. She nodded slightly. ¡°You must have passed right by them on the way here.¡± Conroy thought back and remembered that not far from the turnoff to the farm he had seen a wagon with two old people who were assessing some damage to a broken wheel ¨C the wheel had sustained damage after being driven off the road and into the ditch by his procession; the moment they¡¯d seen him, the couple had fallen to ground, groveling in the dirt like the peasants they were. Well, not dirt. Mud. He had smirked at them as he''d passed, thrown a few coins their way, and not bothered to stop to try to make out the words they¡¯d been speaking into the mud (they were surely too afraid to look up at his Royal Glory to speak in his direction). Now he wondered if those groveling peasants had been his future in-laws, and if they had been trying to tell him that Lillian and her sister were alone on the farm, and perhaps wondering whether they should abandon their cart and head back home. Hmm. Oh well. ¡°Your sister is quite a proper young maiden,¡± he said, his eyes glittering with love or something. Twinkle, twinkle.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Mirabella winced. ¡°Indeed,¡± she said and pushed a bit at the dirt with the toe of her shoe. Her game had grown old. Small talk, small talk, small talk. When would she get the chance to give Farland the latest pouch of powdered asparagus tips she had prepared? ¡°Perhaps I¡¯ll take a walk through your garden and wait for your parents to return,¡± the Prince said lamely, growing irritated with conversation with the soulless girl. Small talk, small talk, small talk. Surely he had spoken with her long enough to come across as sociable should Lillian be watching through a window. Yes, he was through, but it would be rude to leave Mirabella with no one to talk to, so he signaled to his friend, Farland. He was a wizard, after all, and thus probably knew about sticky issues like talking to soulless people with fathomless eyes. As Farland glided toward Mirabella, arms folded and eyes glinting under the hood of his dark cape, Prince Conroy went off to pick some flowers for his love. # Farland¡¯s black eyes met Mirabella¡¯s empty ones, and they both grinned horrifying sorts of grins devoid of anything remotely related to normal smile-inducing things. Mirabella reached into the pocket of her gingham apron and drew out a small pouch, then, with a cautious glance around, she handed it to him, all overly-sneaky and covert like a teenage drug deal. He would only need a bit more powder now. The batch of asparagus that she currently had hanging to dry under her bed would be the last of it. He took the pouch, inclined his head in the direction of the house, and began to glide toward it, obviously wanting to speak to her out of earshot of all the knights and pages and such who were milling about here and there waiting for the Prince¡¯s date to be over so they could all go back home. Farland reached the porch and sat in one of the two matching rocking chairs, looking, again, amazingly out of place. He then proceeded to enhance the effect by actually rocking the rocking chair. She joined him on the porch, but wouldn¡¯t sully her creepy image by occupying the other chair. ¡°My sister is in the house,¡± she muttered. ¡°We can¡¯t talk here.¡± ¡°Nonsense,¡± he muttered back. ¡°This is the only shady spot on your whole cursed farm except the stables. You see this cape I¡¯m wearing? I¡¯m not going back out in that sun until I have to. Besides, listen.¡± He cocked his head in the direction of the house. Mirabella crept to the door and listened. At the opposite side of the house, Mirabella could hear Lillian and the Prince talking -- they must be conversing through the (probably closed) window on the opposite side of the room. ¡°They won¡¯t be leaving that spot any time soon,¡± Farland said derisively, as though Conroy and Lillian were hopelessly pathetic for being in love. Satisfied that they would not be overheard, Mirabella said, ¡°One more pouch of powder should be more than enough.¡± ¡°Excellent,¡± Farland breathed. ¡°Excellent. Just a week or two more and my revenge against the Prince will be complete.¡± As Mirabella and Farland talked murder without, Lillian and Prince Conroy talked love within. Though really Lillian was the only one within. The Prince was, indeed, standing on the outer side of the shuttered and locked window, his ear pressed to the rough wood the better to make out the sweet voice of his most darling, adored dream. At that moment, he was exercising every ounce of his considerable princely charm, trying to coax her into opening the window just a crack so he could catch a glimpse of her dear, dear face. ¡°Of course not!¡± she gasped, scandalized. ¡°Please, my dear Lillian,¡± he pleaded, having at this point abandoned eloquent reasoning, and lapsed into whining. ¡°Please, won¡¯t you open the window? Just a tad?¡± ¡°No!¡± she reiterated, then, feeling quite flustered, took flight across the room to distance herself from the source of the temptation that was beginning to stir within her, battling with her desire to maintain her spotless maidenly honor. She would not give in, and that was that! No princely wiles and snares would tempt her! Why buy the cow when you could catch an unchaperoned glimpse of it through a window? Or whatever the saying was. Over the thudding of her goody-goody heart, she heard her sister¡¯s voice through the front door she was now standing by. Then, she heard Farland answer. Farland was her dear Prince¡¯s best friend, and had been ever since they were kids. Was there some romance blooming between Farland and her sister? Why, that would be perfect! Lillian fought a hard inner battle against eavesdropping, and of course the side that deemed eavesdropping wrong won out, so she was about to retreat to yet another part of the room when she heard something that caught her interest and nearly stopped her heart. ¡°--my revenge against the Prince will be complete,¡± the wizard said. Like lightning, Lillian darted to the door and listened intently. ¡°You have no idea,¡± Mirabella responded, ¡°how... happy... it makes me to be the one to supply you with the powdered asparagus tips that will kill the Royal Family. I¡¯ll be especially happy to know Conroy is dead. Those twinkling eyes are enough to make me scream, and that¡¯s even without having to listen to his inane babbling.¡± Lillian gasped quietly and fluttered on wobbly legs back to the window where Conroy was. She might even have opened the kitchen window (such was the gravity of the situation), but her shaking fingers didn¡¯t allow it. One listen showed her that the prince hadn¡¯t even noticed her absence. ¡°--please, it would make my day! No, my week! No, my-¡± ¡°Prince Conroy!¡± she broke in. ¡°Yes, my only?¡± ¡°Sneak quietly around to the front of the house and see if you can hear what the wizard and my sister are talking about! Be cautious! For I fear they are plotting against you!¡± # Overhear their conversation Conroy did, and the long and short of what he learned from it can be summed up in one handy list: (1) Mirabella and Farland meant to kill Conroy and his nearest and dearest. (2) Farland was not his best friend in all the world. (3) Lillian had saved his life and the lives of the rest of his family, cementing more than ever in his mind the fact that this was the lady he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. (4) Mirabella was a traitor and must be banished to the Forest of Looming Death. (5) He would have to return the friendship ring he had received from Farland in their youth. # Farland and Mirabella stood before Prince Conroy as he paced to and fro, agitated, confused, and yes, a little brokenhearted for friendship dead and gone. Mirabella¡¯s hands were tied behind her back, and she was held in place by a burly soldier about four times her size. Farland was unshackled only because it would have been pointless to try, he being a wizard and all. The only reason Farland was still there was because he chose to be, and everyone knew it. Prince Conroy halted before them and said, ¡°I never would have believed it if I hadn¡¯t heard it with my own two ears. Especially you, Farland!¡± His voice rang out with anger and disillusionment. ¡°You were my best friend! Remember when we became blood brothers?¡± he added, hoping at least to illicit a bit of guilt from Farland. The wizard smiled a reminiscent smile as he thought back to the day he had talked the Prince into becoming his ¡®blood brother¡¯ (a practice that, in case you are not familiar with it since you have been raised in a modern age with heightened awareness of diseases and cleanliness, involves both parties cutting themselves and then holding the cuts together, the idea being that one party would then have the other¡¯s blood flowing through their veins and visa versa. Never do that. It is disgusting). ¡°Blood brothers, phooey! I only did that so I could have easy access to your blood when I needed to cast a spell against you!¡± he explained. He saw Mirabella raise an impressed eyebrow at him, and he felt a glow of pride at his cleverness. Prince Conroy¡¯s jaw actually dropped as this was revealed. ¡°Really?¡± ¡°Of course!¡± laughed Farland. He found that, now he¡¯d been discovered, he wanted to get it all out in the open. He was disappointed that his lovely plans had been foiled in the eleventh hour by that irritating little harpy Lillian, and he wanted the Prince to know a thing or two before he (Farland) disappeared in a column of smoke. ¡°As if a wizard of my caliber could pass up the chance to have your blood in my veins and thus hold power over you and your offspring for the rest of my life!¡± ¡°I¡ªI--¡± the Prince stuttered. ¡°You can do that?¡± Farland nodded. ¡°But -- we were seven years old when we became blood brothers!¡± he spluttered. ¡°Were we ever friends?¡± A noncommittal shrug and an ¡°Eh,¡± were all the answer he got. Prince Conroy looked at his ex-friend searchingly, then sighed, and said, ¡°Enough of this. Down to business.¡± He nodded his head sharply as if in response to some inner pep talk, then went on in a more commanding tone, ¡°Mirabella, traitor, as of today you are banished to the Forest of Looming Death. Set foot beyond its shades again and you shall die!¡± This he proclaimed and pointed a finger right at her face. She blinked. Nothing more. No reaction in those empty eyes. ¡°And you!¡± Conroy continued to Farland, ¡°You!¡± He then took the ring that Farland had given them when they were teenagers (engraved on it was the phrase ¡°Friends 4 E-V-R") and tried to pull it off his finger. It didn¡¯t budge. Farland sniggered as he watched the Prince struggle with the ring, then laughed aloud. ¡°You dolt. Friendship ring, my eye! That ring is cursed, and will never leave your finger!¡± ¡°Cursed? Cursed... how?¡± asked poor Conroy, shocked. What a horrible twist of fate. His best friend in all the world was turning out to be maybe his biggest enemy. He had access to Conroy¡¯s blood whenever he needed it for a spell, and now there was a cursed ring too? Geez. Talk about overkill. ¡°Cursed how, you ask? Well,¡± and here Farland would have polished his nails nonchalantly on his cloak and surveyed them as he leaned casually up against something -- if he weren''t standing in the middle of a field, ¡°--Let me tell you. I was feeling quite creative the day I dreamed this¡¯un up.¡± He gave Mirabella a sidelong look -- he knew she¡¯d get a kick out of this this. Then he looked back to Conroy. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯d appreciate the cleverness if it weren¡¯t your life being mucked up. Yes, I was feeling creative. And vindictive. A nice combination of fuel to get the wheels of revenge turning in the engine of--¡± The engine of what? He shouldn¡¯t use a metaphor like that if he hadn¡¯t rehearsed it ahead of time. ¡°Whatever. Here¡¯s the curse: as long as you wear that ring, your first born child will never be able to let sunlight touch his or her skin. Not a single ray of sunshine. If your first child so much as walks past a curtain that isn¡¯t entirely drawn, death shall be the grand result!¡± Farland studied the Prince¡¯s reaction, frankly a bit disappointed that the royal visage was not a mask of horror. Conroy was by no means happy, but clearly he had been bracing himself for worse. Farland hadn¡¯t taken into account the fact that, to most men, their children only become real to them on a true emotional level when they are actually holding them in their arms for the first time. ¡°It may not seem like a big deal now,¡± Farland pointed out, ¡°since you¡¯re not even married and the prospect of offspring is a bit down the road, but I assure you once your kid is born you will wish you¡¯d never crossed me! You¡¯ll have to remodel the whole castle to accommodate the child! And no riding, no hunting, not even taking a walk! Family trips will be a logistical nightmare!¡± Conroy mulled it over, and the more he thought the worse it really did seem. But then something occurred to him and he brightened. ¡°This only applies if the ring is on my finger?¡± ¡°Yes. But, the ring will never leave your finger. It¡¯s stuck on. With magic.¡± Prince Conroy pulled a dagger out of his boot with a fancy flourish and held it, not to the wizard''s throat as the slack jawed onlookers had expected, but to his own ringed finger. ¡°And if I cut off my finger--¡± ¡°You will die.¡± ¡°Oh...¡± Conroy¡¯s hands fell to his sides. Defeated. But not defingered. ¡°Drat...¡± Farland looked at Mirabella and raised his eyebrows with a look that clearly said, ¡°Impressive, huh?¡± She chuckled a soulless chuckle and nodded her approval. Farland felt a cozy glow of pride. Even if the murder wasn¡¯t panning out, this was at least a nice consolation prize. A bit of recognition from the lady he fancied. ¡°How do I know you¡¯re telling the truth?¡± Conroy asked, almost pleadingly. He wasn¡¯t even looking at his enemy anymore, but at the house where his future wife was now peeking out into the yard through a gap in the shutters. He met her one visible eye and read there a horrified look that showed she had heard all. This was her future child they were discussing. ¡°There¡¯s no way of proving it short of testing it,¡± Farland said. ¡°Cut off your finger. See if you live. Or open a window during the day when you are in a room with your child.¡± He grinned. ¡°Then you¡¯ll know whether there¡¯s a curse. Maybe that ring is just stuck on your finger because you¡¯ve put on weight living in the lap of luxury.¡± ¡°I have not put on--¡± Conroy started defensively, then snapped his mouth shut, not wanting to sound petty when Lillian was listening. ¡°Is there anything that can break the curse?¡± he asked desolately. ¡°There¡¯s always something that can be done to break a curse.¡± This is, indeed, true. For every evil curse that is created, there has to be an opposite and equal good that can cancel it out. A scientist said so and everything, sort of. The problem is that the creator of the curse is the one who also gets to choose the counter-curse. Farland said reluctantly, ¡°True... part of the procedure of concocting a curse requires a counter-curse. The key to that, however, is to make it really, really hard. Something so outrageous that it is almost impossible. Almost being the key word there, my friend. For if it were it utterly impossible it wouldn¡¯t--¡± ¡°I get it. Go on, already,¡± Conroy growled. ¡°Fine. In order to break the curse, your son or daughter must fall in love with a person who has spent his or her whole life at sea, whose parents were once part of a traveling theater troupe, who plays banjo and accordion and harpsichord, and who is allergic to asparagus. And, of course, the love must be reciprocated--¡± ¡°Surely no such person can exist!¡± cried Conroy. ¡°But it sure will be amusing to watch you searching for this ¡®impossible¡¯ individual. Because search you will. No matter how impossible you think the task. And besides, the world is large, my friend, and full of people with all sorts of backgrounds, interests, and allergies. It is not impossible for such a person to exist. Only improbable. But rest assured, if I ever do catch wind of someone who fits the description I¡¯ll kill ¡®em. That won¡¯t negate the curse, either, because there could always be another individual who fits the bill somewhere out there on the high seas.¡± Prince Conroy¡¯s shoulders sagged. What had he ever done to deserve this? ¡°You¡¯ve annoyed me ever since we first met,¡± Farland answered. ¡°All the annoyances over the years just started stacking up.¡± ¡°You can read minds?