Blood, Milk & Chocolate - Part 1 (The Grimm Diaries Book 3) (5 page)

8

The Schloss

Lucy was
waiting in the Schloss.

She
thought it was a perfect place to read the Queen of Sorrow's diary. She would
be alone in an abandoned castle that most residents of Sorrow didn't have the
heart to approach. She had made up her mind to break the Queen's rule and read
the diary herself. Lucy didn't know how she dared do it, but the more her eyes
itched, the more she felt confident enough to risk her life with this.
What
is the Queen going to do?
Lucy thought with a sinister grin on her lips. If
someone as powerful as Carmilla couldn't get the diary herself, Lucy had to
assume the Queen had a weak spot. She didn't know what it was, but it was the
kind of weakness that led her to ask someone like Lucy to go get the diary for
her.

Foolishly,
Lucy was going to take advantage of her.

Lucy's
plan to read the diary wasn't really a plan. It was pure impulsiveness and
curiosity. She'd decided she'd read the diary and learn all about the Queen's
secrets, and maybe blackmail her for it later. If this was a Book of Sand you
could only read once in a lifetime, what was the price you'd pay to the one
girl who'd read it in this lifetime?

But Lucy
wasn't doing this alone, as she hadn't been trained for such adventures. She
was waiting for the one person she knew she could manipulate and use. That
person was entering the castle right now.

"Axel."
Lucy frowned. "What took you so long?"

Axel
stepped slowly into the castle. Although he'd been here many times, the Schloss
hadn't been kind to either of them. It could rumble and shake any moment if it
didn't like what they were doing.

"It
took me some time to put Pickwick in a cage." He walked to the middle of
the castle with its high ceiling, and showed her the cage covered in a blanket.

Lucy
pulled the blanket right away, happy at the sight of Pickwick, who was curled
into a fetal position with closed eyes.

"I
think he is scared," Axel said. "I really feel awful doing this to
him."

"But
why?" Lucy turned and licked her lips, looking at him. She shot him with
the least of the seductive gazes she had used on her boyfriends before
ensnaring them. "You did this for me, didn't you?" She wrapped her
arms around his neck.

Axel
shrugged so loudly it echoed in the castle. His eyes, although he wanted to
look at her, darted to the left and right nervously. Lucy knew his kind of
schoolboy, who had probably never even kissed a girl yet.

"I
think so," he managed to say. Lucy saw he wished to wrap his arms around
her waist but hesitated, so she took them and placed them
there
herself. "But I'm seriously breaking Charmwill and Loki's trust by doing
this."

"It's
worth it." Lucy neared her mouth to his. She wasn't going to kiss him, not
if he owned the Treasures of Solomon. The trick was to promise him something
and never give it to him, or how would she have caught Pickwick? "I'm
worth it," she added with a seductive look.

"I am
also breaking Fable and Shew's trust," he said, licking his lips.

"But
they will all thank you when you know the Queen's secrets later," Lucy
said. "Sometimes people don't know what they want. But you do."

"I
do?"

"That's
why I have always liked you."

"You
did?"

Lucy
nodded, still biting her lips. Axel's face reddened, his cheeks ballooning as
he neared her, longing for a kiss. It puzzled Lucy how he just took the bait.
If she had liked him then why had she treated him so badly in school? Didn't it
even cross his mind? She pulled away and returned to her serious face again.
"Now, we need to open the cage," she demanded. Pickwick let out a
feeble sound of misery. "You will have to hold the stupid parrot still as
I turn it into a Book of Sand."

Axel
followed the orders immediately, trying to avoid Pickwick's blaming eyes.
"We just need to do this, Picky." He faked a smile as he opened the
cage. "The Queen's secrets are important to us."

Pickwick
struggled against Axel's grip, trying to free himself. He also looked like he
wanted to tell them something. Lucy saw but didn't care. If he was supposed to
tell them something then why did Charmwill turn him into a mute parrot?

"Grip
him harder, Axel," Lucy demanded. "Or we'll lose the most precious
information I ever came across."

