“I should go,” I whispered to Francis, setting the still full goblet on the table. “I’m sorry.”
Before he could reply, my legs carried me out of the ballroom, all the way up the stairs.
Up and up, until there was nowhere else to go.
The stairs ended abruptly, turning into a narrow corridor with a small wooden door waiting at the end.
The old floors creaked as my legs carried me towards the opening. The door screeched at my touch.
Blinded by the moonlight, my heart beat faster from its beauty.
Every wall of this tiny room was a window that reached the floor. The ceiling was made out of clear glass, allowing the moonshine to dance in its stained paintings.
I dropped to the floor; my knees crying from the impact, yet the pain was numbed by the beauty of the Moon.
Glorious.
I reached out for the shine to dance on my gloved hands, each color reflecting on the ivory fabric.
The Moon smiled down at me, despite my hatred towards her unkindness.
The music could not be heard from here, yet it still played in my mind, spinning my head drunk.
The skies were clear of storms, the cold winter retreated its spells for the night. I lay on the cold floor, counting the stars. When I reached a hundred, the door creaked open.
“There you are,” Francis lay beside me, the moonlight playing upon his sharp cheekbones.
“What are you doing here?” My voice turned hoarse. “You should be celebrating.”
“I would rather be here.” He glanced at me through his long lashes. “Besides, my dancing partner is up here, and it was decided it was time for dance.” When I stayed silent Francis cleared his throat. “I sent the letter to Barren last night,” his voice dropped a few octaves. “He usually takes his time with a reply, but expect to go to Silverstone next week.” His voice shone with disapproval.
“It’s better than breaking into the palace with a map older than the dawn of time,” I argued.
“I thought you were desperate to break into the palace just a week ago.”
I still was; not without a plan, however.
“I cared not for my own life.” I managed a shrug.
“Do you care for your life now?” Francis asked softly.
“Not if it’s a necessary death,” I admitted.
“Your death can never be necessary." Francis’ fingers reached for my cheek. His skin touched mine for a brief moment before he retreated, as though remembering himself.
I swallowed as our small proximity crashed upon me, squeezing my lungs tight.
As though reading my thoughts, Francis sat up, putting some distance in between us. “I brought you some cake.”
The dark brown piece of cake sat on a crystal plate, small strawberries decorated its top. The human blood spilling over it spun my head; nausea slowly crept in alongside the demanding, evil beast.
“I don't fancy sweets.” I averted my gaze from the dessert, breathing through my mouth.
“Oh, no?” Francis’ lips curved. “I will make sure we have no sweets on your birthday, then.” He winked, though his eyes darkened, seeing through my weak lies. “When is your birthday?”
“Right after the harvest.” I cleared my throat, fighting with the beast that corrupted my thoughts one by one.
“I always fancied autumn’s full Moons.” Francis nodded, taking a spoonful of cake. “They have this reddish hint to them that reminds me of my father’s eyes.” Francis’ lips tugged into a smile at the memory.