¡± Conroy exclaimed, thinking frantically back to what must have been thousands of things he¡¯d thought in the presence of the wizard that were better left unshared. If he could read minds then, Conroy had to admit, Farland really did have reason to think ill of him -- Conroy tried to come off as a good guy, but there was a lot of stuff went on in the ol¡¯ gray matter that was not so pretty. Also, some of the things Farland had doubtless found out by reading his mind were of a very personal nature. Conroy turned an un-princely shade of red. Farland smiled, looking off into the distance in a reminiscent sort of way. ¡°If you weren¡¯t a wizard who could vanish in a puff of smoke whenever you chose, I¡¯d have you banished too! No, I¡¯d have you executed!¡± Conroy cried, totally losing his cool. Farland merely laughed a final evil laugh, gave Mirabella a courteous nod, and chose to disappear in a puff of smoke. All assembled coughed, stumbled about, and staggered out of the smoke to get some fresh air. The Prince recovered quickly since he¡¯d anticipated Farland¡¯s exit in enough time to take a deep breath. When he whirled in a fit of regal rage on Mirabella, she was still coughing, and he enjoyed the feeling (rare when talking to her) that he was the one in control of the conversation. ¡°You, traitor, have five minutes to collect your belongings and say your goodbyes. Then, you will be escorted to The Forest of Looming Death where you will live the rest of your blighted days in darkness and solitude. Solitude except for the other banished criminals, anyway," he said vindictively, "but they¡¯re mostly murderers, so I can¡¯t imagine they make the best company.¡± He then turned his back on her coughing form, hoping never to set eyes on her again, and strode over to the house, hoping Lillian hadn¡¯t taken this whole affair too badly. One look into the eye he could see through the gap in the shutters showed that she had been crying. ¡°Dearest!¡± cried he. ¡°Poor thing, I have deprived you of your only sister! But surely--¡± ¡°Oh I¡¯m not crying about that!¡± she blubbered. ¡°I¡¯m crying because -- how could she! How could she -- conspire to kill the man I love?¡± At this last word, she gasped sharply and covered her mouth (not that he could see that). Conroy staggered back a few paces. ¡°You -- you -- love me?¡± he stammered, all his troubles momentarily forgotten. ¡°Oh Lillian! Such joy! Such happiness! You have transformed this day from --¡± he thought ¡°-- from the worst day of my life to the best day of my life!¡± Not as flowery language as he would have liked, but this situation had snuck up on him. Had he known words of love were going to be exchanged, he would have had the court poet whip up a little something for him, but as it was he had to wing it, which was not his forte. (If you are wondering what his forte was, it was croquet. He was really good croquet). What he could see of her tearstained face broke into a grin of delight. ¡°Conroy! Oh, Conroy!¡± ¡°Oh, Lillian!¡± She opened the shutters a bit more, enough to stretch her hand through. He took her hand in both of his and gave it a squeeze as he smiled at her, forgetting the guards and knights and pages and Mirabella all fidgeting around behind him, watching. ¡°Lillian, will you tell your father to come to see me at the castle tonight? That I have something particular to tell him?¡± He wiggled his eyebrows significantly. Mirabella cut in from behind him, ¡°That you wish to apologize for banishing his one daughter without giving him a chance to say goodbye? And also taking his other daughter away to marry, thus leaving him and his wife on this farm in their declining years to tend the asparagus on their own?¡± Though in truth, she didn¡¯t mind at all that she¡¯d never again see the parents who had cared for her all these years against the constant advice of friends and family to ship her off to an asylum. A guard shook her roughly by the shoulder and whispered, ¡°Quiet!¡± He was staring with rapt attention at Conroy and Lillian, a single sentimental tear trembling on his lashes. Lillian didn¡¯t even spare her sister a glance. Mirabella would not ruin her happy moment with mention of the reality of the hardship their parents were now facing. Besides, Conroy would surely provide for them if this conversation was really going the direction it seemed to be. (He wouldn¡¯t really provide for them). ¡°Of course I¡¯ll tell him, my only!¡± Jubilation, cheers, happiness from all assembled (except, of course, for Mirabella). With one last look that spoke volumes, the Prince turned and told two of his most trusted knights to see to Mirabella¡¯s banishment, then he mounted his steed and trotted back home to the castle with the rest of his retinue following in his wake. He was happy as clam, which I guess is pretty happy if we are to put our trust in the people who make up such expressions, though what a lonely little bottom-feeder scraping along the floor of the sea eating fish excrement and decomposed plants and animals has to be all that thrilled about is beyond me. Chapter Three The great castle where dwelled the Royal Family of the Land of Fritillary was the finest castle around. Top notch. Grade A. It was by far the largest known, and the most aesthetically pleasing. It was situated on a lush hilltop near the coast of the ocean with nearby a preponderance of waterfalls and many a cave, inlet, and hollow that nature photographers would have salivated over if cameras had been invented at this point in Fritillary¡¯s history. The castle itself was beautiful beyond description, but I¡¯ll give it a try anyway! Wherever there was a place that would benefit from a nice pillar or a bit of carving, there was a nice pillar or a bit of carving. Wherever there was fabric (curtains, banners, upholstery, etc.) it was of the finest possible quality. Wherever there were doors, they were made of the best wood available, and their hinges never squeaked. The furniture was the grandest, the floors and ceilings tiled the most intricately, the ironwork the most curved and twisted, the nooks and crannies the most cozy, the gargoyles the most fierce, and the cherubs the most sweetly angelic. But-- Come with me now, dear reader, down a dark, hidden hallway, through a dark hidden doorway, to a dark hidden staircase. Let us pause, summon our courage you and I, and walk down, down, down. To the dungeon! Let us walk down into its depths, where many a poor soul has disappeared, never to reappear again. The stone steps extend for an eternity and the torches are few, far between, and rarely lit. Once we have stumbled down the dark and uneven steps and our feet have found level ground again we find ourselves in a high-ceilinged main chamber festooned with all manner of unpleasant-looking gizmos and machines whose purpose is plainly to inflict pain on the unhappy lodgers of the dungeon. Only two of the ten visible devices are in use at the time our story reaches this dreadful chamber, which says something for the head jailer and his boss the King, I suppose. Not much, but something. Four dark passages led off the main chamber, one north, one south, one west, and one (you guessed it!) east. Between the passages the main chamber was lined with barred cells. The head jailer, Jim, was shuffling through some papers at his desk by the stairs, mumbling irately about the bother of paperwork and opining that they should get some dame down here to do the filing, thus freeing him up for some Man Work. But no, he¡¯d put in a request to his boss for a secretary and he¡¯d turned Jim down flat, saying the dungeon was no place for a woman, they being so delicate and prone to fits and things of that nature. Plus they just get married and pregnant and quit and you have to hire another one and start the whole darn process all over again. Women! Bah! Yes, Jim supposed it really was best if they stayed home and cooked and had babies and didn''t get uppity ideas about employment and financial independence. So, when his boss had refused his request for a secretary, he had been annoyed but unsurprised. Glancing up from some new admittance forms at the scene of blood and groaning before him he had to concede that there might be some logic to their refusal. Chicks didn¡¯t study the Secretarial Arts with this sort of workplace in mind. He allowed himself a moment of fun and spun around a few times in his swivel chair, then looked back down at his work, but the final sheet on the stack of long-postponed drudgery would have to wait, because just then something odd happened. He cocked his head to one side, for he had heard something strange. Footsteps coming down the stairs. Of course, footsteps are not, in general, strange; but these ones were. They sounded... female. Those feet were wearing not boots but some shoes that sounded as though they didn¡¯t even have hard soles. Slippers? And was that the swish of fabric against the wall? A gown? Closer and closer the newcomer came, and, after a few moments, voices could be heard. Two women? The visitors rounded the bend, and Jim found himself staring straight at the Queen! Queen Lillian (since last we saw Lillian, she has gotten married to Conroy and experienced the death of her father- and mother-in-law, thus becoming the Queen). Despite the general spirit of shock that swept around the room like a cyclone, Jim and everyone else had the presence of mind to fall into the customary groveling bow. That is, everyone who wasn¡¯t affixed to a device that prevented it. Oblivious of her prostrate subjects below, she was talking energetically to her maid, Eugenia, who was as always trailing a few steps behind the Queen. Jim heard the last bit of what she was saying: ¡°--never even knew there was a dungeon in the palace! Imagine my surprise! But I simply had to come down here and see it for myself, because I think it would be just the perfect place!¡± Here she took another step and continued as her eyes scanned the room, seeing but not seeing. ¡°Deep underground, no windows, quite sizeable. All we¡¯d need is a good interior decorator --¡± And there her voice trailed off. Her gaze had, in the process of scanning the room, fallen on a prisoner chained to the wall. A full minute of incoherent stuttering and stammering ensured, then she gasped, ¡°Who is in charge here?¡± ¡°Your majesty, I am,¡± Jim said, still bowing. She glanced at him and said distractedly, ¡°Oh, do stand up.¡± Then her eyes drifted back to the room and she stared, waking from a lovely dream of a charmed life married to her handsome king to the nightmare of what went on behind the scenes of her fairytale castle she called home. ¡°Does the King know about this place?¡± she whispered. It was a silly question, but she was pretty shocked and still inclined to believe the very best of her husband. Before Jim could answer in the affirmative, Lillian continued, ¡°No, he couldn¡¯t possibly,¡± and of course Jim wasn¡¯t about to contradict the Queen. But the truth was that Conroy knew very well about the dungeon; as his father and his advisors had taught him, the dungeon was a key component in their formula for running a manageable kingdom. Scoop up just enough citizens for committing petty crimes or speaking ill of the King and imprison them for unreasonable amounts of time (or never release them at all) and you can bet your bottom dollar that gossip will spread like wildfire that you are not a ruler to cross. Conroy¡¯s kingly ancestors had worked the process out to a science after centuries of trial and error. Take too many commoners at a time and you run the risk of the populace banding together and having riots, and take too few and no one really notices, but take just the right amount and the dungeon becomes a mysterious, fearful place whispered about before the fireplace on cold nights -- a place that is possibly a rumor, maybe true, but certainly terrifying. A ghost story, a tale told to children to keep them from grabbing fruit and turkey jerky off the stands at the market. Yes, the key to keeping a populace under control was just the right amount of fear that they might be carted off for some minor offence and locked away forever. Once every few years, when his spies said that talk of the dungeon was dying down, the King would have a prisoner released, one who¡¯d been driven crazy and thus couldn¡¯t give too many specifics, and rumors would begin to fly anew.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. When Lillian herself had been a lowly peasant on the asparagus farm, she had never heard the gossip since she tended to block out all things unpleasant in her need to construct a happy fiction around herself. But, her parents had talked fairly often about a cousin¡¯s friend¡¯s uncle who had disappeared shortly after refusing to pay his taxes. However, now that Lillian was standing in the very dungeon itself not even she could any longer pretend it didn¡¯t exist. Shakily, she descended the rest of the stairs. Shakily, she took one deep breath. Two deep breaths. Three. She was, as you¡¯ll have noticed, not that bright, but she was remarkably kind and good, and could be quite brave when confronted with something that went against her sense of what was right. ¡°What is all this?¡± she squeaked. ¡°This is the dungeon, Your Majesty,¡± Jim waved his arm about vaguely, confusedly, since to him it seemed that the answer was so obvious that the question was utterly unnecessary. What had she expected when she¡¯d come down here? Dames, who could figure them out? ¡°These are the prisoners,¡± he added helpfully, pointing around to a few men, most of them looking just as confused as he was by their fancy visitor, but nodding or waving a hand as Jim pointed them out. ¡°What are their crimes?¡± she asked. ¡°Surely they must be murderers, or...¡± her sheltered existence failed her here and she could think of no other really horrible crimes, the kinds that might come close to justifying the dungeon. Again she asked, ¡°What are their crimes?¡± ¡°Oh, this and that...¡± Jim responded with a shrug, while at the same time feeling he should have a better answer available for the boss¡¯s wife. Yet another reason he should be more up on the paperwork. She looked at him, appalled, then transferred her gaze to the scrawny fellow hanging by his wrists from the wall. ¡°Why are you here?¡± she asked him. He looked downright scared to be addressed personally by the Queen, but after a glance at Jim (who nodded that he should respond) he said, ¡°I stole a loaf of bread.¡± She gasped. ¡°For my children.¡± Really he had no children, but he did have the good sense to milk this situation for all it was worth. Her hand flew to her mouth and she staggered back a step. ¡°Who have no mother.¡± Of course they had no mother. They didn¡¯t exist. A cry of horror from the Queen. ¡°The poor darlings! And their father imprisoned for trying to feed them! How long have they been alone? How long have you been down here?¡± ¡°Six months. Little Gretel¡¯s birthday was two weeks ago,¡± he added piteously. Lillian sobbed a bit, and looked around the chamber again through tear-filled eyes. She almost asked the prisoner on the rack what his crime had been, but bit her question back before it left her mouth, sure she couldn¡¯t bear another story as painful as the last. But FYI, the prisoner on the rack actually was a murderer. If she¡¯d known that she might not have done what she did next, but who knows? ¡°This is ghastly. Ghastly!¡± She paused, and rifled through her brain for some stuff she¡¯d learned from her Royalty tutor during her betrothal period. She¡¯d only been married three months, so the info was all still fresh enough in her head for her to say with some authority, ¡°By my authority as the Queen of the Land of Fritillary, I pronounce all these men free! To be released this very day!¡± You could have heard a pin drop. Especially one of the big creepy pins they used down there in the dungeon. ¡°Can she do that?¡± asked the murderer on the rack, whose thoughts flew to the man who¡¯d turned him in, and the revenge he might at last be able to dole out. Sweet, sweet ice cold revenge. Like strawberry sorbet. ¡°Yeah, can she?¡± asked the guy chained to the wall, whose thoughts flew to his kids, who were, as previously discussed, not real. But gosh darn it, they could be some day if he was released! If he could just get out of there he¡¯d make some real changes in his life! Renounce his lazy ways, find himself a nice girl (one who¡¯d make his mama proud for a change!)! He¡¯d marry that nice girl and they¡¯d have some nice babies who he¡¯d provide with the best of everything! Little Gretel¡¯s lavish dowry would land her a nice young man and then he (the prisoner) would have a brood of nice grandkids who he¡¯d bounce on his knee on summer afternoons, and regale them with endearingly exaggerated tales of his ruffian past and subsequent reformation due to the kindness of the Queen herself! His dear wife would stand arm in arm with Gretel and they¡¯d gaze with fond smiles at him as, in the background, his son-in-law would chop wood for the fire that would cook their nutritious and substantial dinner that he had provided them all. Ah, bliss. ¡°Yeah, can she do that?