Chapter 31
Nothing could dampen Fay’s mood as she got fitted for her wedding dress, not even the foul, wet weather. She thought she’d grown tired of the snow, but at least that had stayed in manageable piles, thanks to the castle workers diligent sweeping and shoveling. The snow had since turned to sleet and hail, and there were slushy, frozen rivers everywhere.
“I always dreamed I’d get married in the summer,” she said as Catherine measured out her long, woolen sleeve.
Batty had a baby on one knee and was trying to keep the other one from crawling too close to his mother’s sewing implements. “I think you’re going to look lovely in those beautiful blue tones. It makes me think of one of Anne’s weavings.”
They shared a sad moment of silence while they thought of Anne. Her final tapestry had remained unfinished, but Fay clumsily tied off the ends anyway and had it hung near her bed. Every morning, she looked at the glorious colors of Anne’s sunrise and wished she could have had more time with her.
The thought of time made her bounce anxiously, earning a nick in the wrist with Catherine’s scissors. “Oh no, did I ruin anything?” she asked.
As far as she knew, it could be as little as a week before the curse reset, if it was going to. It was like waiting to find out test results, times one thousand. She jumped at every odd sound, thinking it was a sign, and couldn’t go an hour without seeking out Tristan to make sure he remembered who she was. He took it in stride, bless him, now that he no longer thought she was losing her mind.
“It’s fine,” Catherine said around the pin in her mouth. “But try to keep still.”
“I only wish Brom could return for the wedding,” Batty sighed. “But I know he has to help guard the keep with those marauders being everywhere these days.” She sounded both wistful and proud.
“I suppose he’ll have to come back for his own wedding,” Fay teased. “Or do you think you’ll want to go up there?”
Batty blushed crimson. “I wouldn’t want to ruin it by speaking out of turn,” she stammered.
“You won’t jinx it. Tristan told me himself that Brom’s planning to ask you.”
Her bright red hue turned even darker. “Well, of course Grancourt Castle is my home, and it is much prettier here, I’m sure.”
“Probably right,” Fay said.
She still had no idea what her new home would be like. Tristan was the worst at describing things. He did assure her it wasn’t as luxurious as this castle, nowhere near. Every time she worried about not having her own private garderobe or dozens of servants, she thought about the alternative, which would be not having Tristan, and her worries subsided. She’d learned to live in this time and though the castle had plenty of amenities the vast majority of medieval people didn’t, it was still a far cry from twenty-first century living. She’d adapt, she was sure of it.
Marjorie poked her head in the door of Fay’s chamber, her face drawn and waxy, dark circles under her eyes. Fay knew she’d been trying to keep busy, but Anne’s loss had struck her deeply and she often saw her sitting on a bench or in Anne’s room fiddling with her fingernails or just staring into space. Batty had told her that she might have to live somewhere else now that Anne was gone, especially as they would both be moving to Tristan’s keep soon.
She smiled wanly at the babies and shook her head. “Sorry, I wondered if you and Batty were going to chapel this morning, but I’ll go on my own.”
“We’ll be there for vespers,” Batty promised. Marjorie ducked her head and disappeared like a ghost.
“Poor thing,” Fay said. “Maybe the wedding will cheer her up a bit.” She caught Batty and Catherine exchanging a look. “What?” she asked. “Spit it out.”
Batty sighed deeply. “It’s only that she thinks it, well … it’s so close to Anne’s death. We don’t think that,” she hastened to add.
“Not a bit,” Catherine agreed. “And if your father is fine with it, then so should we all be.”
Fay had been so consumed with trying to meet the elusive demands of the curse that she hadn’t thought about the propriety of being married so soon after Anne’s death. Except for the beautiful gown Batty and Catherine were working so hard on, the chapel wouldn’t be decorated since there were no flowers available anyway. There would, of course, be a feast afterwards. Perhaps she could ask the cooks to make it nothing more than a regular supper.
Anne would want you to celebrate, she thought.
It rushed her like a wind through her soul and she felt as if the words had come straight from Anne herself. Anne had always said she only wanted her to be happy.