Axel did,
trying to look away from Pickwick again, or his heart would melt and he'd let
him go. "I wanted to ask you something," he told Lucy. "If
you're so infatuated with the Queen of Sorrow, then why are you reading her
diary?"

"I'm
infatuated with her because I want to be like her," Lucy said. "If I
have a diary that will teach me how to be like her, then I have no use for
Carmilla anymore."

"That's
some wicked logic," Axel murmured. Lucy knew Axel wasn't on the Queen's
side by any means. He only did this because he couldn't believe Lucy
Rumpelstein had called him and told him she liked him. Lucy was planning to get
rid of him once she read the diary. "You know Charmwill called Pickwick
the Book of Beautiful Lies, right?"

"Yes,
Carmilla told me. Why?"

"I
mean, anything written in here could be only lies," Axel remarked.

"Nah."
Lucy cocked her head. "Carmilla told me it was one of Charmwill's tricks.
He called it that so people would think they are lies." Lucy had asked the
Queen of Sorrow all she needed to know this morning. "In reality, Pickwick
holds the truth of all fairy tales. That's why Charmwill had him muted, I
think."

"That's
news to me. How are we going to turn Pickwick into a book, then?"

"The
Queen told me that too." Lucy grinned. "Just hold the damn parrot
tight." She looked the poor Pickwick in the eyes and said, "
Tic to
tic
tac
toc!
" knocking on the parrot's beak
with each syllable.

Suddenly,
Pickwick's eyes turned to stone and his body contracted. His wings turned into
two folds of a book, and his beak into an obsidian lock, which Lucy knocked on,
using the same words to open it.

Axel stood
with glaring eyes, enchanted by the magic. Instantly, he went to flip through
the pages, but Lucy stopped him.

"What
are you doing?" she snarled. "These are pages of sand. You can read
them only once in a lifetime."

"But
how are we going to find the Queen of Sorrow's diary?"

"She
told me how to." Lucy pouted and snatched the Book of Beautiful Lies from
him. She waved her palm over the open book and said, "Jawigi."

Axel was
obviously impressed by the connection. He watched the book turn its pages,
stopping at one page. Lucy neared it and read:

Carmilla
Karnstein's diary, written on Hallows' Eve 1803.

Lucy's
heart pounded, and she exchanged glances with Axel. "You can go now,"
she told him.

"What?
Why?" he said. "You're not planning to read it alone. Besides, I
could help with analyzing a lot of secrets. You know I am good at it."

Lucy
thought about it for a moment and sighed. "All right." She turned her
eyes back to the book, took a deep breath, and turned the first page. She began
reading:

9

The Queen's
Diary

All
Hallows' Eve,

10th
Year in the Reign of King Angel Von Sorrow.

1803 AD in
the Waking World.

1 Day
until the Eclipse.

Dear
diary,

Sitting
here in my royal chamber, I am trying to force my trembling hands to keep on
writing, for what I am about to carve on paper is full of sadness and sorrow
and surprises I don't think anyone can truly comprehend—or believe.

All night,
I have been staring at the full moon outside my castle's window. My desire was
to "meditate"—a spiritual practice my husband, Angel Von
Sorrow, taught me a long time ago. It means to relax and clear one's thoughts
for a few minutes so that you feel at ease with yourself in spite of all the
pressure surrounding you. Angel used to call it Chanta, and practiced it alone
in the forest when he needed to stifle the urge of sucking someone's blood and
fully transforming into a ruthless vampire like his father.

I needed
to meditate so I can stand the suffering and sorrow of the words I am about to
write. I will try to document my story as vividly and honestly as possible—if
there is such a thing as a "true story"; we all know that we unconsciously
insert our own lies and inaccurate memories in every tale we tell.

And where
better to look up to when meditating but the moon.
The
beautiful moon of the Kingdom of Sorrow.

Dear moon,
for the sake of all the secrets we share, please shine your light on me as I am
confessing this. I am in desperate need of all the light I can get tonight.
Please strengthen me through this diary and gift me with the bravery to finish
it.