¡± asked a guard, whose thoughts flew to his job security. All eyes were on Jim, whose own eyes darted around nervously. What the heck was going on here? Release all the prisoners? Was this some sort of sick stealth on-the-job training thing to test his handling of the situation? Covertly, he glanced up the stairs to see whether there as someone in the shadows holding a scroll, checking boxes and marking down his every word. But before he could speak, Lillian said imperiously, ¡°Why are you asking him? I am the Queen. Does his word carry more weight in this land, or does mine?¡± All present had the sense to recognize this question as rhetorical. ¡°But ¨C but --¡± Jim said into the silence, quaking in his blood-stained boots. If there was a way to smoothly navigate this rocky workplace situation then he did not have the appropriate skillset. ¡°But if we could perhaps, just-- ask your husband?¡± The Women¡¯s Rights movement had not taken a firm hold in the Land of Fritillary at this point in its history, since anyone who tried to start up such unnatural nonsense was promptly burned as a witch; but with the jailer¡¯s last sentence the cause of feminism finally gained a recruit too powerful to be silenced in such a manner. Chapter Four About a half-hour later, down an alley in the shadow of the castle, Daisy was woken from a dead sleep by a very official-sounding pounding on her front door. She stumbled to the door and found she had been correct in her appraisal, for there stood a small troop of official-looking soldiers, one of whom demanded in an official-sounding tone of voice that she come with him, pronto. That¡¯s how Daisy found herself, head spinning with all sorts of wild, horrible thoughts, stumbling through the midnight streets of the city on the way to the castle. She knew this was something bad because, as the Royal Interior Decorator, she had been escorted to the castle many a time but always in the light of day with one friendly escort, not in the middle of the night with two surly soldiers in front of her and two surly soldiers behind her, boxing her in as though expecting her to try to escape. Was the Queen unhappy with the new flower arrangements in the main hall? There had been some trouble with one of the new chairs for the banquet table, but she had thought the squeaking had been repaired. And, seriously, could troubles with the decor really get her in as much trouble as she felt sure she must be in? She had not held her position at the castle for very long, so she didn¡¯t know yet how things were handled when something went wrong, but this simply had to be excessive. The guards were no help; they either hadn¡¯t been informed of the reason she was being brought to the castle, or they knew and weren¡¯t telling. All they said was that the Queen had said it was urgent. Daisy¡¯s anxiety increased when she was brought not through the main gates but down a path around the side of the massive building and past the stables to a small, unadorned, heavily guarded, back door. Then a short walk down a dark passage, and through another door, and then down, down, down an endless stone staircase worn with age and countless footsteps of the condemned -- the longer she walked the more convinced she became that there was only one place she could possibly be headed. The dungeon. And she was familiar enough with the rumors to know that people rarely left the dungeon. What could she possibly have done to anger the Queen this much? What? Would she be given a chance to offer some sort of defense against whatever her crimes were supposed to have been? The Queen had seemed so kind and down-to-earth -- there had to have been some ghastly sort of misunderstanding. Daisy wished she had at least been able to bid her family farewell. She hoped someone would inform them where she was so they wouldn''t have to wonder, but that was unlikely considering the air of mystery surrounding the dungeon. How long would it take for people to notice she was gone? Would anyone think to water her houseplants and feed her bird? Legs shaking, on the verge of tears, she finally reached the bottom of the stairs and found herself standing in the high-ceilinged, huge main torture chamber. Appropriately gothic torches lit the perimeter, and a slimy drop of condensation plopped down from the ceiling and onto the bridge of her nose. But -- aside from the torches and the gross condensation -- nothing about the place was as she would have expected. The scene before her eyes was just confusing enough to jar her out of some of her despair and fear. There was an army of maids scouring the walls and floors, while a group of guards was standing in one corner around an evil-looking device scratching their heads. She overheard one of them mumbling, ¡°Are we sure this thing can be disassembled?¡± Another answered, ¡°Well it sure wasn¡¯t carried down all those stairs in its current state. There must be a way to get it apart -- oh wait, look, I think we need an Allen wrench right there--¡± A few more guards were removing some chains from the walls and dropping them into an open crate labelled, ¡°STORAGE. Chains -- Dungeon.¡± And there didn''t appear to be any prisoners anywhere. Then, just when Daisy thought things couldn¡¯t get weirder, the Queen herself bustled into sight, busily waving her arms about at this and that, dictating something to the woman trailing behind her who was scribbling frantically on a scroll of paper. The Queen saw Daisy and cried, ¡°Ah! Perfect! You made excellent time!¡± Daisy sank into a curtsy, and it was a good thing she¡¯d recovered from much of her fear, otherwise her legs might not have permitted her to stand again when the Queen told her, ¡°Yes, yes, up you get. We have work to do.¡± By the time Daisy had stood again, the Queen was already on the move, so Daisy scampered after her, since she was obviously expected to be following. ¡°Of course you¡¯re the professional here,¡± the Queen was saying, ¡°But I was thinking lots of rugs. Really nice, thick rugs. Since this stone is just so cold. And tapestries. And paint. What do you think of paint?¡± ¡°Paint?¡± Daisy asked through a whirl of confusion. Why did it seem that the Queen was planning on redecorating the dungeon? ¡°For the walls, dear,¡± Her Majesty said helpfully. ¡°But-- What? I don¡¯t--¡± The Queen looked at her for a long, baffled moment and then said, ¡°Oh! Didn¡¯t anyone tell you why you are here?¡± ¡°No, Your Highness,¡± Daisy answered nervously. ¡°Oh! Goodness! You poor dear! You must be rather confused.¡± Try petrified, Daisy thought, but only said meekly, ¡°Rather, Your Highness.¡± ¡°You¡¯re here to turn this dungeon into a nursery for my baby!¡± she said with a glowing smile. ¡°I¡¯m -- Oh!¡± Daisy finally understood and felt relief wash over her. She was not going to be imprisoned for a bad choice in decorating after all. ¡°Oh!¡± she reiterated, this time in surprise -- the relief had made her legs go weak all over again. There being no seating, she staggered back a few paces and leaned against the cold, stone wall. Daisy took a few deep breaths. She would be alright! Lillian watched her reaction curiously for a few moments, apparently not understanding what was up with her decorator, then a look of comprehension dawned on the Queen¡¯s face. ¡°Oh you thought you were going to be imprisoned! Ha ha! Silly me! I¡¯ve been so distracted lately.¡± Daisy gaped at her, then remembered just who it was she was staring at and instead looked at the ground, secretly fuming that she¡¯d had to go through all that trauma just because the Queen was a flake. But Daisy was, as previously stated, the professional here, and she gathered she had a job (a very weird job) to do; she tucked away her emotions to deal with later, cleared her throat, stood up tall, and said, ¡°So, I¡¯m here to turn the dungeon into a -- nursery?¡± Odd. Royal folks did have the strangest notions. And she knew the Queen was born a commoner, so inbreeding (the usual reason the commoners used to explain away royal craziness) was not to blame. The Queen then nodded and began to explain to Daisy all about the curse. But you already know about that so let¡¯s go somewhere else for a while. Hmm, let me see here, what¡¯s going on in the rest of the palace? Ah yes, here¡¯s Conroy finding out that his wife has just set free every last prisoner from the dungeon: ¡°WHAT?¡± a red-faced Conroy exploded, flying out of his gigantic, ritzy throne and staring with bugged out eyes at one of his advisors whose name he was always forgetting -- they were all old and bald and crabby, and forever suggesting he do all sorts of boring stuff when he¡¯d rather be hunting or playing croquet. (He was the King, for goodness sake! Of all people in the kingdom he should be the one who got to do whatever he wanted.) ¡°Yes, Your Majesty,¡± said the cowering advisor. ¡°I heard a report that a hoard of emaciated and bedraggled men had descended on the city saying they had been released from the dungeon. Released by, er, the Queen,¡± he finished in a hesitant whisper. ¡°I personally went down to the dungeon to confirm it, and it is ¨C¡° gulp, ¡°true.¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Conroy spluttered and gestured wildly but no words came, so he just gave another roar of rage, then stormed down the steps of the royal dais. He had strode all the way down the vast, marble-pillared, gem-encrusted, gold-leafed throne room and reached the massive carved ebony double doors before the echoes of his yell had even died out. "Seriously, what in blazes is the woman thinking?!" he thundered. His rage did not abate one iota as he stormed and stomped and cursed his way toward the dungeon, sending maids and guards and other palace folks diving for cover. But the further he got down the stone stairs, and the closer he got to an ugly confrontation with his lady love, the more his steps slowed and his face drained of anger. He didn¡¯t like fighting with Lillian -- well, he¡¯d never actually fought with her so he didn¡¯t know for sure, but he was nearly 100% sure that he didn¡¯t want to do it. Let me, in my omniscient glory, let you know how a fight would have unfolded: She would have cried, he would have felt guilty, and they¡¯d both just have ended up apologizing and nothing would have gotten accomplished except they¡¯d both have been upset for a while. They were definitely one of those couples who should avoid screaming matches in favor of well-reasoned, respectful conversations, but unfortunately neither of them were really evolved enough to handle that either, so instead, in the future, they ended up bottling stuff up and exploding with some passive aggressive comments every now and then. "Hey, Darling," Conroy said nonchalantly (though inside he was still slightly fuming) when he finally reached the dungeon and saw Lillian there talking to some lady who was not dressed in a maid or cook uniform -- what else could a female possibly be doing in the palace? ¡°So, uh, what¡¯s going on down here? I got a report that, uh, you let all the prisoners go? And, why are they cleaning?¡± He pointed around at all the maids, though they were not currently cleaning-- they were bowing. Lillian had been studying a sketch that Daisy had been scribbling on a pad of paper, but when Daisy had realized that she was in the presence of the King, she had collapsed into a bow, taking the sketch pad down with her. Lillian gave Conroy a glowing smile and said, ¡°Of course I let them go, darling! We need a place for-- Oh, but this is not how I would have chosen to tell you! I had been hoping to spring the news over a dinner of baby back ribs, baby carrots, and those darling little tiny corn cob things.¡± Conroy looked confused. ¡°Dear,¡± she said, rushing up to him and clasping his hands in hers, ¡°Dear darling love, we are going to have a child!¡± Conroy stared at her for a moment, then broke into a huge, genuine grin. ¡°Wow! No way!¡± ¡°Yes way!¡± she enthused. ¡°A bundle of joy!¡± There was much laughing, hugging, kissing, and spinning of the queen around the floor of the dungeon. There was, in fact, more happiness condensed into the span of five minutes than had ever occurred in the dungeon before in the entirety of its existence. After a time, however, Conroy became subdued as he looked at his surroundings once more and realized why all this bustle in the dungeon was going on. Farland¡¯s curse. His child was going to be stuck down here forever-- or until the dratted curse was broken. ¡°The dungeon,¡± he murmured, ¡°Yes, I suppose it does make sense. No sunlight at all.¡± Lillian met his eyes and gave him a brave smile. ¡°We¡¯ll make the best of it, Dearest. I have the greatest decorator on the job, so the place will at least look a lot better. And we must stop thinking of this as a dungeon. We must stop that mindset. Right now.¡± He nodded resolutely. Yes. ¡°Daisy is a simply splendid decorator--¡± she said with a gesture toward where Daisy had been, only to realize that she was prostrating herself before Conroy on the still muddy and bloody ground (as was everyone else in the room). Lillian hadn¡¯t yet been married to Conroy for very long, and so hadn¡¯t gotten used to one of those most annoying things about being royal: people were forever dropping to the floor at one¡¯s feet, and one had to remember to tell them to rise. Conroy was used to it, of course, though. ¡°Ah yes,¡± he said. ¡°That lady who¡¯s not a maid or a cook.¡± He looked down at the top of Daisy¡¯s head. ¡°Oh do get up,¡± Lillian said, still vaguely embarrassed by being groveled at. ¡°Everyone,¡± she added to the rest of the room. Everyone popped up and got back to work. Bustle, bustle; flurry, flurry. Daisy brushed off her dress (wishing she hadn¡¯t worn one of her finest, because it was going to be impossible to clean) then walked over to the Royal Couple in response to Conroy¡¯s beckoning finger. As she walked toward him, a man scurried quickly between them chasing a rat, his thickly-gloved hands extended before him. (As part of their refurbishing efforts, they were attempting to rid the dungeon of vermin.) ¡°You. Decorator.¡± Conroy spoke to Daisy. ¡°Your Highness?¡± ¡°This place is to be perfect for my child. Perfect. You shall have no budget to concern yourself with. Spend whatever you need, hire whomever you think will perform the job best. Understand?¡± Daisy nodded. ¡°Yes, Your Highness.¡± He turned his back on her without another word, and said to his wife, ¡°Darling, I¡¯m sorry but I must go talk to my advisors. Urgently.¡± He didn¡¯t add that the reason for this urgency was that he had a gigantic problem on his hands. There were now lots of violent criminals roaming the city. And lots of innocent people who had been imprisoned wrongly. He didn¡¯t know which group he feared the most, but he did know that he had a situation on his hands. A situation so serious he actually felt the need to address it himself, instead of ignoring it or pushing it off on someone else. He hurried back up the stairs. Lillian watched him go, and sighed contentedly. ¡°He will make a wonderful father,¡± she said. Then she looked at Daisy, waiting for a response. ¡°Oh... Yes, very, Your Highness,¡± Daisy responded. What the heck else was she supposed to say? She couldn¡¯t speak her mind, that was for sure. ¡°Well dear,¡± the queen said, ¡°I must go as well. You take a look around and report back to me with your ideas.¡± Then Lillian and her maid were off. Daisy looked around and squinched her mouth up in distaste. Even empty of all its horrible apparatuses and its prisoners, the dungeon was horrible. So cold and dark and cavernous. And perhaps it was only because she knew it had been full of suffering for generations, but the very air seemed to her to be heavy with an oppressive something. She could have no way of knowing that this oppressive something was a trio of ghosts who were at that moment gathered around her, discussing all that had just unfolded. ¡°No way will she be able to turn this place into a nursery,¡± grumbled a tall, bald ghost wearing a pair of scraggly shorts held up with a rope around his bony hips. All three ghosts were pretty darn scrawny, but this bald one was the most so. If he weren¡¯t a ghost and thus already deceased, I would be very concerned for him. Maybe invite him over for a pot pie and some cake. ¡°Oh Curtis, who knows...¡± said the short one in a guard uniform. ¡°The real question is: Why are we still here when all the other ghosts disappeared with all the dungeon stuff?¡± There had been twenty-three ghosts in the dungeon before the cleaning crew had descended that morning, but now only these three remained. Twenty two had been prisoners, and one (the short ghost who had just spoken) had been a guard who had been a victim of a failed prison break about a hundred years prior. The third ghost watched Daisy as she hugged herself uncomfortably and muttered under her breath, ¡°I bet this place is haunted.