Prime Minister Albous stepped forward, his green eyes narrowed in a way that spoke of deep introspection. “The princess must continue her training with me and the council. She’s become quite proficient in the art of signing, but there’s so much more to politics and carrying a kingdom than simple communication. How’s she to learn diplomacy and the administration of justice, locked away with only her family?”
Griselda’s body tensed, but to Lyra’s shock, she responded with an even tone. “Princess Lyra and I will correspond with both parliament and council via letters, so we might carry out our judicial and royal duties. She will still have her hand in politics and learn diplomacy, deciding the proper action upon facts presented. I’ll brook no argument. Her safety is of upmost importance. The livelihood of our kingdom, the very balance of our skies, depends on it. Thus, the four of us will remain in sanctuary until the witch and her spy are captured and imprisoned. Even if it takes the next five years.”
Among a burst of murmured concerns, Griselda clasped Lyra’s fingers without even cringing, surprising her for a third time. With her free hand, Griselda guided Wrathalyne, who clung to Avaricette. United, they descended the dais and headed to the door with their appointed knights flanking them. The silent pilgrimage of Lyra’s bugs followed, too, hidden behind the walls.
Her shadows swept alongside her feet, stretching and shrinking as passing candles dictated. She cast a final look at the council members and servants—familiar as they had become—stopping on the prime minister. Her heart ached already with the loss of their time together, and even more to see that he’d been left as speechless as she had ever been.
The rest of the morning, amidst a whirlwind of preparations, Lyra watched items being carried to the largest cell in the farthest corner of the dungeon: family portraits, tapestries, books, writing and sewing appurtenances, furniture, a large trunk stuffed with clothing (including Queen Arael’s remaining gowns), bed linens, dried spices, and potpourri soaps. There was also a hip bath, chamber pot, and a wrought-iron box fireplace, for their hygiene and comfort.
Two hours before the kingdom retired for the cessation course, she descended the twining stairs alongside her family to enter their new abode for the first time.
Bright tapestries—scented with spices—draped the walls from top to bottom, deftly arranged to conceal cold stones while masking the stench. A long golden cord hung from the ceiling, connecting them. Griselda’s knights had been in charge of this arrangement before the cell was furnished. They explained if the cord was pulled, the tapestries would peel free to simplify cleaning.
Two oversized canopied beds with wool-stuffed mattresses sat against one wall, their white lace curtains so ethereal and gauzy they could have been fragments of clouds held open with red ribbon ties. The trunk, brimming with linens and supplies, sat at the foot of the largest bed. At the foot of the smallest was a long, pine box with a latched lid to be used for any soiled clothes and bedsheets the knights would need to carry out for washing.
A small dining table with four padded chairs and the fireplace—complete with a shiny copper chimney that connected to a freshly drilled damper for filtering smoke from the room—replaced the cot and torture devices which had once been the only furnishings. Soft candlelight flickered in lanterns secured on tall stands. The flames reflected off a long mirror—strung up to spin from the ceiling’s center—creating a luminary effect across the walls, a safe alternative to windows.
Then came the final changes that transformed the cell to something like a cottage in a fairy tale. Freshly cut honeysuckle vines, to be replaced each day, spilled out of large vases. Standing birdcages housed chickadees, mockingbirds, and swallows. The nectarous scent and lyrical chirps filled the room with the illusion of the outdoors.
Against the surreal sensations tapping her spine, Lyra stepped within. Her slippers trounced lightly upon brightly woven rugs and bearskin throws, in direct opposition to the weighted hesitation in her heart. As opulent as everything was, it was still only one room to be shared with the aunt and two cousins who were once so cruel. Was this truly where they would live for the next five years if the witch and her spy weren’t captured? At the end of it all, would Lyra’s kingdom even need her anymore?
Exhausted from weeping all day, Wrathalyne and Avaricette tottered over to a bed and belly flopped atop fluffy quilts.
A few servants remained, rearranging and straightening until Griselda commanded they leave. Mia strayed over to a corner where the royal family portraits had been set in a pile. Lyra’s aunt insisted they be carried down, every last likeness of Lyra and of her parents, so she mightn’t forget them over time. Griselda had even insisted on bringing Queen Arael’s broken mirror, so painstakingly glued back together by Lyra’s father before he left for Nerezeth.
“Could I ’ang these, or find a spot for the mirror, Lady Griselda?” Mia asked.
“No. We’ll need something to do to pass the hours,” Griselda answered while wrestling the dustrag from the maid’s hand. “Time you go.”
Mia tried once more to plead her fealty. “I’ve served the little princess all ’er life. Might I come once a day at least? In the evenings, for baths, or to read stories and poetry. I made a lifelong commitment to serve Eldoria’s monarchy, your ladyship.”
Griselda’s expression transformed from weary to shrewd. “If you wish to continue to serve, you may be our food taster. You’re obviously very practiced.” She squeezed Mia’s plump forearm and led her to the door. There, the knights waited on the edge of the threshold, having already sent the other servants through the long stone corridor and up the winding stairs back to the castle.
“In a time like this,” Griselda added, “meals are perilous undertakings. We are defenseless to the cook and kitchen hands. Prove yourself courageous and loyal by sampling our food, and in time I’ll trust you enough to allow your service within our sanctuary.” She gave Mia a push, breaking the eye contact the lady’s maid had been keeping with Lyra.
The door slammed shut with a thunderous echo of latches and bolts. The metallic cacophony vibrated through the floor, then up Lyra’s legs and all the way to her chest. It stopped there and snapped into place, as if the cage of her ribs locked around her heart.
With the knights stationed outside, utter silence fell over the room; even the birds hushed, leaving only the flutter of their feathers, the pop of the lanterns, and the soft whimpers of Lyra’s grieving cousins.
Griselda and Lyra watched one another, reflections of candleflame spinning around them in a dizzying sequence. Her aunt’s lip curled up, revealing teeth clenched in a wretched smile. It was that same expression that clutched at Lyra’s heart on the day of her father’s interment.
Her aunt had not forgiven her for releasing the witch who killed her daughter. Not at all.
Lyra wavered, then looked around. Being in a dimly lit dungeon allowed endless perches for her shadows. They hovered in the wall corners and under furniture, giving her courage. She had her own faithful guards, just as Griselda did. That in mind, Lyra signaled her bugs mentally, calling them from her mother’s room in the northern wing of the castle, bidding them to make haste to the dungeon, on the chance she might need reinforcements.
Griselda broke her stare and arranged the refreshments the servants had left on a tray beside the table. She poured steaming milk from the porcelain pitcher into teacups and coaxed her girls to her. “It has been a harrowing day. We will not await the cessation course to seek our rest. Let’s have milk and toast, then off to bed. Lyra, you, too, please. I’ve something to speak to you about before we sleep.”
Cautiously, Lyra followed her cousins, sitting where her aunt directed. There were just enough place settings and chairs for each of them. The absence of a fifth that would’ve accommodated Lustacia tugged at everyone’s emotions. It reflected vividly in Lyra’s cousins’ red, swollen eyes and puckered lips as they nibbled the iced raisin bread on their plates. Lyra sipped milk to ease her stomach, unable to bring herself to eat. The creamy warmth seeped into her bones, though she still couldn’t relax.
Griselda touched her daughters’ heads in a comforting gesture. “We’ll have no more tears today. They are for those who are weak and hopeless. But we . . . we are powerful, and we have hope.” She left the table. Her gown’s train dragged across the rugs on her trek toward the birdcages. “What say we have some music?”
“Is that why you brought our pet birds from the aviary?” asked Avaricette while licking white icing from her crust. “Are they to sing our sadness away?”