I don't
know who I am writing this diary for, and I have no idea who will have
possession of it in case I don't come back from what I am about to do. I am not
even sure this diary is intended for anyone to read. Maybe I just need to write
the words down to help me with my decision. The truth in us is usually blurry
and hazy until documented on paper. Writing those words should help me see
clearer and understand how I came to be
who
I am.

I hope I
will find some wisdom and meaning in my writing. That's what diaries are for,
really. The mind is a tricky collateral of realities, a forest of memories and
perceptions where one's identity could be lost. Written words stick—sharper
than swords that cut our souls open like a book of blood. Once you're open,
there is nothing left to hide. A renowned writer in our kingdom once said,
"There is nothing to writing; you only sit down and bleed."

I believe
him sincerely.

In this
diary, I shall capture the essence of what happened to me from the beginning.
Not all grand questions will be answered, though, because this one is about me.
Only me.
The
me
I have always sacrificed.

This is
about the origins of things, how they came to be.

It amazes
me when someone dismisses the origins of any tale. How can you judge a story,
or a character in it, without learning about their beginnings? How can you
judge me, the Queen of Sorrow, without knowing what I have been through?

I can feel
the Schloss's walls closing in on me, suffocating me with intolerable memories,
unimaginable events, and unforgivable doings. There is darkness creeping up on
these walls, like a sneaking shadow that has been dimming my world eternally,
year after year. I feel like I am trapped inside a whale that is never going to
forgive my sins and let me go.

To tell
the truth, it's not only my memories that have been cursed—it's my future
as well. I am writing this now because of a heart-wrenching event that is about
to happen.

An event I
can't speak of now.

All I can
say is that in a few hours, when the clock strikes midnight, I will have to do
something horrible, unimaginable, and truly unforgivable, something that will
not only paint the portrait of my fate, but the fate of the Kingdom of Sorrow.

If you
were in my dilemma, what would you choose?
A lesser evil to
contain the damage, or a greater one to end the whole mess for once and for
all?

As in all
cases, let's start from the beginning: the day the world welcomed me into its
web of deceit.

10

The day I
was born, a single red apple grew on a juniper tree in our castle's garden.

A
Blood Apple.

It was a
rare fruit; the most sought after in Europe at the time.
An
apple of unmatched sweetness and unearthly ripeness.
Some claimed it
could cure the sick and enrich the poor, grant children to the sterile, and
keep the soul guarded from demonic possessions. Its rarity and taste made it
comparable with gold and diamonds, if they were edible. There was a well-known
saying: "
A Blood Apple a day keeps all Sorrow away.
" Few
people knew why the word "sorrow" had always been capitalized in this
sentence. I learned why many years later.

The
single, delicious Blood Apple that grew on my birthday was even
rarer
. This one was the
first
to grow in my homeland,
Styria, in seven years.

A nameless
witch—we did not speak her name—had cursed my homeland in Western
Europe many years before. Every time a tree gave birth to an apple, it came out
grey, rotten, and infested with worms. No amount of magic or prayers managed to
lift up the curse. They said the witch was the mother of all witches, that she
was darker than the darkest shades of night. For reasons beyond me, she had
cursed us with no intention to relieve us from her wicked omen, ever.

All of
this changed the day I blossomed from my mother's womb into this life. No one
knew how it was possible, or why it happened. Everyone said I was going to be a
special princess who'd prosper and grow and maybe rule Styria one day.

The
servants in our castle drooled at the sight of the single red and ripe apple.
They stared at it as if it were the fountain of youth that could quench their
thirst and wet their seven-years-long dried souls. Some of the servants sank to
their knees and thanked Pomona, the Goddess of Fruits whom no one had ever
seen, for her blessings.

But only
fools thanked Pomona, for the rest of our land knew it was
me
who had
saved them. I possessed the power to defy "the witch whose name we don't
speak."

The birth
of me, Carmilla Karnstein, daughter of Theodora and Philip II, was a miracle
like no other in centuries. I came to this world with a revelation, a sign, and
some kind of rapture:
the first Blood Apple in seven years.