¡± ¡°Perceptive, this one,¡± the third ghost, Dexter, said, nodding his head toward her. He had been in his mid-twenties when he died and hadn¡¯t been too long in the dungeon before he met his demise, so he wasn¡¯t as skeletal as his friend Curtis. He had a nasty cut running down the left side of his face from his forehead to his chin. Daisy began to walk, and they all followed, curious because this woman was going to transform their home into a place fit for an infant. The notion was quite jarring. As she moseyed around, taking notes and getting inspired thinking about color swatches, flower arrangements, and cribs, they moseyed along with her, peeking at her notes and testing her receptivity by speaking ideas into her ear and seeing whether she seemed to notice. ¡°Hang a swing from the ceiling,¡± Dexter spoke clearly into her ear, and was pleased to see seconds later when Daisy wrote down in her notebook: hang swing from ceiling. They saw that she had heard him and ¡°OoOooo!¡± the ghosts all said excitedly in unison, making Daisy shiver and look around nervously. Over the days, weeks, and months that followed, the trio of ghosts watched the transformation of their home with great interest, supplying ideas to Daisy whenever they could, and generally trying to make the most of the situation. Then one morning, Curtis was watching with interest as some day laborers (two of whom were former prisoners) laid some intricate ceramic tiles down on the floor of the future bathroom, when the prison guard ghost (Montague) came in and said, ¡°Hi -- what¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°...¡± Curtis said. Dexter and Curtis didn¡¯t often talk to Montague. Though Montague had not been a guard at the same time as Dexter or Curtis had been prisoners, a guard was a guard was a guard to them, and they saw no reason to be friendly. Which made things pretty lonely for Montague -- the only other souls in this world who could see him would barely even speak to him. Even before the other ghosts had disappeared from the dungeon it had been the same; since Montague had been the only guard ghost, the others had all taken a savage delight in making things as unpleasant for him as they could. And though Montague understood, on a purely rational level, why they acted that way, understanding didn¡¯t make things any easier as the years marched on endlessly. Suddenly, there was a great ruckus from the main room. The ghosts floated out to join the workers and Daisy where they were gathered watching a doctor bustling around barking to a group of nurses orders like, ¡° Boil some water!¡± and ¡°Get some clean cloths!¡± and other such labor-and-childbirth phrases. The nurses sprang into action. ¡°Oh,¡± Curtis said. ¡°Ick.¡± ¡°Shoot. She¡¯s having the baby down here?¡± Montague asked. The ghosts got a little freaked out at this point, since they had no desire to witness childbirth but were stuck in the dungeon; you see, being ghosts, their spirits could not stray from the scene of their demise. So, to their discomfort, they could not escape the birth of Princess Julianna. Chapter Five Baby Julianna was a sweet kid. Not abnormally cranky nor surprisingly mellow. She was just pretty much a normal newborn. Except that she was a cursed princess. But, that detail was surprisingly irrelevant in her early years. Conroy and Lillian had been obsessing about the curse and its implications since the beginning of the pregnancy, but now the new parents were so caught up in the joys of new parenthood that the curse didn¡¯t even cross their mind at first. It wasn¡¯t until Julianna started to become noticeably observant of her surroundings that her mother began to wish she could take Julianna outside to watch waves crash up on the shore or look at the trees which were sprouting fresh green leaves. But the best they could do was bring in fresh flowers and cuttings from tree branches, and put them in all the vases that Daisy had supplied for this exact purpose all over the child¡¯s living quarters. The change from infant to toddler to child who actually might start questioning her situation and desiring a different one was so gradual, and life at the palace was so demanding, that over the course of time the King and Queen actually found that the curse wasn¡¯t on their minds too much on a day-to-day basis. The only time they thought about it was at the weekly meeting with the spy they had placed in charge of trying to find a boy to break the curse. Really, so what if their daughter couldn¡¯t go outside? That meant they knew where she was all the time, and that she was safe, which is a load off the mind of any parent certainly, but especially so for royal parents who usually have to fret about their kids being taken for ransom and revenge and those sorts of dreadful things. When Julianna got to be a teenager, Conroy in particular was glad his daughter was contained within the safe sphere of the palace instead of roaming about the city at large being flirted at by knights. There is a little part of probably every parent that would like to keep their kids safe from the evils and temptations of the world until they¡¯re adults, and Lillian and Conroy were living the unhealthy, overprotective dream. One or the other of them would every so often comment in a vaguely guilty manner about how Farland had actually done them a bit of a favor. And so it went until the fall of Julianna¡¯s 19th year. # It was the middle of the night and the Princess¡¯s living quarters were silent except for the snoring of her nurse and companion, Delia. The woman was fast asleep in a rocking chair in the central chamber that had once housed the torture devices, and now was lined instead with bookshelves. Peace reigned supreme this calm and tranquil night. Unless you happened to be a person who could hear ghosts, as Julianna could. (As far back as she could remember, she had been able to see the three ghosts who haunted her rooms. The ghosts had been really excited about this, especially Montague who at long last had a shot at being able to communicate with a person who didn¡¯t hate him. As she grew, they had just as much, if not more, involvement with her upbringing than her nurse, parents, and tutors. When she was too small to understand that she should keep them a secret, they told her they were her imaginary friends so people wouldn¡¯t think she was too crazy, since imaginary friends are acceptable for kids to have but seeing people who aren¡¯t there is schizophrenic. When she got too old for imaginary friends, she started to have to pretend that she didn¡¯t see them anymore, which was tough; imagine living in close quarters with three other people and not being able to show that you hear and see them. But whenever Delia was gone and Julianna had no visitors, she was able to converse with the ghosts freely, and had a lot of fun with them learning all sorts of stuff that she¡¯d otherwise never have learned as a severely over-protected princess. This midnight found our long-suffering heroine crouched at the end of a tunnel she¡¯d been digging as an escape out of the dungeon ever since Curtis had let slip that when he¡¯d been alive he¡¯d been digging a tunnel behind a loose stone in his cell. Horrified, the other ghosts had begged him not to let her know where the tunnel was, but at the time Julianna had been eight years old and thus highly skilled at the fine art of whining and nagging, and she hadn''t give him a moment of peace until he finally folded and revealed to her the stone¡¯s exact location. From that day onward digging to freedom had been her dream, and every night that she wanted to work on the tunnel she drugged Delia¡¯s nighttime tea and climbed into the tunnel with her digging implements (Dexter had been imprisoned for his involvement in the seedy underworld of smuggling and drug trafficking. Being the unscrupulous character that he sometimes was, he had passed his knowledge of the nonlethal stuff on Julianna over the years; the sleeping potion he had taught her to make had been by far the most helpful). She had made so much progress with the tunnel over the years that her ghost companions could no longer accompany her to the end since their spectral tethers held them back. So, if they wanted to speak to her they had to yell. And yell Curtis was doing. The further along the tunnel she progressed, the more he regretted letting her know it was there. It¡¯s not like he didn¡¯t want her to have freedom, and he knew she hated being confined down in the depths of the castle when there was a whole world to see, but he also didn¡¯t want to be the reason that she escaped to the outdoors. If that¡¯s where the tunnel ever was to end up going anyway. And his biggest fear was not that she would finish the tunnel, but that the thing would cave in. She¡¯d read a book on mining, and both Dexter and Montague could offer plenty of practical advice since they had had brief stints working in the country¡¯s infamous coal mines before moving on to safer professions -- Dexter to thievery/poisoning and Montague to prison guardery (though as they had both perished in their 20s maybe they should have stuck with mining after all. However, general consensus among the population of Fritillary was that mining was a profession best left to the desperate, and was also best left behind the moment your finances were in order, otherwise odds were whatever savings you accumulated would just end up going toward your funeral anyway.) So, in theory Julianna had the basics of digging a tunnel down, but still Curtis couldn¡¯t keep himself from fretting every night she crawled into that ¡®dark dangerous deathtrap¡¯ as he called it, quite alliteratiously. Curtis was, that night, standing as high up the gently sloping tunnel as he could, yelling, ¡°Seriously Julianna, you need to give it up for the night! You¡¯ve been up there for hours! You¡¯re going to get sleepy, and then you¡¯ll make a silly mistake!¡± Wayyyyy up at the top of the tunnel, Julianna could barely make out the words he was yelling, but she knew the gist of it anyway because he¡¯d been hollering the same stuff up at her for more than half of her life now. And, she had to admit, as she paused to scratch an itch on her nose, thus smearing it with dirt, Curtis was right. No need to get stupid and cause a situation she couldn¡¯t fix. Sighing, she gently, almost lovingly, laid down her garden trowel. Her dear trowel had been her digging tool since one of the gardeners had come down to the dungeon a few years back to check on some of her potted plants and she¡¯d managed to swipe it off his tool belt while the gardener had been distracted by an interesting fungus that had taken root in the soil of one of her plants. The trowel, a huge step up from the serving spoon she¡¯d been using up until that point, had sped up her work by at least 50%. She gave it a fond pat as though it were a pet dog, and scooted over to a skateboard-esque device she had constructed by putting the wheels from an old rolling toy horse she¡¯d used as a toddler on the bottom of a plank of wood she¡¯d taken from the underside of her bed. Then, she rolled over so that she was laying on her back on the wheeled board. She reached up to grab the line made of tied-together bits of fabric, and guided herself down to the bottom of the tunnel. The wheeled board saved her tons of crawling time, and made it so she didn¡¯t have to build the tunnel too high, since she had to only accommodate her supine position and not her crawling position. Once at the bottom she stood, gave Curtis a grin, stretched her cramped limbs, and slid the three bags of dirt from that night¡¯s work off the board, then pushed the loose stone back into place. ¡°I¡¯ve told you not to spend so much time up there!¡± Curtis said. Julianna glanced at her still-sleeping nurse and grumbled back at him, ¡°I know what I¡¯m doing.¡± But then she smiled apologetically when she saw his downcast face. ¡°Listen, I¡¯m sorry. I know you¡¯re just worried.¡± She picked up the two bags and walked across the room. ¡°But, Curtis,¡± she said, suddenly excited, ¡°up there, digging those last few feet, I swear --¡± and she whispered the last bit, ¡°I swear the air felt -- different. And I noticed that the soil wasn¡¯t as hard. I -- I think I may be close to the end.¡± Curtis squinched his ghostly nose up disbelievingly. His expression was so full of doubt that he might as well have just said aloud that he thought she was crazy. ¡°Well what¡¯s so crazy about that?¡± she asked, perturbed. ¡°I mean, I¡¯ve been working on that tunnel ten years now. I figure the thing¡¯s got to have an end at some point!¡± Montague floated over and interjected, ¡°Odds aren¡¯t really that great that you¡¯ll find the end. The dungeon¡¯s really deep. Really, really deep. ¡± Of course it was. It was a dungeon. ¡°But I¡¯ve studied blueprints of the castle and topographical maps of the city,¡± she sighed, explaining yet again how she knew there was hope, ¡°and the castle is on a hill. And when I look at the castle blueprints and compare them to the layout of the building on the topographical map, it clearly shows that my tunnel is going the right direction to eventually end at the edge of the hill on the ocean side!¡± ¡°Geez, guys,¡± Dexter said from where he was trying to read a book nearby, ¡°Let the kid have some hope. Could you turn the page for me?¡± he then asked her. As she walked over to the table where Dexter was hovering over an open book, she said, ¡°Yeah, I need a project or I¡¯ll go mad, right?¡± to Montague, who had told her that very thing not too long ago, drawing on his observations from his stint as a prison guard as evidence. She gave Dexter a smile and flipped the page. Dexter continued reading. Of the three, he was the one most likely to side with and defend her against the others, probably because he¡¯d led such a life of danger and excitement before he¡¯d been imprisoned; he had had a lot of fun skirting the law and taking risks, and thought that being daring and having as much adventure as she could was just the thing for Julianna to keep her mind off her troubles. Montague nodded but said, ¡°Yes, but it¡¯s just that the tunnel... well it might cave in.¡± He had a great skill for stating the obvious. ¡°You have no faith in me,¡± she sighed as she slung a bag of dirt over her shoulder and hefted it to the bathroom, then did the same with the other two bags, turning a page for the waiting Dexter on the way. Once back in the bathroom, she started to run the tub, then pried the grate off the floor -- the grate she assumed led to some sort of sewer system and had only not crawled into long ago to explore because by the time it occurred to her to do so her shoulders were too wide to squeeze through -- she asked, ¡°Could one of you make sure Delia is still out?¡± Montague floated over to investigate, and Julianna began to carefully pour the bags¡¯ contents down into the depths of the space below the grate. Once the bags were all empty and each speck of dirt swept of the floor, Julianna went to hide the bags behind some books in her library, passing Montague as she went through the doorway. ¡°She¡¯s coming out of it,¡± he said and she nodded. After hiding the bags, she went to another shelf, and pulled out a thick book entitled, ¡°An Unabridged History of Mulch.¡± She opened it up, and it was (surprise, surprise!) hollowed out -- and housing an array of glass vials wrapped in cloth to stop them breaking or clattering around. These were the concoctions that she had brewed with Dexter on the sly. Some were for drugging her nurse, and some were pain killers. The pain killer she had found to be quite handy when she got hurt in the tunnel and had to pretend that she was fine, since her injuries were unexplainable to people who thought she frittered her days away doing nothing more dangerous than cross stitching, playing her clarinet, and reading. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡°One drop is all you¡¯ll need,¡± Dexter said from his place by the book he was trying to read, though he had to rely on her to turn the pages, which was irritating because she was scurrying all around, and he was just getting to a good part. She nodded, grabbed the vial, and hurried over to her sleeping nurse. She tilted Delia¡¯s head back and dropped one drop onto the elderly woman¡¯s tongue. ¡°You¡¯ll need to lay off the drugs for a night,¡± Dexter added. ¡°You¡¯ve used it five nights in a row. Another night and you get into the danger zone.