She decided to leave the planning alone, only wanting it to be over with so she could finally have everything settled. She was a little peeved that love alone didn’t seem to break the curse. But in these old-fashioned times, it probably demanded they prove it by being married. She didn’t mind that at all. She was jumping for joy to be marrying Tristan and, in the end, she wouldn’t know anything until she’d gone past that elusive marker when the curse would reset itself. Or not.
If everything carried on normally after the wedding, she’d rejoice that it was broken and, perhaps, the people of the castle could get on with their lives as well. Sweet Batty could have her chance with Brom. Maybe even Marjorie could cheer up and find happiness. And her father could move on from continuously having to mourn his first daughter. The matter of the original daughter—the one whose place Fay had taken—still nagged at her. What had happened to that girl? Was she lost forever? Had she ever existed in the first place?
These worries were her constant companions and they nipped at her heels as she was shooed from the room after her fitting was complete so Batty and Catherine could work without interruption. Her stitching skills were still too lacking to be of any help, so she decided to seek out Tristan to settle her nerves. Just laying eyes on him was enough to settle any questions she had. All her fears faded when she saw him, his smile putting her restless mind at ease. There was no risk she wouldn’t take to be with him.
As she got closer to the door leading out back to where he would be training, she paused, holding her arms close to her sides. The icy, damp air chilled the hallway and a glance down showed white crusts of frost on the stones at her feet. Even for a quick glimpse of him, she was going to need a cloak. She hoped it wasn’t snowing as she turned to fetch it, thinking if she bundled up well enough and if the sky was clear, she could stay outside and watch him train for a while before all her extremities went numb.
She took the back stairs, hoping she wouldn’t run into any servants. They were sometimes too helpful, offering to carry any little thing she held at the moment or asking if they could get her something. They’d wonder why she was on the back stairs in the first place and worry she’d catch her death from the drafts. She smiled to herself as she ducked her head and hurried along, thinking it wasn’t so bad to be cared for.
At the landing, she thought she heard someone behind her and turned to assure them she was fine, only on her way to her chamber. However, no one was there and she shrugged, then hurried faster, fearful it was a rat. They’d gotten braver since the weather outside had turned so hostile, finding their way in from the barns and making themselves cozy. While she was scared of them, they had no qualms about going right up to her to see if she seemed edible and thoughts of plague kept her jumping up on benches whenever she saw one. No sign of any crawling critters either, but she was always amazed at what tight spaces they could squeeze themselves into.
Feeling foolish for getting worked up over nothing, she raced along nonetheless, once again hearing something behind her. She reminded herself that this castle was her home and she shouldn’t get creeped out in its twisting back hallways. Even in that time, the place was over a hundred years old, and it was impossible not to wonder about ghosts sometimes. Though it made her feel silly, she knew she had to look back over her shoulder again to assure herself she wasn’t being followed by a specter or a party of rats.
When she turned this time, something grazed the side of her head, hard enough to knock her to the ground. Her eyes watered from the pain and her ears rang from the reverberation of the thing that hit her. When she blinked to see what had happened, she saw a bit of gray cloth, a hand, then a flash of something blackened flying toward her face. She ducked, but too late, and it crashed down on her. More pain exploded behind her ear, but only lasted for a moment, then she felt nothing at all.
*
Fay woke up to splitting pain in the back of her skull. She tried to reach for her head, finding her arms leaden and difficult to move. Blinking rapidly to make sure her eyes were open, she soon figured out she hadn’t been blinded by the blow to the head. It was only pitch dark wherever she was. Cold permeated to her bones. The longer she was awake, the more different parts of her started complaining. She was on what felt like filthy cobbles. The stones prodded into her and the smell nearly overwhelmed her as it finally registered. The foul odor, more than anything else, made her drag herself to a sitting position, feeling around until she came to a wall, also rough, cold stone. Also slimy and freezing cold.
“Hello?” she called, her voice coming out dry and creaking. She swallowed and tried again. “Help!”
That was stupid, she thought. Whoever put you in here isn’t going to help you.
A faint light emanated in a thin line a few feet away from her and she crawled to it, ignoring the pain that made her brain feel like it had been jarred loose and the grimy stones under her hands. A door. The crack under it was too small to wedge her fingers, but the small bit of light comforted her so she stayed there.