Little did
I know then that it wasn't a lucky
coincidence, that
I
wasn't just a fairy tale made up by the poor and wishful peasants of Europe.
How would I have known that I was part of the universe's plan in an eternal
feud between good and evil?

The
arrival of a beautiful child, the blossoming of apples, and the end of a curse
were only a prelude to an epic tale of love and sorrow.

***

My mother,
the beautiful but stubborn countess Theodora Goldstein, later told me why they
called it a Blood Apple. Although no one was exactly sure why, there had been
many stories told. One of them suggested the reason was the red and juicy
insides of the apples. Some said ancient tribes killed each other and spilled
blood to get their hands on it.

This was
the kind of apple that had not only lifted a seven-year-old curse, it had
secured a safer economy for the land of Styria, which had been struggling,
almost starving, in the previous years of drought and never-ending snowstorms—probably
the nameless witch's doing too.

Before
that, Styria's economy had mostly relied on exporting apples.

There was
also this one last folk story that didn't make much sense to me, my mother told
me. It was about a boy named Pyramus and a girl named Thisbe who had been in
love, opposing their parents, two feuding families who couldn't stand each
other. They lived in Ancient Greece when apples were still white fruits—a
reality few historians know about. Later, in unusual circumstances, Thisbe
killed herself after mistakenly thinking Pyramus had poisoned himself. Thisbe
took her own life with a dagger. It was said the blood spattered all over the
apples on the trees nearby, and that the gods honored their True Love by turning
apples red until Judgment Day. Those first apples were Blood Apples.

"Many
years later," my mother had told me, "a man named Shakespeare stole
the story, only he called it
Romeo and Juliet
. Just like he stole most
of his other stories."

"But
the servants say Shakespeare is the greatest writer of all time," I had
protested.

"The
peasants know very little, Carmilla," she had said. "Always remember
that the truth is usually stranger than fiction, and that the greatest trick
the devil ever pulled was to make you think he was someone else."

Although I
was too young for my mother's deep warnings, I still loved the Shakespeare
story. I loved it even more that I was connected to the Blood Apples in one way
or another, thus connected to a great love story—years later, some
fortune-teller told me a similar story would repeat itself in my Kingdom of
Sorrow, but I haven't witnessed that yet.

A few days
after my birth, Blood Apples began to grow everywhere in Styria—so
frequently that trees almost bent over like hunchbacks under the heavy weight.

Noble
families from all over Europe crossed hundreds of miles on their majestic
carriages to visit the House of Karnstein, only to lay eyes upon my little
figure cradled in a royal crib.

I had
small, chubby arms and feet, and even fat cheeks—I was generously fed.
Mostly apples, of course.

My smile,
my golden hair, and my blue eyes were said to glitter like stars. Poets wrote
about my reddened cheeks, which they described as "flowery red, like Blood
Apples." The servants said I was always surrounded by an unseen aura, that
angels were protecting me.
Again, angels that smelled of ripe
apples.

They said
my presence was my greatest charm, though. Even as a child, it took one's
breath away. No queen or countess stood before me without feeling it. I was the
presence of a miracle, a child capable of ending a wicked curse with its birth.
A child that turned a land, once forgotten, into a paradise of shimmering red
bulbs dangling from trees—the apples were so shiny and glowing that
travelers used them for guidance through the forest in the murky nights.

But
beneath the linen of happiness lay a sinister secret no one wanted to talk
about.

No one
wondered why no other baby was born in Styria the day I crawled into existence.
No one questioned why the seven other mothers expecting babies only gave birth
to
stillborns
.

Instead of
investigating the matter in a time in history where the supernatural was always
considered, the royal visitors who came to see me wished I'd conjure luck and
prosperity for their lands. They thought that wiggling my small toe would equal
what you'd expect from a magic wand, that a touch of my hand enchanted them,
and that my smile would bless their souls and dry soil.

I was a
holy princess in the cradle, almost as holy as a high priestess or prophet. I
was a genuine mystery, even to myself.