¡± She sighed and nodded, having known from years of experience that he was going to say that. And he was right, of course. She didn¡¯t want to endanger Delia. Delia was a sweet, kind old lady. And heck, even if she was mean and crabby, one still doesn¡¯t drug people willynilly. Her nurse duly neutralized long enough for Julianna to wipe all traces of her tunneling excursion from her person and the rooms, she turned another page for Dexter, took a bath, then scoured the tub, since Delia would otherwise wonder how she¡¯d gotten so dirty. Julianna had, as a byproduct of the tunneling, developed much better housecleaning skills than any royalty in the history of Fritillary. She was so proficient sweeping, scouring, and scrubbing any evidence of dirt around the dungeon and any appearance of hard labor on herself that Delia had not found anything suspicious in years. Though, even if Delia had found suspicious dirt on the floor, she might not have thought too much of it anyway since there were already so many odd things about Julianna. For one thing, the girl mysteriously exhibited knowledge and language that was shockingly inappropriate (all things Julianna had picked up from her ghost companions, but of course Delia couldn''t know that). And then there were the odd quirks she had like leaving books open on the desk and not reading them, but at regular intervals turning the pages; and seeming to be watching something that wasn¡¯t there; and muttering quietly when she thought Delia wasn¡¯t listening. Also, in consequence of her never having once been touched by the sunlight, she had a fierce vitamin D deficiency which resulted in depression, forgetfulness, and icky problems with her gums. The vitamin D deficiency also caused another quirk of hers, which was a constant craving for fish. (Fun fact: fish is pretty much the only naturally occurring source of vitamin D besides sunlight.) But, nutrition science didn¡¯t really exist in Fritillary, since it and every other science were viewed with extreme suspicion by a populace that much preferred to explain away every ailment and trouble by saying it was because the sick person had angered some wizard; consequently, everyone assumed it was Farland¡¯s curse that was causing all her symptoms. Yes, all in all Delia thought Julianna was a weird child, and would not have been overly suspicious of a bit of unexplained dirt; she probably would have just assumed that Julianna liked to play in the potted plants in the middle of the night. Julianna hopped out of the tub, got into her PJs, turned another page for Dexter, and then at long last succumbed to her exhaustion and went to her bedroom, where she collapsed into her four poster canopy bed. She fell asleep quickly, dreaming of reaching the end of her tunnel. After a few hours, Delia woke her for lunch. ¡°Rise and shine, Sweetheart,¡± Delia trilled. ¡°Remember your mother is coming down for lunch today.¡± The older Julianna got, the less her parents visited her. It was to the point where Conroy came down for a chat about once a week, and her mother visited once every few days for lunch. Julianna knew her dad was super busy dealing with an increasingly unhappy populace (they¡¯d been getting more and more unhappy ever since Lillian had released that huge influx of prisoners into the city and had thrown off the delicate balance); and Julianna knew her mom was really into being the figurehead of the women¡¯s rights movement, but still she felt that if they loved her like parents should love their kids they¡¯d be down in the dungeon every single day playing chess, reading books with her, and asking her what was going on in her life. It didn¡¯t help that the visits had really dropped off since her little uncursed heir-to-the-throne brother, Conroy Jr., had been born seven years earlier, just when she was getting into her moody early teen years. Eventually, she had grown out of the resentment she had felt from that period of her life. Rationally, she realized that perhaps part of the reason they had stopped visiting so much was that she yelled at them and gave them the cold shoulder whenever they stopped by, but, all the same, they were her parents, and if they weren¡¯t going to put any effort into helping her deal with her emotional distress, then who the heck was going to? There was no psychiatry in Fritillary (yet another field that people looked at with suspicion and tended to burn its practitioners at the stake for). So, Julianna was sort of happy and sort of not that her mom was coming for lunch. The older Julianna got the more her mom talked about her future -- a subject that made Julianna really, really uncomfortable. Would she languish away in the dungeon, a spinster to the end of her days? Would they find someone willing to marry her? Marriage was a chilling thought, because the way she looked at it, only a super-weirdo or a creep would consent to be alright with having a cursed wife who was confined for life to an underground chamber. Over the course of her life she had met all the potential marriage candidates in the aristocracy pool and hadn¡¯t connected with any of them. They had been brought down to visit her whenever their parents had come to town for royal business, but none of them had been the types that she¡¯d even want to be friends with, let alone marry. They tended to talk an awful lot about swords and archery and horses, and most of them had not read one single book in their lives that had not been assigned to them by their tutors. None of them had the slightest interest in philosophy or math or any of the subjects she¡¯d developed a fondness for over the years thanks to her extensive library. It wasn¡¯t so much that she didn¡¯t want to talk about swords and archery and horses, but that there was so much more she would have liked to discuss in addition. But warfare and related subjects seemed to be all these noblemen¡¯s sons seemed to care about. It did make sense, since that was what their professions were going to be when they grew up, so of course it was the primary focus of their parents and teachers, but it sure made them boring. She couldn¡¯t feel too superior to them though because she supposed that if she hadn¡¯t been cursed she might well have turned out to be just as one-dimensional, obsessed with dresses and hairstyles and parties and boys, since that was what a normal princess¡¯s life revolved around. But since she was cursed she got to pursue whatever interest she wanted; her parents wished to do whatever they could to keep her from going stir crazy. Thankfully, though, the subject of husbands didn¡¯t come up nearly as much as might be expected. Lillian wasn¡¯t one of those fairytale queens Juliana had read about who obsessed about marrying her daughter off -- this was, unbeknownst to Julianna, because her parents were still assuming that they¡¯d find the man who¡¯d break the curse, that she would marry him, and that she would be able to live a normal life; they were still using every available resource to search for him, and wouldn¡¯t allow themselves yet to think about an alternative fate for her. Her parents had decided early on not to tell her about this mystery man who was the key to breaking the curse, because it would only cause her anxiety, and there was nothing she could do anyway to aid the search. So, matrimony was not a subject that Lillian was likely to pester her about, but there was a heckava lot more to life than boys. Lillian¡¯s favorite topic lately had been how Julianna was going to fill her adult life in the dungeon. She was not a child anymore, and was done with her formal education, and now, according to her mother, it was time to consider adulthood. Adulthood is a stressful thing to consider for most young adults because of the myriad of options available to them; what if they make the wrong choice? It was stressful to Julianna for quite the opposite reason; it made her feel ill to think about languishing about in her dungeon contributing nothing, doing nothing of consequence, and pretty much leading a life that had so little impact on the world that (as far as the world was concerned) she might as well not exist at all. Julianna tried hard to block out all thought on the subject, but every time Lillian came to visit these days she tended to talk of nothing else, thus forcing Julianna, for the duration of each visit, to dwell on what she felt was her meaningless existence. Lillian would totally depress her daughter with no notion that she was even doing so, then she would kiss her on the nose, flit off upstairs, and go live her life in the sunshine doing her queenly job having well-publicized visits with peasants where she would distribute food and talk about women¡¯s rights. Julianna sighed and walked to the dining area -- a space right off the main chamber that used to be a large cell where the new prisoners had lived until the guards had gotten around to processing them. Once the bars had been removed and Daisy had worked her decorating magic, it had been transformed into a lovely little alcove with tapestries of forest scenes on the walls, lush potted plants in the corners, a beautiful rug in earth tones on the stone floor, and a dining table and chairs that seated far more guests than Julianna had ever had down in the dungeon at one time, even counting when the ghosts sat in seats too. She plopped down in her big golden chair with comfy green upholstery, stared down into her empty golden plate, twiddled her golden fork around distractedly in her fingers, and let herself daydream about the possibility that she really was about to reach the end of the tunnel. Her daydream-self was just digging out of the tunnel and taking her first breath of fresh air when Lillian finally came down into the dungeon more than an hour late, and snapped her daughter out of her fantasy. ¡°Sweetheart!¡± Lillian crooned. ¡°Mama,¡± Julianna answered, happy to see her mother but also suddenly distracted because it had just occurred to her that she had to do some packing before going up into the tunnel. She couldn¡¯t just go scampering out into the world unprepared ¨C reading fairytales had taught her that princesses venturing out into the world on their own tended to get into all sorts of trouble, and, while she knew those stories were fictional, she still saw some sense in them. She¡¯d need food, money, a weapon of some sort, and probably tons of other things too ¨C she¡¯d do some brainstorming with the ghosts at night once Delia had fallen asleep. They ate their dinner and chatted about what was going on in Lillian¡¯s life; they did not talk about what was going on in Julianna¡¯s life since Lillian always assumed (and usually rightly) that there was nothing to report. Their conversation shifted to small talk too boring to waste ink on, and then Lillian left, but not before Julianna covertly reached into her mother¡¯s pocket when they hugged each other goodbye and found a little pouch of what felt like money ¨C she had never held or even seen money before so she couldn¡¯t be sure, but the ghosts would certainly confirm it. Assuming that it was money, then she already had one item to cross off her list of things to pack! Hooray! Feeling pretty good about herself, she went off to her bedroom to have a whispered conversation with her friends. # After chatting with the ghosts about her escape plans, Julianna felt she had a good list of necessities to spend the day tracking down. She also decided it would be wise to take Dexter with her -- a while back, she had discovered through reading a book about ghosts that ghosts were thought to be tethered at the time of their death to something in the material world; this is what held our three ghosts to a clearly defined perimeter around the dungeon. This habit of ghosts¡¯ spirits to be tied to a physical thing that was nearby when they died was surely why the majority of the dungeon¡¯s ghosts had disappeared when the dungeon had been cleaned out; since soldiers had hauled away the majority of the dungeon stuff to a waste management facility on the outskirts of the city, there must be a very haunted trash pile out there somewhere full of prisoner ghosts. Through some trial and error exploring around the dungeon and measuring how far the ghosts could go in each direction, Julianna had discovered that Montague¡¯s spirit was stuck to a big rock on the bathroom wall, Curtis was stuck to a big steel ring that had been anchored so firmly into the wall that the interior decorator, Daisy, had not been able to have it removed, and Dexter was tethered to a slightly protruding brick in the hallway. Since the brick, when pried loose, was small enough to be carried around without trouble, it was only a matter of time before Julianna¡¯s curiosity got the better of her and she loosened it from the wall and found that, if she moved the brick around the dungeon, Dexter¡¯s perimeter changed from its usual one to a new one, always with the brick as the epicenter. Through the day she kept the brick in the wall, since it was right at eye level and Delia would surely notice its absence, but at night she sometimes removed the brick so that Dexter could accompany her up the tunnel. However, he rarely went up with her anymore since the novelty of being able to move beyond his usual range had worn off for him long ago, and now he thought the tunnel too boring. And speaking of boring, while her plans and her gathering of supplies were quite important and essential to her imminent escape from the dungeon, they were not all that interesting from a storytelling perspective. But! If we take our focus from the castle dungeon out across the Bay of Fritillary and then a few miles north into the ocean, we will be fortunate enough to find that which neither Farland nor Mirabella nor Julianna¡¯s parents have thus far been able to locate: the ship that was home to the strapping young lad who was the antidote to the spell that cursed Conroy¡¯s firstborn child. The ship was, coincidentally (or steered by fate), making its way into the Bay that very day in order for its crew to do a bit of shopping. Chapter Six When first we meet our hero, he is in the Captain¡¯s quarters hard at work practicing the harpsichord ¨C cursing under his breath as he does so because, due to either the humidity or the salty sea air or the jostling of the waves, the dratted harpsichord is always out of tune. Despite that fact, Warren has always felt a strange, inexplicable draw to the instrument that, up until the time he discovered it in the Captain¡¯s quarters a few years back, had only been used as a decoration that the Captain had chosen for his rooms in order to make himself look more deep and well-rounded. More practical for a life at sea were Warren¡¯s dear banjo and accordion, both of which he could rival the most seasoned professional at in a musical duel. Not so with the harpsichord, though, but still Warren plugged away at the thing with equal parts love and frustration. The Captain let him have pretty much unlimited access to the instrument through the day because it meant that at least Warren was out of his hair, which was more than the Captain could say of the rest of Warren¡¯s family. You see, Warren¡¯s family was a traveling theater troupe, and they had been, for the past few years, paying the Captain to transport them about the seas to different ports of call; the money they paid was just enough for the Captain to overlook the fact that they were a very annoying lot. Warren¡¯s father, a tightrope walker named Bernard, was always climbing up into the rigging to practice his craft; Warren¡¯s mother, Emily, a fire eater, was a positive menace on the deck; the Captain had assigned a crew member with a bucket of water to follow her around whenever she was practicing -- the very last thing that they needed was to have the sail or mast or other ship bit burst into flames. And Warren¡¯s sister Corrine was very irritating due to the fact that she, as the playwright and poet of the family, was always traipsing around reciting her poetry, or distracting the crew by asking their advice about whatever scene she was working on ¨C and, since she was a young lady, much of the crew was so infatuated with her that they would literally drop whatever they were doing in order to help her out. It is a problem when crewmembers on ships will literally drop whatever they are doing while on the job; dropping a rope before a knot is properly secured can result in a boom or sail smacking another crewmember in the face; dropping a cannonball before it is in the cannon can result in a hole in the deck; and dropping one¡¯s hold on the helm can result in the ship meandering off course while the person in control of steering is instead helping Corrine find a good rhyme for ¡®purple¡¯. So, the Captain was more than happy to give Warren access to the harpsichord in his quarters since it meant that Warren was out of the way. And the general ruckus of the crew hollering and running around doing their ship sailing stuff meant that they could barely even hear the horrible sound, which was a bonus. On the day we meet him, Warren was plinking away at the keys, when he heard the pitter patter of rain hitting the deck above him and then some thunder off in the distance, which meant his family would be busy above. Warren¡¯s family loved storms. His father would be climbing into the rigging because he liked to practice his balance in adverse weather, his mother would be practicing keeping fire burning in the rain, and his sister would probably be climbing into the crow¡¯s nest to soak up the feeling of the dramatic forces of the stormy sea ¨C she found storms to be quite inspirational. Warren himself loved storms too; they were quite motivating for composing banjo music. He usually sat on deck as the rain poured own, playing frantic tunes that made the already-anxious crew downright jumpy. Thunder sounded again and Warren stood to go find his banjo. Meanwhile, up on deck, it was apparent to Captain and crew that a storm was a¡¯brewin¡¯. A nor¡¯easter. I wish I could think of more seafaring apostrophe-riddled words. ¡°Tell the passengers to stay down below!