Where was she? Who had done this to her? She’d been knocked out cold and had no idea how far away she’d been taken. If she’d been gone more than a few hours, someone back at the castle would be searching for her by now. Especially as Batty and Catherine had been adamant she try on her wedding dress after they were done basting the seams.
Oh, God, what if she’d been out for more than a few hours? The thought of the wedding dress reminded her of her deadline. What if she couldn’t get out of here in time to break the curse?
“You have to let me out.” She pounded on the door with the back of her hand. It was so thick, she barely made a weak thumping sound and panic’s claws dug their way into her nerves. “I have to get married,” she called. “I really have to get married.”
Taking a deep breath, which was cut off halfway by the rancid smell of the place, she tried to take stock to keep the panic at bay. Her head throbbed, but the pain seemed to be receding. She could move around, so no bones were broken. Trying to ignore her fear and confusion, she consulted her stomach. Despite the terror of being trapped in this dank place, she was a little bit hungry, but not famished. Only a few hours had passed, then. Certainly not the whole night. Her father and Tristan would be combing the grounds and beating down the neighbors’ doors to find her. She would be found.
Confidence somewhat restored, she drew up her knees and huddled into her skirts to try and conserve warmth. As time passed, she began to shiver, and crawled her way around the cell to see if there was a bench or something so she could get off the frigid ground. There wasn’t, and her hand landed in a foul pile of something both crusty and squishy for her efforts. Back near the door, she huddled up again, trying to wipe her hand on the stone wall. Her head hurt too much to cry, and her hands were so dirty she didn’t dare wipe her face with them. She continued to call out, turning and kicking at the door until she exhausted herself and lay panting on the stones, giving up for the moment.
A bright light glared down at her and she shook herself, realizing she had dozed off. Something skittered terrifyingly in the corner, but she didn’t care. She only had eyes for the light. A small slot had opened in the door, far above her head, and she shakily got to her feet. As soon as she advanced to try and look out, plead with the person who’d opened it for some food or drink or answers, it slid shut again. She scraped at the area with her fingers, but it was locked tight.
“What do you want from me?” she called. “A ransom? My father will pay it, I promise you. Please let me go.”
She pressed her ear to the splintery wood but heard nothing but the wild thumping of her own heart. She scraped some more at the viewing slot, but her fingers were numb with cold and she soon felt her nails tearing. With a final frustrated whack, she gave up and slid back to the floor.
The cold made her forget her hunger, which in turn made her forget her pain. With nothing left but fear to occupy her thoughts, she forced her eyes closed and drifted off to sleep again.
It might have been minutes, hours, or days when she shook herself awake. “Probably have a concussion,” she muttered. The sound of her voice made the skittering start up again in the corner, but as long as it stayed to its side, she was too weak and listless to care.
The slot in the door slid open and when she tried to stand, she realized how stiff she’d become. No sooner had she managed to unfold herself from the ground, the slot slammed shut again, a click signifying whoever opened it had locked it up tight. Still, she hauled herself to the door and scraped away at it, trying to pry it open.
“Are you still out there?”
She coughed, her throat closing up from dryness. How long had she been in here without food or drink? Her shaking hands and twisting stomach told her too long, and she prayed the person who’d dumped her in here and kept checking on her would toss in a crust of bread. Why keep checking on her if they weren’t going to feed her?
Her empty stomach lurched. “What do you want?” she pleaded, kicking the door.
That act of defiance used up the last of her strength and she collapsed back onto the floor, jarring her hip on the cobblestones. As she drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, she tried to remember what had happened. She had been hit on the head with what she thought might have been a cooking pot. What else could she recall? A hand. A pale hand. She snorted dispiritedly. In the bitter bowels of winter, everyone in the castle was as pale as the snow that piled up along the sides of the walls. A bit of gray fabric, but again, that led to too many culprits.
Time passed, the slot continued to slide open and shut after long intervals, and eventually she gave up trying to communicate with the person on the other side of the door. She grew too weak to get up and kick or pound on it. She slept and woke, shivered and wished for food until her stomach simply stopped nagging her with hunger spasms. Sometimes pitch darkness surrounded her and sometimes the faint light flickered through the crack. She tried to piece together clues, try and figure out why she was being held a prisoner, but eventually gave up. It was too taxing to her half-starved brain and she put her head down on her knees, waiting.