Forever (Book #3 in the Fateful Series) (35 page)
Note from Cheri: The Fateful Trilogy is simply Ethan and Danielle’s story, but many of your favorite side characters will get a chance to tell their own.
In the Fateful Series:
- Sophia’s Cookbook for Mortals
- Maximilian: A novella on how Max met Nadia.
- Becoming Cursed: A novella on how Beon became a vampire and then courted Sophia.
- The Black Prince: A novella on your favorite surly prince.
- Fair Maiden
- The Trapping Club
- The Mistaken Reformer
Chapter 1
Fair Maiden
Drawing a breath, she frowned. It seemed she did not feel the air entering her lungs.
She rubbed her eyes, opened them and then stretched, arching upward. Still, she felt nothing. No bunching of muscles, no friction of her fists upon her eyelids. The frown deepened.
How odd
, she thought.
Looking up at the beautiful, though unfamiliar, canopy bed she rested in, she sighed for it was exquisite. The posts were carved with ornate depictions of faeries frolicking. Green vines, green
living
vines with purple blooms grew up the dark wooden posts. How were they thriving without soil to grow in? Enchanted perhaps?
Hanging from the beams above the bed was sheer fabric that had been wrapped and gathered so it billowed to the floor in flowing puddles of white linen.
But what stunned her the most, were the living butterflies fluttering about the blossoms, and fireflies that twinkled as they danced around the grand bed. She felt as though she was nestled in a magical forest setting fit for a faerie princess, except this setting was
inside
.
Where am I?
she wondered.
Putting out her hand, she meant to gather the silken sheets and pull them aside to get out of the bed. But—she could not touch them. She looked down, feeling quite perplexed, and her eyes widened when she noticed there was no lump where her body should be. Horrified now, she scrambled from the bed to stand at the foot of it, only to realize with another cry that her feet were not upon the floor, but floating inches from it.
“I-I’m dead?” she whispered, the shock of it snatching her voice.
Peering down at her transparent self, she exhaled and managed, “Wait…
Who
am I?” She lifted one hand in front of her face and looked through it. Questions filled her mind. How did she die? Would she not recall such a thing? And why had she not moved on? Why had she not seen the light and gone to the afterlife? Or
is
this Heaven? This chamber was as lovely as she’d always hoped Heaven would be.
“No, it cannot be,” she said quickly. Would not her ancestors be here to welcome her? And she’d thought that celestial place was not a
bedchamber
. She worried for a moment that she could be in Hell instead, but then shoved that thought aside as well. This chamber was far too nice for it to be that terrible place. She must be one of those poor souls trapped between the two, but why, and how?
Sunlight painted the room from the only window in the chamber. She stepped toward it, but then watched in awe as she glided forward. Her momentum halted just in front of it and she peered out wondering if the view would help her recall where she was.
She discovered she was in a grand castle cresting the top of a hill. A thick forest darkened the land in the distance. Much of the scene consisted of green grasses lined with hedges that needed a trim, and roses appearing to have gone wild. Yellow and green ribbons of farmland radiated from houses sprinkled along the bottom right side of the hill. But even after studying the landscape, it did not help her recall this place.
Ivy had climbed its way up to this bedchamber within a tall turret. She could see four more towers from this perspective. Whilst this grand palace was a lovely stone structure, she still could not recollect ever living here, or traveling here. And it was too quiet. Far too quiet.
There was
some
noise, just not the right noises. Birds chirped in the trees and she could hear the skittering and buzzing of insects. A breeze whistled around the structure, but there was no sound of human life. No creak of the floors as people moved about the enormous castle, no gardener tending to the landscaping, no farm animals.
Drawing her attention from the view, she moved back to the bed. On it was a piece of parchment she had not noticed before. Three words were written in a scrolling script upon it.
You are loved.
Was this message for her? She hoped it was. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought back tears.
Dead
. She opened her eyes and refocused on the paper. Dead, but loved. Those three words soothed her trembling soul. A little.
Her gaze slid to the door. She glided to it and reached for the handle, then withdrew her hand. “Well, I cannot open it that way,” she muttered as she noticed she could see the knob through her fingers.
She studied the door for a moment. A carved diamond pattern embellished the surface of the wood. The door was further adorned with long, ornate hinges and a decorative handle.
After staring at the detail for several moments, she thought,
Perhaps I can do it with my mind
. Concentrating on opening the door, she gasped when the handle jiggled. She attempted again, again it moved, but the door would not open. Again, and again, and again she tried, then exhaled in frustration when she remained unsuccessful.
Once more she pondered it, pouting. Then, “Oh, how could I be so foolish?” she groaned aloud, just then realizing that ghosts, such as she appeared to be, can walk
through
doors.
She gathered her skirts and stretched one toe through the wood, as if testing the temperature of water. Her foot passed through as though the solid-looking substance was no more substantial than air. She withdrew her foot and then stretched it forth again, further this time. Nothing bad happened to her person. She felt no pain or resistance whatsoever. After another moment’s hesitation, she decided to follow with the rest of herself, only imagining at the last moment getting stuck inside the door. Forever.