¡± barked the Captain to his first mate, Biggby. The Captain knew only too well how the family behaved during storms, and since this storm was looking like it was shaping up to be a pretty bad¡¯un he didn¡¯t want his crew to have to deal with dodging a tightrope walker in the rigging, a fire eater on the deck, and a daydreaming poet in the crow¡¯s nest, all while being regaled by a wild banjo tune from the boy. The captain scanned the fast-approaching, menacing black clouds and said, ¡°Move, Biggby!¡± Warren was just exiting the Captain¡¯s Quarters when he was shoved back in by Biggby, who was walking past on his way to find his family. Biggby barked, ¡°Stay in there!¡± then slammed the door. Warren narrowed his eyes with annoyance at the slammed door, but he knew better than to try to venture out again ¨C Biggby was super scary when he was mad. Warren sauntered over to the porthole to watch the storm. Then he heard the door open again, and turned in time to see Biggby fling his sister unceremoniously into the room before slamming the door shut again. As she caught her balance and brushed off her dress, looking miffed, they both heard the door being locked from the outside. ¡°A storm¡¯s a¡¯brewin¡¯?¡± Warren asked. ¡°Must be,¡± she growled with annoyance and sat down, glaring at him as though he was the one who¡¯d pulled her from where she¡¯d been basking in what little was left of the sunshine composing poetry, without so much as a ¡°Sorry about that! Captain¡¯s orders!¡± ¡°Geez, don¡¯t look at me like that,¡± Warren muttered. ¡°These people, Warren, are downright brutish,¡± she said crankily. ¡°Well, they are pirates,¡± he pointed out.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Still, I mean, mom and dad are paying them good money to transport us around. You¡¯d think it would be money enough to earn us a bit of respect.¡± ¡°I think it has earned us a bit of respect,¡± Warren said. ¡°You know how they treat people who don¡¯t pay them.¡± The deal that they had struck with the pirates years back was simply this: the pirates attacked and raided the smaller ships and got all the spoils, but for the bigger ships (the ones that would be harder to raid successfully anyway) the pirates pulled down the Jolly Edmond (Fritillary didn''t have a Jolly Roger), masqueraded as roadies (seaies?) for the troupe so the family could perform their plays and songs and acts, and the pirates got a 25% cut of those profits. In return, the family got room and board, and a much more streamlined mode of transportation than they would otherwise have been able to afford, thus enabling them to reach more ships, get more money, and gain a greater fan base. Corrine was silent a moment, thinking back to what she¡¯d glimpsed through her porthole as she had watched what she could of the pirates¡¯ most recent raid. ¡°True,¡± she said at last with a shudder. ¡°Good point.¡± Warren went back to studying the sheet music at the harpsichord, and she ambled over to sit beside him at the bench. ¡°Whatcha doing?¡± ¡°Oh, just trying to figure out this--¡° The door was unlocked once more, and they both looked up to see their father being pushed into the room, balancing stick still in hand. They had clearly grabbed him from some quality practice time in the rigging, and he had grudgingly allowed himself to be hauled into the Captain¡¯s Quarters. They were then joined by their mother, who, not knowing her children were in the room already, yelled some inappropriate things at the pirates on the other side of the door before turning, seeing she had an audience, and joining her family in a short awkward silence ¨C the kids burst out laughing, she said it wasn¡¯t funny, then they were all silenced by a mighty crack of thunder which sounded as though it must be right above them. Seconds later, shouts of alarm and much scurrying from the deck suggested to them that something on the ship was amiss; a moment later, the mast cracking at its base and crashing into Captain¡¯s quarters, bringing down the ceiling all around them and covering them in splintered wood, debris, and rain confirmed their suspicions that all was not well. When the dust settled and they¡¯d all stopped panicking enough to take stock of the situation, it was discovered that their father, Bernard, had a cut across his forehead, Corrine had a pretty deep sliver in her left hand, their mom was OK if a bit flustered, and a bit of the harpsichord was smashed. Oh yeah, and Warren was pinned to the floor under a fallen ceiling crossbeam. His right arm appeared to be pretty darn broken. Bernard and Emily stayed with him while Corrine scurried off to ask for help, but, no matter how much she begged the pirates, they said they couldn¡¯t help yet. They were all so busy with their own injuries or with discerning whether to save or abandon ship that they weren¡¯t available to help move the beam, which was too heavy for the family to deal with on their own. ¡°Get me the doctor!¡± Warren hollered, staring with horror at his arm. The pirates didn¡¯t really have a doctor per se on board; more of a guy who had figured out through trial and error how to fix typical pirate injuries like stab and slash wounds and minor bone breaks (nothing like what Warren was dealing with). The pseudo-doctor was named Brock, and the Captain had christened him the doctor of the ship mainly because he thought it would be cool to be able to call him Doc Brock. ¡°Honey,¡± said Emily as she sat beside her son, worriedly patting his arm. ¡°That man is a quack. You don¡¯t want his help.¡± ¡°But we have to do something, Ma!¡± ¡°Sweetheart, remember we¡¯re not in the middle of the ocean. We are in the Bay of Fritillary. Your father can take a lifeboat to shore once the water has calmed down a bit and he can find a real doctor.¡± She was really quite relieved that, if this accident was going to happen, it had happened near the capital instead of out in the middle of nowhere with no one but Doc Brock to help. ¡°I want help NOW!¡± he yelled. Pacing around the rubble, Bernard said, ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯re supposed to move the beam ¨C I think it could make things worse-- son, we can¡¯t help you ¨C we have to get a real doctor--¡° ¡°Dad, sit down,¡± Corrine said from her perch on some rubble nearby. ¡°You¡¯re hyperventilating. Put your head between your knees and take deep breaths.¡± He nodded and did as she suggested, then she said, ¡°Guys, seriously, let¡¯s stay calm. I think dad is right, we don¡¯t want to move that beam until a doctor is here. And I think we are all in agreement that Doc Brock should be kept far away from Warren.¡± Her mother nodded at her, her father (with his head still between his knees) said some muffled thing that didn¡¯t sound argumentative, and Warren looked at her beseechingly, hoping she was about to come up with some fabulous plan. ¡°I think mom¡¯s right -- the only thing to do is row to shore as soon as we¡¯re able and get a real doctor. Dad and I can go, and, Mom, you stay here with Warren and make sure Doc Brock doesn¡¯t come near him.¡± Bernard, Emily, and Corrine all concluded that this was their only alternative. Warren was in shock at this point, so no one took it personally when he yelled at them and told them what a stupid idea it was. To the backdrop of Warren¡¯s addled ranting and the crew¡¯s yelling, the family sat back in the rain and made themselves and Warren as comfortable as they could as they waited for the sea to calm enough for them to row into the city. But after just few minutes of that trash, Bernard hopped up and said, ¡°Come on, Corrine, let¡¯s go. Those waves aren¡¯t so bad.¡± But he wasn¡¯t looking at the waves; he was looking at Warren, who had stopped ranting and was looking way too pale and still as the rain fell steadily down onto his vacant face. Corrine had been watching her brother the whole time too, getting steadily more and more concerned, so when her father suggested that they go she was on her feet in a moment, ready to put aside all reason and safety, and row to the city even though the storm was still a¡¯ragin¡¯. ¡°The waves will make it so we¡¯ll barely have to row,¡± Bernard said optimistically, ¡°and then if we can just get to the city we can wait out the storm while looking for a doctor, instead of waiting here doing nothing while things calm down.¡± Corrine nodded and looked to her mother who sat with Warren, looking indecisive. Sure the waves would do most of the work getting them to shore, but the real problem was how to safely dock the rowboat once they got there. ¡°I-- I don¡¯t know--¡° Emily said, and bit her lip. ¡°Mom,¡± Corrine said, looking significantly at Warren, ¡°We don¡¯t have a choice. We can¡¯t wait.¡± After a long moment, Emily nodded a small, nervous nod. Bernard and Corrine gave her hasty hugs goodbye, and then they were off. Chapter Seven In less than a half hour, Corrine and Bernard were relieved and surprised to find themselves standing on solid ground with a mostly-undamaged lifeboat bobbing merrily away tied to the docks behind them. ¡°Yow!¡± Bernard gasped, ¡°That went better than expected!¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Corrine responded, looking out at the rough sea they¡¯d just crossed. They¡¯d nearly capsized a half dozen times, and had more smashed into the dock than rowed up alongside it, but what mattered was that it was done and they¡¯d both survived. They gave the wild waves one last glance, then turned and walked purposefully down the road toward they knew not what; all they did know was that they were looking for a doctor and that there must be advertisements of some kind somewhere. They both found it awkward to walk on land. Bernard had not set foot on dry ground in many years, and Corrine had actually never been off a ship before. If they hadn¡¯t been on a serious and time-sensitive mission she would have liked to look around the city ¨C she would have found even the scummy docks they were currently hurrying through quite fascinating after a life confined to one ship or another. She had been born on a ship and her family¡¯s livelihood was on ships, so there had never been any need to leave the sea as long as they made enough money to get all they needed. Which they did because they were a rockin'' traveling theater troupe, and one of the only ones that toured the ocean. When Bernard and Emily had become performers, it had been in the heyday of theater trouping, and so it had been hard for a couple just starting out to get a gig. But Emily had always had a head for business, and so it didn¡¯t take her long to realize that there were all sorts of cruise ships and merchant ships and other ships in the ocean that were full of stir crazy folks who would pay an arm and a leg for some entertainment. Bustling through the city, Corrine and her dad inquired of everyone they could as to whether they could point them in the direction of a good doctor. However, the shady waterside characters who frequented the docks either couldn¡¯t afford health insurance and so didn¡¯t have a doctor, or were operating below the radar and had their own shady back alley doctors they didn¡¯t want to name, so Corrine and Bernard were not getting nearly as much help as they¡¯d have liked. In one neighborhood by the docks, they kept spotting flimsy signs posted at main intersections saying in a big, messy scrawl, ¡°24 Hour Docktor. House Calls Available. 15 Pigeon Row.¡± If it weren¡¯t for the fact that the docktor couldn¡¯t spell ¡®doctor¡¯, they might have been desperate enough to resort to visiting a doctor whose advertisement was flimsy intersection signs, but that misspelling was just too much for them. So, they left the neighborhood of the docks and found themselves getting into a fancier part of the city. Unfortunately, though, they were soon to find that fancy doctors were also the sort who were disinclined to climb aboard a pirate ship. The combination of the fact that they were already booked weeks out for first time patients and the fact that, not being in need of drumming up business, they saw no need to take the risk of going of their own accord under the shades of the Jolly Edmond, made it so Corrine and her dad found themselves ¨C before the town crier had yet yelled noon ¨C scouring back alleys for less savory physicians then they¡¯d have considered even hours earlier. And when that search proved both fruitless and more dangerous than they felt comfortable with (Warren would have no way of getting help if they got themselves murdered by some filthy gang of toothless vagrants) they found themselves back at the docks, standing in the middle of a busy intersection, staring down at one of the flimsy ¡°Docktor¡± signs. ¡°Can¡¯t hurt to check,¡± Bernard said. ¡°A person doesn¡¯t need to spell to fix a broken arm,¡± he added, as though he¡¯d made a swell point. Corrine gave him a skeptical glance, but decided to try giving the ol¡¯ man a break for a change and kept her mouth shut. Instead, she merely shrugged. After asking directions of a helpful old five-toothed crone, they found their way rather uneventfully to 15 Pigeon Row. It was a decrepit shack, of course. ¡°Dude,¡± Corrine breathed as she raised a hand to knock on the old door that had once been painted orange of all colors, ¡°I can¡¯t believe we¡¯re really doing this.¡± But Warren was trapped under a crossbeam, and an injury like that needed attention as fast as attention could be obtained. This docktor at least couldn¡¯t be worse than Doc Brock. So, in response to encouraging hand-flapping gestures from her forebear, Corrine gave the door a hesitant knock-knock-knock. A skinny lady with short black hair answered the door so fast that her hand had to have been on the doorknob already. The surprise on the face of the black-haired lady showed that she must have been walking out the door just as Corrine had knocked. ¡°Oh!¡± they both said in unison and took steps backward. Corrine tumbled down the stairs and landed in a pile of muck. Her dad and the lady hurried to help, but she swatted them away and regained her feet with an ¡°I¡¯m fine, I¡¯m fine. Back off.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry about that, dear,¡± the lady said sincerely. The ¡®dear¡¯ felt a bit out of place to Corrine since they seemed to be about the same age. ¡°It¡¯s no problem --¡° ¡°Here, come in and let me make you some ¨C¡° ¡°We don¡¯t have time,¡± Corrine said tersely, turning down whatever the lady had been about to offer before she¡¯d even heard what was on the table as a peace offering. ¡°We need a doctor.¡± ¡°What¡¯s your trouble?¡± the lady asked, looking Corrine up and down in an appraising sort of way that indicated she must be the doctor. ¡°It¡¯s my brother. His arm is crushed under a beam on a ship out in the Bay. Are you the doctor?¡± ¡°Yep,¡± the lady said, signaling for them to follow as she darted back into the little building. Inside, it was tiny and just as decrepit as the outside was, but it was at least clean, and the bed that was presumably for the patients looked spotless, which was reassuring. From ceiling beams so low Corrine could have touched them without standing on tiptoe, bunches of scrawny asparagus that looked like they must have come from a produce reject bin were hanging to dry. The short-haired lady said as she grabbed a black bag off the rickety little table by the bed, ¡°My name¡¯s Jane.¡± Then she grabbed a bundle of asparagus, tossed it in the bag, and snapped it shut. ¡°Mine¡¯s Corrine,¡± Corrine said, so happy to see that Jane was apparently going to help out that she was finding it difficult to mention that the ship Jane¡¯s patient was on happened to house pirates. It would be wrong not to tell Jane at all, since setting foot on a pirate ship was quite risky, but it would also be wrong to let the only doctor willing to help Warren slip through their fingers. In the end, she decided to wait to divulge the information until they were rowing out to the boat and had had a chance to talk Warren up a bit; that way Jane would be thinking of him more as a human being and less as a risk. ¡°I¡¯m Bernard,¡± said Bernard. He was also struggling with whether or not to tell Jane that they¡¯d be taking her to a pirate ship, and his moral obligations took control of his mouth before his reason could shut him up. ¡°Listen¡­ the thing is¡­ er¡­ my son is on a pirate ship--¡° Corrine stared at her father in disbelief. Jane froze for a moment and then gave him a suspicious look. ¡°You¡¯re pirates?