Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales by Sharon Lynn Fisher

Author:Sharon Lynn Fisher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Loveswept
Published: 2016-07-19T04:00:00+00:00

An Ancient Curse

I consider myself a student of human behavior, and I did in fact study the workings of the brain, such as we know of them, when I was attending university in Massachusetts. This—combined with the inquisitive turn of my own mind, and a growing sense that I somehow know this gentleman—has rendered me perhaps less fearful than one should feel under such circumstances.

I am, however, no less eager to escape him. And since my knowledge of druidism is no more than academic, I must find some way other than walking out the door.

Rising to my feet, I examine the small chamber. It’s comfortably furnished, with a narrow bed—the sort a child or nun might sleep in—a wardrobe, a writing desk and chair, and a squat stove with an ample supply of turf bricks stacked beside it. The stove is lit, its pipe carrying smoke up the wood-paneled wall to the ceiling, emptying through what I imagine to be another hole to the outside world. As none of the hole shows around the end of the pipe, I deem it too small to permit my frame to pass through. The layer of rock might be thin enough to chip away, but even had I a proper tool, I would not be able to reach the ceiling. Not even standing upon the desk.

I circle round once more, sighing in frustration, and finally give up the idea of a quick escape.

Upon the desk rests a tea tray, steam rising from the spout of a chipped, cornflower-patterned teapot. Upon the bedcovers is draped a dark gown, which I presume is the aforementioned change of clothes. Fashioned neck to toe from what look to be stiff and scratchy fabrics, it is not a garment I would ever choose for myself, unless perhaps I was mourning the death of a family member.

As the chamber is overwarm, I elect instead to reposition the standing screen between the doorway and the stove, strip down to my corset and petticoat, and dry myself before the fire. I pour a cup of tea, doubling my preferred amount of milk and sugar to keep up my strength, and settle upon a cushioned stool. Watching the steam rise from my overcoat, which I spread over the back of the desk chair, I try to clear my mind. My brain has been a powerful ally for many years, but in cases like the present, when apprehension threatens to overwhelm sense, I find it is best to take that organ in hand. Or at least to try.

When I’ve finished my tea, I remove my maligned headgear and comb my fingers through my curls so they, too, will dry.

The little stove is industrious and efficient, and by the time I hear footsteps approaching, I am nearly dry. Due to the uselessness of my timepiece I’m not sure how long it’s been, but I think more than the promised quarter of an hour.

“Are you settled, Miss Kirk?” asks Mr. Ambrose from the other side of my screen.

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