Gathering Frost (Once Upon A Curse Book 1) (7 page)

"I knew you wouldn’t take the knife," he murmurs, voice like a lullaby that releases me, frees me until I am drifting in the beyond.

And then bright dreams take hold.

I don't know how long the fever continues.

All I know is that the world has become a series of flickering pictures I do not fully understand. Dreams that fold in and out of each other, interrupted by a reality that seems imaginary. I see my mother watching over me, brushing my hair from my sweaty forehead, kissing me goodnight. I see the queen watching me with victory in her eyes, triumphant smile on her lips. I see the commander looking on stoically as I am given special honors. I see the world through free eyes, I see my paintings come to life, I see an endless horizon waiting for me.

And then there are times when I see the prince. His eyes dark and deep with concern, skin like moonlight. He says words I do not hear, cannot register. He feeds me, forces liquid down my throat and food into my empty stomach.

Beyond him, the stars sparkle.

Even now, my eyes flicker, coming to wakefulness but I do not know if this is yet another dream or if my sickness is finally over.

The darkness behind my lids is almost comforting. There is a nothingness that feels safe, soothing compared to the madness I've been living these past few days. Weeks? I don't know.

Without opening my eyes, I groan and stretch my muscles. They ache too much for this to be anything but real. My arms extend overhead, and my fingers hit stone. Smooth stone. Too flat to be natural.

I sit up, forcing my lightheadedness aside, and realize there are cushions below me. Perhaps a mattress.

"You should rest," a familiar voice says. Slowly, dropping my weary head into my palms, I open my eyes toward the sound.

The prince sits next to me in a lush chair, expression full of concern, but I am too curious to bother responding. Instead, my eyes wander.

Below us, a woven rug lines a concrete floor. I am sitting in a bed, body kept warm by thick blankets decorated with bright flowers that are far too feminine for my taste. A door rests closed beyond the foot of the mattress, a door and not bars. But still, I will not fool myself. This is prison—pretty, but nonetheless a cell.

There are no windows, I realize, even though curtains hang along the walls, covering up dull gray stone—flat like what I felt behind me. A subtle blue glow fills the room, unnatural, not from a fire.

I gasp.

It's not possible.

My hand rises to cover my mouth, and my feet begin to work on their own. Tired legs force me to stand, slip from the bed, and make their way to the center of the room. I do not stop until I am directly below the source of the light, basking in its glow.

A light bulb.

Electricity. 

It's different from the round globes I remember. This glass is twisted into an oval, emitting a cool tone.

I swallow a shaky breath as my hands tremble, reaching up.

"I wouldn't…"

But I ignore Asher. I need to feel it. To touch it. To make sure it is real.

My fingers barely brush the glass and it burns, stinging fire into my skin. I rest there for a second, embracing the heat, before snatching my hand back. My eyes have started to go blind from staring so directly at the source, but I am entranced. I cannot look away.

"Pretty cool, right? Scared the crap out of me the first time I saw a light bulb."

The words pull me in and I switch my gaze, staring now at the prince. "How? When?"

The grin on his face widens at my surprise, and he leans forward, animated. "Welcome to life outside of Queen Deirdre's realm. I don't think they ever lost the electricity out here. It's been on for as long as I can remember."

"Where are we?" I stumble back, unsteady, memories flashing before my eyes. Memories of my cityscape brightly lit against a black sky, of my books illuminated by the pink lamp on my nightstand, of my mother's face in a warm yellow glow just before she kissed me goodnight.

My legs hit the bed and my weight falls back, landing with an oomph on the mattress as my mind spins.

"Far enough away that the queen's magic can’t touch us."

I meet his gaze, pit clumping in my stomach. The prince might think that, but even if the lights work, I am never free. I feel her still, ice in my veins, watching me.

He keeps talking, not at all discouraged by my silence. "We're in the rebel base, as you would call it. It's an underground complex." His thumb points over his shoulder at the bare wall. "No windows. There's an old town above us, abandoned buildings that act as a good cover to keep us a secret. Each roof has solar panels that trap the sun and turn the energy into the electricity that powers this place." He shrugs. "I don't much understand it, but it's something like that, I think."

I nod. My mouth is still too dry for words, but I remember reading something about that in my books, different forms of energy—wind, solar, coal. Others still. The information is trickling back into awareness.

The silence is broken as the prince laughs suddenly, a barking sound that escapes his lips against his will.

"I'm sorry," he says between chuckles, "but if you could see your face right now." He shakes his head, falling back into the chair, watching me, mirthful. "Flip the switch, I dare you."

I follow the flick of his eyes toward the door and see a small box on the wall. In its center rests a circular button. Hesitant, I look back at him, encouraged by his confidence. And then I stand, walking across the space until my fingers rests on the plastic.

I lick my lips. Swallow.

Click.

The darkness is immediate and thick. The prince, the walls, the room. All of it disappears until I almost wonder if I am back in the fever dreams. Except I look up, watching as the light bulb slowly continues to fade out. The ceiling has a slight blue glow. It is the only thing I can see in this forever night, but even that begins to putter out. The halo shrinks, closing in, slipping through my fingers.

Click.