¡± ¡°No, just sailing with them. We¡¯re a traveling theater troupe.¡± Jane was quiet for a while, opening up her bag and riffling through it, more to kill time as she weighed pros and cons of the situation than to actually check on the contents of her bag. At long last, she looked up at their expectant faces and said, ¡°OK, I guess I¡¯ll go¡­ But only because I¡¯m assuming you checked with every other doctor you could before you settled on me. I¡¯m your last resort, right?¡± Corrine and Bernard nodded guiltily. Jane sighed. ¡°Honestly, what will it take for people to be comfortable with a female doctor?¡± They walked out the door. Corrine said as Jane locked the door, ¡°Whoa there sister, you aren¡¯t our last resort because you¡¯re a lady. I can¡¯t speak for all your potential clientele, but you were our last resort because you¡¯re a doctor who can¡¯t spell ¡®doctor¡¯!¡± Jane gave another sigh. She was one of those folks who is prone to sighing a lot. ¡°Honestly, am I the only one in this city who has a sense of humor? I can spell D-O-C-T-O-R just fine! I wrote it with a ¡®K¡¯ on those signs because I am the doctor who works by the docks! DOCKtor!¡± Bernard and Corrine exchanged looks behind her back, but composed themselves before Jane turned around and strode to where they were waiting beside the pile of muck Corrine had become acquainted with earlier. ¡°Right-o, lead the way, ¡± Jane said, then they walked toward the docks, dodging pickpockets and ticket scalpers and revolutionaries handing out trifold brochures about why the citizens should revolt against the Royal Family. Finally, they made their way to their little lifeboat, which had a parking ticket stuck to its bow. Bernard grumbled and moaned like a textbook caricature of a dad, then he remembered this was a pirate lifeboat and no way do pirates pay parking tickets. He had another internal struggle with his moral obligations, but his morality muscle was plum tuckered out after his earlier struggle with whether or not to tell Jane about the pirate ship, so Bernard wasn¡¯t feeling up to exercising it again until it had had a rest. With only minimal guilt, he tossed the ticket into the sea. ¡°Let¡¯s blow this popsicle stand!¡± he said. How do they have popsicles in Fritillary, you ask? Good question. Icebergs are involved.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. They were about to hop into the life boat when Corrine noticed an ad nailed to a nearby post advertising harpsichord repairs and tuning. A strange place for such an ad, but she didn¡¯t give it much thought. All she thought about was how, once her brother was patched up enough to notice that the harpsichord had been damaged in the storm, he would be heartbroken. It would be nice to be able to supply this name and address to him when he went ballistic. She tore a little tab off the bottom of the sheet and joined her comrades in the gently bobbing boat, the oars of which Jane had already taken, insisting that just because Bernard was a man that didn¡¯t mean he was by default the only one capable of rowing a boat. She had been brought up by first-generation feminists who had joined the movement shortly after Queen Lillian had taken the helm as its spokesperson and declared that the belief that women and men were equal was no longer grounds for being burned at the stake as a witch. Jane¡¯s mother and father had raised Jane to believe that she could do or be anything. So, she had become a doctor who, among other accomplishments, also rowed her own boats. On the street corner across from them, a homeless guy who had been watching them with interest as soon as he had seen Corrine looking at the harpsichord ad stood up, grabbed his hat full of change, and walked off with a purposeful stride. # The one good thing about how long it had taken them to find a doctor was that the storm had abated and the sea had calmed to the point where rowing out into the bay against the waves wasn¡¯t too difficult. Jane, Bernard, and a grudging Corrine (who only liked feminism when the boys still did the grunt work) all took turns rowing, and after just an hour in the boat they reached the pirate ship. Jane glanced warily at the Jolly Edmond as it flapped merrily in the wind, but then reminded herself that there was a patient in dire need of help, and climbed up without another moment of hesitation. They led her straight to Warren, who had gotten nothing but worse in their absence. Seeing at a glance the gravity of the situation, Jane got down to business, barking orders and doing doctorly things that I won¡¯t get into the particulars of because it was an icky business. So, we¡¯ll just pick things up again at the point a few hours later when all beam removal and bone setting and stitching without anesthetic were done: Jane put her hand gently to the forehead of a freshly patched up Warren and said, ¡°OK, that should do it.¡± Warren, who was pale, sweaty, and intensely cranky, couldn¡¯t bring himself to say thanks to the lady who¡¯d had four pirates pin him down while she thwacked his humerus back into alignment. His family, however, extended thanks for him; Jane took their money and, with the invalid tended to, was more than ready to blow this popsicle stand. So she asked Bernard if he¡¯d be so good as to take her back to shore. He courteously obliged, but they were halted in their tracks on the way to the lifeboat by Captain Maximus McManlyman (the pirate captain had his name changed legally from Pervis Collins after being laughed out of the Pirate Staffing Agency when they¡¯d read his birth name on his pirate application. In a fit of youthful overenthusiasm he may have overdone it a bit). ¡°Captain McManlyman!¡± Bernard gasped, alarmed to see the grizzled dude blocking their path with blade drawn. ¡°I was just going to row her to shore!¡± ¡°This nurse isn¡¯t going anywhere,¡± McManlyman barked, jabbing a finger in Jane¡¯s direction. ¡°I¡¯m a doctor!¡± Jane growled. ¡°Why must you assume--¡° ¡°But you¡¯re a chick!¡± McManlyman said, looking genuinely confused. ¡°Or ¨C are you a really puny dude?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not a chick--¡° ¡°Then you¡¯re the most girly dude I¡¯ve ever--¡° ¡°I mean,¡± Jane sighed, ¡°I¡¯m not a chick, but a woman. And not a nurse, but a doctor. Get it?¡± She¡¯d been too irked to notice the sword, but now she saw it and gasped, backing up a few paces. If Max McManlyman had been thinking, he¡¯d have said, ¡°Well, I¡¯m a man and a pirate. Get it?¡± But he wasn¡¯t thinking. ¡°Whatever,¡± he said instead, waving his cutlass about. ¡°You¡¯re our prisoner now. We need another doctor.¡± Quick as a blink, before she¡¯d had a moment to think, she followed her gut instinct and made to fling herself over the edge of the ship, which they happened to be standing near. But McManlyman had been pirating a long time and had taken many a prisoner. He knew a thing or two about escape attempts. He caught her by the ankle mid-dive and even (since she was a chick after all) gallantly held her out far enough so that she wouldn¡¯t bash her head against the edge of the ship when she swung back like a pendulum. Then he said in his best Pirate Captain Voice, ¡°I am Captain Maximus McManlyman and you are my prisoner.¡± ¡°Whozamus McWhatnow?¡± she asked as she swayed back and forth, trying to look up at him. ¡°Maximus McManlyman,¡± he responded. ¡°You¡¯re my prisoner.¡± ¡°Pull me up,¡± was her only response. It was exceedingly difficult to have a conversation while hanging upside down, and definitely took away any pretense that she might have any control over the situation. What she really needed was to be standing upright and having a rational talk with this bully, though really there was no point because there is no speaking rationally with bullies whether you¡¯re upside down or right side up. Bullies have deep issues that take more than one rational chat to sort out. ¡°I really must object,¡± Bernard said from behind the Captain. He spoke as firmly as he could through his fear ¨C this was the first time in all their years on the ship that he had ever come close to standing up to the Captain. ¡°She was the only doctor in that entire city who was brave enough to venture onto this ship to help Warren. What sort of reward is it to repay such bravery and kindness with--¡° ¡°There is no way you¡¯re forcing me to be a pirate,¡± Jane cut in, still hanging over the edge of the ship by her ankle. ¡°Pirates kill people. I can¡¯t sail with you.¡± ¡°Oh no, no, no,¡± McManlyman said. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be killing anyone. You¡¯d just be patching us up. I know you doctor types have a code. We pirates respect codes.¡± He began at last to haul her up. ¡°We have a code, too: Get Lots of Treasure at Any Cost. You respect our code, we respect your code. Easy Peasy.¡± He set her on her feet. ¡°But I¡¯m not--¡° she said, straightening out her disheveled clothes as she glared at him. ¡°But you are. You, as I have mentioned a few times now, are my prisoner. You can say ¡®OK!¡¯ and go help some hurt pirates, or you can say ¡®NO!¡¯ and get sent to the brig and we¡¯ll bring some hurt pirates down and you can then help some hurt pirates. Your choice. The end result is the same so I¡¯m cool with whatever decision you make.¡± ¡°No!¡± yelled Jane and Bernard in unison. McManlyman nodded as though this was exactly what he¡¯d been expecting. Then he brushed Bernard aside, and hauled Jane down into the bowels of the ship where he locked her up. He ordered that some lanterns and doctor trappings and injured pirates be sent down to her, assuming rightly that even though she¡¯d said she wouldn¡¯t help she still wouldn¡¯t be able to keep from doing so once she saw some real live injured human beings laying there groaning and bleeding on the floor of her cell. Doctors were so predictable. Bernard waylaid McManlyman as the Captain was on the way back from locking up Jane and said, ¡°Not cool, man. Not cool. What the heck was that? You can¡¯t--¡° ¡°I can. What is with all these people telling me ¡®you can¡¯t¡¯? I¡¯m a pirate captain, and so that means I get to do what I want to do. You¡¯d do well to remember that. I like the money you pay us to transport you and your weird family across these waters, but I don¡¯t like it enough to put up with any lip from you. Don¡¯t make me get all piratical on you and your family ¨C because,¡± he said, getting all up in Bernard¡¯s face, ¡°I will. Just give me a reason and I¡¯ll totally do it, man.¡± Quaking in his boots as he stared at the shiny blade of Captain McManlyman¡¯s cutlass which hovered steadily inches from his face, Bernard decided he¡¯d done what he could to help. Jane seemed like a capable enough lady, he rationalized, and maybe, he thought hopefully, with her feminist leanings she might not want some guy jumping into the fray to fight for her. He didn¡¯t want to insult her or anything, he tried to convince himself as he found himself nodding mutely at the Captain. Jane would certainly not have been offended by any help from Bernard ¨C she would have seen him not so much as a man helping a distressed damsel but as one human being who had an opportunity to assist another human being in need, which was definitely more what the situation was. But, though Bernard tried to do the right thing whenever he could, he was no hero or soldier, or any good at protecting himself, and he couldn¡¯t go getting himself killed for a lost cause when he had a family that needed him. So, he stepped back with only a mild irritation at being bullied, but also with a firm knowledge that there was really nothing he could have done to win anyway (short of challenging the Captain to a tightrope walking contest or a tap dancing duel, and it was very far from likely that McManlyman would have ever consented to agree to that sort of showdown). McManlyman gave Bernard an annoying ¡®That¡¯s right, you¡¯re backing down,¡± look that Bernard tried to ignore as he strolled off to check on his son who was resting on the floor of the family¡¯s room. Warren gave him a brave smile from his nest of pillows and quilts on the floor and said, ¡°Did you see the doctor off without incident?¡± ¡°Yup.¡± Bernard knew his son well enough to be sure that once Warren knew about the doctor¡¯s wrongful imprisonment he would try to do something silly and end up in a situation that, even in top form, he wouldn¡¯t be able to handle; in Warren¡¯s incapacitated state he would stand no chance at all of defending Jane. Warren had been raised from infancy acting in family dramas, reading books about heroic knights, playing romantic songs on his banjo and accordion, reading poetry, and in his off time daydreaming while staring out at the sea. The lad was consequently a bit too romantic for his own good, and he needed to be kept in the dark about the fact that the brave woman who had risked venturing onto a pirate ship in order to give him medical attention was now being held captive. The injustice of it would drive Warren to do something pretty stupid. That night, the family was awoken from their sleep by the sound of Warren yelling like a madman. They assumed he was in need of more of the pain tonic that Jane had left them. It took Emily a few minutes of listening to his fevered blathering, though, to realize that his arm felt OK and he was flipping out because he had just remembered the harpsichord had been smashed in the storm along with his arm. ¡°Mom, what am I going to do?¡± he asked frantically, actually clutching at her sleeve. ¡°Honey,¡± she said, all soothing and maternal, ¡°Let¡¯s get you fixed first, and then you can worry about the harpsichord.¡± ¡°But what if the Captain throws it out? I need that harpsichord, Mom. I can¡¯t live--¡° Corrine, who had been rummaging through her bag this whole time, pulled out the contact info for the harpsichord repairman. ¡°Here,¡± she said, thrusting the paper tab into Warren¡¯s hand and holding up the lantern so that he could read it. ¡°I found this on the docks.¡± Warren read it, first distractedly, then intently, gripping it in his fingertips like a tiny little lifeline. ¡°Ooh, Corrine! Could you track down this guy?¡± ¡°Sure thing, little brother. I¡¯ll head out tomorrow morning.¡± Chapter Eight In his evil lair, Farland Phelps was plotting. Much like Julianna¡¯s parents, Farland had been devoting considerable efforts to finding the boy who could break the curse. Part of his plan was to post fliers for harpsichord repair by the docks. He figured this approach was bound to yield fruit eventually, since it must be challenging to keep a harpsichord tuned and in good repair on the high seas what with all the humidity and motion of the ship and whatnot. He further figured that this seafaring curse breaker would eventually end up in the Bay of Fritillary since the capital was one of the biggest ports-of-call in the known world. So he had strategically positioned a few harpsichord repair ads, then paid some vagrants (It''s super cheap to employ vagrants. They work for peanuts.) to panhandle in sight of the fliers and report to him when they saw some seafaring person express interest in the ad. From there, he just left it up to time while he devoted his energies to other plots and schemes. Earlier that very day, one of his paid vagrants had come by to report that, at long last, some lady had taken a tab off a harpsichord ad. Of course, there was no way of knowing whether this lady had any connection to the boy he was searching for, but it would be silly of him not to pursue the lead. The vagrant had said that the lady had gone out to a ship after taking the tab, so that was at least a positive sign ¨C it meant that the harpsichord in need of repair might be on a ship. The plan was this: He would transform his evil lair into a harpsichord studio, then wait for someone to come visiting, asking about harpsichord repairs. He would visit their ship, ask a few leading questions, and find out whether anyone on the boat fit the bill as the lad who could break the curse. If it was a dead end, he¡¯d just say he didn¡¯t have the right tools to finish the job; but if he did, through this scheme find the lad, Farland would kidnap him and send word through one of Conroy¡¯s spies (Farland had a double agent working as one of Conroy¡¯s spies) that the lad had been located. From there all he¡¯d need to do is slip the lad some time-release poison so he¡¯d die shortly after being collected by the king, but before meeting the princess and breaking the spell. It was essential to the plan that Conroy get his hopes up as much as possible only to have them dashed by the lad¡¯s death at the last possible moment. Farland grinned, chuckled, then looked around his lair and muttered, ¡°First thing¡¯s first. I have to make this place look like a harpsichord studio.