When she emerged on the other side, she nearly collapsed with relief.
Here she found a wide hallway lined with more closed doors. She floated through each one finding many furnished bedchambers, but none occupied. However, when she came to the master chamber, she noticed that a man did live here, or had lived here. The wardrobe, which he had apparently not shut tightly enough, had swung open letting light from the window illuminate the contents. To her, the clothing inside appeared to be masculine in nature, though the tunics and braise were fashioned differently than she was accustomed to seeing…or what she
thought
she was accustomed to seeing. Strange how things such as this were almost within her reach, yet the past memories about herself felt so utterly vague.
No
, she thought,
’tis much more than that. ’Tis more like missing and lost within a dense fog.
She took a deep calming breath, though she did note the act of breathing appeared to be more habit than necessary. With one more sigh, she continued to explore the castle. She found that servants had also lived here as recently as the man. She then wondered how long she’d been here. How long had she been sleeping in that bed? And where was everyone?
After covering almost every inch of the deserted dwelling, she decided to head back toward her bedchamber, or at least she thought it was
hers
. She froze when she got a good view at the door from the outside. It looked like a wooden gate to a secret garden in which the plant life was sneaking its way through the cracks between the frame and door. Ivy and moss, and other blooming vegetation were fanning their way out from the edges. And it looked quite different from every other door in the demesne. Even the hinges were unique and the handle was placed and fashioned differently. It appeared older. Centuries older.
Lifting her hand, she reached for the handle. It irritated her that she could not physically touch it. With determination swelling in her chest, she dropped her hand, squared her shoulders and focused on the mechanism with her thoughts. It turned halfway. She tried again. This time as the handle twisted, she heard a small click and the door cracked open. Smiling now, she refocused her efforts and watched with joy as the door swung all the way back. Those ancient-looking hinges groaned in protest.
This room was the one she wanted to investigate more thoroughly, she pondered, as she glided into the odd spellbound chamber.
Perched above a narrow table on the left wall, which she had not noticed before, was an oval looking glass. She traveled to it, and gasped. She could see her reflection!
And she recognized the face, though she did not….
Leaning closer, she studied her phantom self. The golden dress she wore was quite pretty, and complimented her pallid complexion and pale pink lips. The square neckline was tightened with laces at the bust. The intricately embroidered fabric shimmered with her movement, and the blue and green colors of the embellishment picked up the flecks of color in her green eyes. Little pink-colored roses in the stitched design added more color. The skirt had many layers and a train in the back. This dress was formal, a gown.
Her blonde hair hung in natural waves around her shoulders. It drifted down past her hips. And it
was
drifting, moving actually, as if a breeze swept her body. Silk ribbons in many colors had been tied in her hair. She also noticed a lacey white veil.
A bridal veil.
“I was a bride?” A crease formed between her brows. “Did I die on the wedding night, or before?” She lifted her left hand, but found no wedding band there. “Before then. I am not yet wed.”
“…but how did I die?” she asked herself again. Without attempting to touch the glass, she lifted a hand, palm forward, to the reflection gazing back at her.
“Was I murdered?” Her hand began to shake as emotion gripped her, and a glistening tear trickled down her cheek. “Did the groom do it? Was it violent? Painful? Is that why I do not remember, because it was so horrific that I forced myself to forget?”
Shuddering, she felt as though someone was watching her. She spun away from the mirror to see if another person had entered the chamber, but saw no one. It did trouble her that she’d left the door wide open. After focusing on closing it, she startled herself when she managed to slam it shut.
With a resigned sigh, she slid to the bed. Feeling distressed, she wanted to reread the comforting words written upon the missive.
You are loved.
“Who left that here? And why?” She pouted and drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “And why did they not address it properly? A simple ‘to’ and ‘from’ would have been helpful.”
Using her thoughts, she tried to pick it up. The parchment rippled and then began floating from the bed, but just as it did, the edges started to crumble away. She dropped it before it was lost completely.
It is old
, she realized,
and has clearly been here for a very long time.
As I probably have, too….
Collapsing onto the bed, tears continued to roll down her face as she reached her translucent hands out and attempted to stroke—what she imagined to be—the petal-soft fabric with her fingertips.
And sobbed when she felt nothing.
“Why?” she asked the butterflies, who did not answer.
“Why have I not gone to Heaven, or even Hell?” Anger suddenly joined defeat, loneliness, and frustration. “And why is no one here for me to haunt? Oh, no,” she worried, “perhaps this is Hell.”
Days passed. She counted by the rise and fall of the sun. Today she was strolling, no,
floating
along a path that trailed past shrubs and a tall stone fence that appeared to be the edge of the property. Curious about what was on the other side of the wall; she slid toward it and stopped suddenly. She had not meant to stop, and realized as she bumped against something she could not see that she’d actually found a barrier. An invisible barrier. Running her hands along the solid nothingness, she tried to find an opening or an end to it, but it seemed there was none.
Her gaze caught onto the movement of a blue and tan swallow that flew from the hedge and over the wall.