The light bursts back to life, shocking my eyes, but with it, something stirs inside me. A tingle scatters down my limbs as a grin comes to my face, an emotion I can't place. Mild warmth fills my bones, fighting against the chill. It feels foreign, as unnatural as the lights.

Click.

Darkness again.

Click.

Bright lights shine on.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I continue until my eyes begin to hurt, but my laughter fills the room, mixing with the prince, making a sort of music I thought had been lost to me forever.

On.

The prince sits in his chair, doubled over.

Off.

He disappears.

On.

Asher is standing now, eyes glowing like the light bulb above our heads, magical.

Off.

He is gone.

On.

He is closer, only a few feet away, arms on either side to keep his balance in this ever-changing atmosphere.

Off.

I breathe deeply, wondering what sight will greet my eyes next.

On.

Asher is right next to me, hand coming on top of mine, warm, stopping me from turning the lights off again. My throat closes, and I am trapped by his eyes, held captive by the stars that glow there. We both pause. But somehow it seems like we're conversing, as though the touch of our skin is communicating in a way that words cannot.

I break the moment, stepping back, pulling my hand free, letting my insides freeze over once more. I don't stop until I am back at the bed, far away, enough distance between us for my head to stop spinning.

He is the sun and now my limbs grow cold again. Winter seeps into my skin, but I am more comfortable this way, more like myself, more like the Jade I have come to know. I'm not sure whom that girl was, playing, smiling, laughing.

It was not me.

I am stoic, controlled, hard.

I am not the girl who creates music. I am the one who silences it.

My expression clears as my facial features fall into their normal state, relaxed and empty. I clench my fists, open them, close them again.

Finally, I look back to the switch.

Asher is watching me. A frown bends his face, twists it in a way I know is unnatural to him.

I force myself not to care.

He coughs, slipping his weight from the wall, clearing his features so I cannot read them. But he stays by the door, cautious.

"I should probably get back to work." He sighs, shrugging his shoulders and slipping his hands into the worn pockets of his jeans.

"Okay. Go ahead," I say. My tone is ambivalent, uncaring.

"Someone will bring you dinner and some snacks, and I'll be back to check on you…" He trails off, waiting.

"Okay."

He nods to himself, a subtle move. His fingers wrap around the door handle, and I hold my breath, stilling myself, biting back a protest.

He turns his back on me, walking out the door.

But then he stops, twisting back around.

"Oh, one more thing," Asher's voice is soft. His eyes do not meet mine but glance toward the corner of the room. "I brought you some books. Way better than encyclopedias."

And then he is gone.

I stare at the wooden panel until my heart slows to a steady beat, its normal melodic pace. Then I stand, test the handle, feel no surprise when the knob does not budge. I am trapped, stuck. The rebels do not trust me.

Smart.

Even I do not trust me.

With a sigh, I push off from the door and step to the small stack of books in the corner. Without a doubt, they are the sort to contain made up stories filled with make-believe characters. Small, with bindings that have creases from being flipped through so many times, the shape is completely different from the heavy volumes I'm used to.

I sit down, folding my legs over one another, as I grab the first book. The cover holds the image of a man dressed entirely in dark clothes, almost as though he were a Black Heart, and hanging on his arm is woman in a pink flowing gown. They seem lost in the woods. She seems in need of rescuing. I read the title,
The Princess Bride
, and put it aside for later. I am no princess, and I am not interested in a damsel in distress.

The next depicts a boy dressed in green, seemingly flying through the air, followed by other children. A girl and two boys maybe.
Peter Pan
, I read. But I have no interest in reading about more magic.

After that, a title called
Twelfth Night
. I flip it open, but the language confounds my mind, so I put it aside until a time when I can force myself into such concentration. Right now, I'm distracted. Half of my thoughts wander with the prince, down these halls and away from me, useless.

I continue reading titles.
Pride and Prejudice. The Count of Monte Cristo. Romeo and Juliet. The Great Gatsby. Robinson Crusoe. Harry Potter.

On and on it goes, until I sit surrounded by lives I could easily pretend to live for a few hours, to escape with, a sort of freedom. And there is a sense of curiosity about what I would discover, a feeling that has never been there before. It fills my emptiness with intrigue.

At the end of the pile, the last volume catches my attention. The size is flat and narrow, not a novel. The cover depicts a woman who looks to be asleep, golden hair curling around a wonderfully serene face.
The Sleeping Beauty
.

I open the first page and realize it is an art book of sorts, a children's picture book. My mother used to read them to me, but I cannot recall the tales. All I know is the story will be told through wonderful images, paintings like the ones I used to decorate my room. In this foreign space, the familiarity comforts me. So I lean back against the wall, cradling this volume against my thighs.

In the first spread, I meet a king and queen. Elegant and beautiful, they seem peaceful in a way no queen I have ever known has. In the woman's arms, a tiny baby girl, adorable and smiling, eyes green like mine.

I flip the page, continuing as a series of gifts are presented to the little girl. Beauty. Musicality. Grace. All things I have never had a need for, all gifts that seem frivolous to me, until the last—death. But I turn the page, and the baby girl is saved, the curse is softened to sleep, a long sleep.