¡± He felt a bit daunted looking around at the heavy, black velvet curtains, tapestries of skeletons wielding swords, shelves full of colorful powders and liquids with alarming names and skulls-and-crossbones prominently displayed on the labels, big melty candles with black flames, and books with labels like Really, Really Deadly Poisons and Mind Reading Can Be Easy! and Compendium of Poison Substitutions. The only thing in the entire room that he wouldn¡¯t have to hide or disguise was his fern in the front window. It would have been easier just to rent a storefront somewhere for the week, but unfortunately he¡¯d put his own address on the advertisement, and plus he''d been short on funds of late. He wished he could devote his life solely to his revenge plots, but there was unfortunately no money in vengeance (he knew this for certain because he had registered himself as a nonprofit and then written a grant to see if anyone would fund him) so he had to resort to scraping out a living doing black market black magic for nobles whenever necessary in order to keep himself housed and fed as he pursued his real dream: getting back at Conroy. Farland packed up his books and put them in his bedroom, turned all his bottles around so the poison labels were facing the back of the shelf, then put up a sign on the shelf that read ¡®Harpsichord Polishes and Oils¡¯. Next, he scuttled off to a local music store to get some decorations. Some time later, he came back with a few parcels and rolled up papers under his arms. The rolled papers were posters of harpsichords, fingering charts, and one big poster of Lonnie Green, the most famous harpsichordist around ¨C Lonnie smiled out of his poster with nice teeth and long, curly brown hair. Lonnie looked most out of place in this room, Farland thought, as he hung the poster on the wall over the magical pool of raven blood and between a tapestry of a skeleton with a sword and another tapestry of a skeleton playing checkers with Death. Next, Farland cleaned some poster putty off his fingertips and rolled up his beloved tapestries, then stuck up in their place some of the harpsichord pictures. The magical pool of raven blood informed Farland that he had better not move it anywhere, so Farland (not wanting to offend or anger it) just covered it up with a big wooden board that he stored under his bed and usually used as a surface for working jigsaw puzzles. With the board resting atop the heavy stone basin, it looked sort of like a table. After throwing a plaid flannel sheet from his bed over the jigsaw puzzle board for a tablecloth, Farland unwrapped one parcel to reveal some sheet music and magazines which he artfully arranged on the makeshift coffee table. Next, he opened up the other parcel and placed its contents (a metronome and a statue of a G clef) on the shelf in front of his magic powders and liquids. He gave the arm of the metronome a tap to get it moving, and the steady tick-tick of a calming 58 beats per minute permeated the room. Farland finally stepped back and surveyed his work with satisfaction. It was not perfect, but certainly passable; anyway, it would easily convince anyone who had no reason to be suspicious. He reached into his desk for paper, ink, and a quill and wrote on good sturdy card-stock ¡®Farland Phelps. Harpsichord Repairs and Tuning¡¯, then used a bit more poster putty to affix the sign to the front door of his modest ground floor Evil Lair in a cul-de-sac just off the textiles district of the city. He rented in a building that housed a tailor to his right, a lady who spun and dyed yarn to his left, and a family with about a million kids by the sound of it above him. Back when he¡¯d lived in the castle, his Evil Lair had been much more grand, but his free ride as Conroy¡¯s BFF was long over, and rent in the city was insane even with an income helping the lords and ladies with the black market black magic making truth serums and invisibility spells (the lords and ladies all seemed to have the same problem: not trusting their spouses). Surveying the results of his redecorating project, he gave a satisfied nod. Then, having nothing else to do, Farland grabbed a book at random out of his closet and went to lay down on his bed and maybe take a nap or something. He couldn¡¯t kill time doing a puzzle since his puzzle board was doubling as a coffee table, and he didn¡¯t want to leave the apartment for fear of missing the visitor who might or might not even show up, and might or might not lead him to the one who might or might not be able to break the curse. With a sigh, Farland snuggled up under a quilt and began to read. # Bright and early the next morning, Corrine and Bernard sallied forth for the harpsichord studio. After their epic search for a doctor the previous day, they had a pretty good idea of how to get around the slippery, grimy, disgusting streets. So, they were able to locate Farland¡¯s lair ¨C er, harpsichord studio ¨C before the morning dew had even evaporated from the piles of muck that lined the city streets. Bernard knocked on the door, then noticed that the poster putty affixing the sign to the door had nearly come undone, so he helpfully pushed it back into place. Why did the owner of this store use poster putty instead of nails, he wondered, and why was the sign made of paper instead of wood? The door swung open, and they were greeted by a smiling, attractive man of about forty with long, black hair and lots of jeweled rings on his long fingers. Corrine wondered whether all those rings got in the way of his harpsichord playing. ¡°May I help you?¡± he asked in a sleazy voice that, when paired with the over-eagerness with which he asked the question, made her skin crawl. ¡°Yes, we need a harpsichord repaired,¡± she said hesitantly, as he ushered them into the sparse storefront that was strangely devoid of actual harpsichords, though it did have a lot of posters and some sheet music and magazines. ¡°The harpsichord is on a pirate ship. I hope that is not a problem?¡± Maybe she shouldn¡¯t have mentioned the pirate ship right off the bat, but part of her was hoping he¡¯d say no ¨C she had a bad feeling about this guy, but she didn¡¯t know if the bad feeling was just because he sounded slimy, or if there something else about him that was causing her intuition bells to ring. He raised an eyebrow with surprise when he heard about the pirate ship, but said, ¡°That shouldn¡¯t be a problem. Let¡¯s go.¡± And then he headed toward the door. They didn¡¯t know it, of course, but pirates didn¡¯t scare him in the least ¨C he could disappear at will whenever he wanted, so getting into dangerous situations never fazed him.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°Wait--¡° Corrine said. ¡°Don¡¯t you need to know what¡¯s wrong with the harpsichord? Talk payment? Anything?¡± Why was this dude flying out the door at the first mention of a broken harpsichord without getting any information from them or grabbing any tools? Shoot, Farland thought, I¡¯m being too eager. Calm down, Farland. Calm down. You¡¯ll know soon enough if this lead is going anywhere. He turned and said, ¡°Ah, well, we can talk payment after I see what¡¯s wrong with it. And, er, as to what is wrong with the instrument, I never ask laymen to, er, diagnose. I would rather go in with a head unclouded by preconceptions.¡± ¡°Wow, there must be more going on in the inside of a harpsichord than I thought,¡± Bernard muttered. ¡°You really have to worry about misdiagnosing?¡± As he asked this, his gaze began to travel over the various bottles of liquids and powders. There definitely was more to this whole harpsichord thing than he¡¯d thought ¨C just look at all those bottles of colorful stuff! He reached out to touch a bottle with big shiny pink crystals inside. ¡°Don¡¯t touch that!¡± barked Farland with anger and alarm. Bernard¡¯s hand froze an inch away from the bottle, and he stared at Farland with astonishment. ¡°What--?¡± ¡°Fool! Don¡¯t meddle with things you don¡¯t understand,¡± Farland spat venomously as he swooped over to the shelf and laid a protective hand on the side of the bottle, then remembered too late that the contents of the bottle were supposed to be mere harpsichord maintenance crystals, not potentially explosive minerals used to concoct an invisibility spell. He met their surprised eyes and said after an awkward pause in which he was painfully aware of the ticking of the metronome, ¡°I take harpsichord repair and maintenance very seriously.¡± ¡°Clearly,¡± said Corrine, looking at him with an unmasked expression that indicated what she thought of his sanity or lack thereof. Every move this guy made and every word he uttered convinced her further that something was off with him. ¡°Look,¡± Bernard said, ¡°I have no doubt that a person who feels as deeply as you do about your art will be able to fix our harpsichord. You¡¯re a little loony, but I don¡¯t care as long as you can fix my kid¡¯s harpsichord. He¡¯s a sensitive boy and I want him calmed down as soon as possible. You see, he¡¯s been injured and I just want him to take it easy and relax so he can heal, but he¡¯s not going to do that until the harpsichord is repaired. He¡¯s got some strange connection to that thing that defies reason. So, if you are willing to come with us aboard the pirate ship, then I think we have a deal!¡± ¡°A strange connection that defies reason?¡± Farland mused. Now that sounded like something that could indicate magic was involved ¨C when a thing defied reason, it could very well be because there was a spell or potion involved that was bending things in a way that was contrary to the norm. He would have loved to read their minds right about now (assuming they were weak-minded enough), but he was currently out of his mind-reading powder (it was expensive to concoct), and even if he¡¯d had the powder, he had to have been taking it for 48 hours, one dose every 12 hours, in order to effectively read minds at will. Without the help of the mind-reading powder, his skills were remedial at best; it was physically draining without the powder, and mostly he heard just a bunch of muffled rumbling, and jumbled up sounds, with only a hint of the subject¡¯s actual thoughts. He missed the good old days in the castle when he¡¯d had the ability to obtain whatever ingredients he wanted in whatever amounts he required. Currently he only had one bottle left of his mind reading powder, and he was saving it for a special occasion since he didn¡¯t know how he¡¯d ever be able to get any more of the key ingredient: the pollen of a flower that grew half the world away at only a certain altitude on a particular mountain, and, of course, it bloomed only once every three years. When he¡¯d been pals with Conroy, he had sent expeditions to the mountain whenever he fancied. Sometimes he wished that when he¡¯d been younger he¡¯d have realized what a cost to his material comfort this whole revenge thing would turn out to be ¨C if he had consulted the magical pool of raven blood, would it have told him that the path of revenge would lead him to a slummy little apartment and a pittance of an income? And, if the magical pool of raven blood had actually condescended to reveal this information (which was unlikely since the magical pool of raven blood was moody and peevish on its good days), would the knowledge have swayed Farland from following his dreams? Probably not. He had been so darn idealistic in his youth. Fortunately, he had another plot brewing that would hopefully end up landing him back in the castle. ¡°Yeah. He¡¯s a born musician when it comes to his banjo and accordion, but with that harpsichord he touches it and it sounds like a rabid squirrel is running across the keys. But he keeps trying and trying.¡± Farland¡¯s eyes bugged out and his jaw dropped. He thought, Banjo, harpsichord, and accordion?! Those were the instruments specified in my counter-curse! This is it! The girl was staring at him with a funny look. Farland realized the expression on his face was pretty crazy. He shut his mouth, blinked his eyes, tried to contain his excitement. But now that he was almost 100% sure he had found the one who¡¯d break the curse, it took every ounce of his self-control to remain in character and not fly out the door demanding that they take him at once to the pirate ship or suffer the consequences. Then it occurred to him, why couldn¡¯t he just do that? Demand that they take him to their son/brother pronto or be cursed with some dreadful curse? But no, if he did that, something could go wrong; they could try to be heroic and alert the lad once they neared the ship, or they might be wearing protective amulets ¨C doubtful, but possible, and he had waited for so long that he didn¡¯t want to take the risk of messing it all up just because he couldn¡¯t be patient for a few more hours. No, it was best if he tried to play it cool for a bit more. He cleared his throat, and said carefully, ¡°How odd! Well, it sounds like this harpsichord is very important to him. Let¡¯s get it fixed up all shiny and new! The sooner the better, I say!¡± ¡°Indubitably!¡± Bernard said with a grin. The two men capered out the door, one happy to have found someone who could help Warren and give him some peace of mind, the other happy to be shortly killing Warren dead. Corrine didn¡¯t like this guy one bit, but she couldn¡¯t put into convincing words what exactly it was that bothered her, so she followed at a distance, close enough to listen to him talking to her father, but far enough that he¡¯d be disinclined to try to talk to her. ¡°So, have you always liked the harpsichord?¡± Bernard was asking, trying to strike up a conversation with Farland. ¡°Oh, yeah. Totally,¡± Farland said, sounding like he was not paying much attention. ¡°What do you like most about it?¡± ¡°Oh ¨C the ¨C um ¨C the plinky plinky things ¨C you know, the black and white bits--¡° ¡°The keys?¡± Corrine supplied incredulously, finding herself unable to keep quiet. ¡°Yeah, them!¡± Farland replied. ¡°They¡¯re what I like best about the harpsichord for sure.¡± ¡°Ah, yes, they are nice,¡± Bernard said, still trying to give Farland the benefit of the doubt. ¡°But I didn¡¯t mean what part of the instrument do you like best ¨C I meant, what drew you to the harpsichord as opposed to some other--¡° ¡°Dad!¡± Corrine roared. ¡°This guy doesn¡¯t know what keys are! If it weren¡¯t for the fact that there is no conceivable reason a person would impersonate a harpsichord repair man and venture onto a ship filled with pirates, I would say he was not who he says he is! Something is not right!¡± ¡°You don¡¯t need to know what keys are called in order to fix them,¡± Farland pulled out of the blue, and even managed to say it condescendingly. Bernard nodded in agreement at this logic. ¡°That does make sense.¡± ¡°No it doesn¡¯t!¡± Corrine exploded. Bernard said to Farland, ¡°Will you please excuse me for as moment while I talk to my daughter?¡± Farland said, ¡°Indeed,¡± then gave Corrine a shifty glance that Bernard didn¡¯t see, and wandered down the road a bit to do some window shopping. ¡°What¡¯s up, kid?¡± Bernard asked her. ¡°You¡¯re acting weird.¡± ¡°I¡¯m acting weird?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not saying he¡¯s not weird, dear. I¡¯m just saying that you are too. So what if he¡¯s got some quirks? Like you said, there¡¯s no conceivable reason for him to be impersonating a harpsichord repair man. To get onto a pirate ship, no less. If he can fix the darn instrument and thus make Warren calm down and rest so he can heal, then that is all I care about.¡± She glared at Farland¡¯s back but said, ¡°I guess you¡¯re right¡­¡± Farland was looking into the window of a gourmet dog food boutique, appearing to be surveying some baked-on-site bone-shaped biscuits and a pyramid of bejeweled food- and water dishes ¡°For that special pooch in your life!¡± as the sign in the window said. As she watched him at the window, she caught his gaze through the reflection. Had he been watching them though the window¡¯s reflection? Creepy. There was definitely something more going on here than innocent harpsichord repair. ¡°Sweetheart, let it go. You¡¯re just stressed from these past few days. The storm, Warren¡¯s injury, your first time off a ship in your entire twenty-two years of life. There¡¯s been a lot going on.¡± Though she knew she was indeed a bit stressed, she also knew that stress didn¡¯t make her imagine things. However, she supposed she might as well ignore this Farland¡¯s weirdness and just keep an eye on him to make sure he didn¡¯t try anything stupid. And of course, she didn¡¯t have to worry for long. Once they were back on the pirate ship surrounded by a hoard of murderous thugs, she¡¯d feel worlds safer. This Farland didn¡¯t look like he would be able to hold his own in a fight against even the pirates¡¯ scrawny, asthmatic cabin boy, Frank. ¡°OK, Dad. I¡¯ll let it go. But once he¡¯s seen to the harpsichord and been paid, he is off the ship.¡± Bernard nodded in agreement and went over to let Farland know that they were ready to move on. Corrine sighed and joined them.