Sunlight streaming through curtains is what I open my eyes to. The bed feels different. The blankets covering me are softer and silkier than the cotton ensemble on my own bed. The canopy over my head tells me I’m back in the world from the journal.
A light knock sounds at the door and I quickly pull the covers to my chin, as if I can somehow hide myself with their soft protection. When the door opens, it’s the same woman who helped me get ready the night before. She’s carrying a tray with what looks like a teacup. There must be some kind of food on the tray as well, because I can see the steam rising up from my pathetic hiding place.
She comes to the bed and jerks her chin, motioning for me to move over on the bed. When I do, she sets the tray down on the side I have vacated and removes the covers on all the dishes. The smells coming from the breakfast tray have my stomach growling, and I think back to the dinner I shared in this world with a very grumpy beast.
As she turns to leave, I reach out and grab her wrist. “Stay,” I plead with a rasp, my voice not quite awake with my parched throat, “eat breakfast with me.”
“I can’t. It wouldn’t be proper.”
Unsure of what she could be talking about, I respond, “There is way too much food here for just me, I would hate to waste it. Please join me for breakfast. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” I release her wrist, allowing her to leave if she does feel it’s absolutely necessary.
She glances back to the door, looks at me, and nods her head once. Then she moves to the door and pushes it all the way closed.
While we eat, I attempt to get her to speak. But she seems content to sit in silence.
* * *
Once we’re finished with breakfast, she helps me get ready for my day. When I’m in this world, I feel like I’ve gone back in time. I’ve now learned how to use a chamberpot, something I had previously only seen in movies. Let me tell you, it’s just as hard as it looks and I wish for something even slightly more modern. Hell, I’d settle for an outhouse. Then again, an outhouse inside a mountain would be a little gross.
There is also the washstand to wash my face and hands. Really, the cleanliness of the journal world makes me cringe when I consider the creature comforts of my world. At least they have some kind of homemade soap to use.
She deems me presentable after getting me all layered and strapped into a much more casual dress than she had me in the previous night. Then she leaves me alone in the room, waving goodbye as she closes the door behind her.
It isn’t long before someone is knocking loudly on my door. Assuming it must be the butler man from before, I say, “Come in.” I regret my chipper tone as soon as I see the frowning face of my dinner companion from last night.
He doesn’t speak, a frown tugging at his eyebrows. The gesture is evidently common for him, judging by the frown lines that dominate his forehead.
“You really shouldn’t do that.”
He grunts in return, then holds out his arm the same way the butler man did for me.
I hesitate, not sure if spending more time with the angry king is the best use of my time in the strange world. He motions me to him with his hand, pointing to the floor next to him and holding out his arm again for me to take. The scowl on his face stays in place, totally not making me hesitate to move towards him.
Right, left, I move my feet forward. I repeat it in my head as I walk toward my grumpy companion. His eyes follow me on my slow trek across the floor of the room.
Right, left, in the time I’ve been here, he’s never spoken to me. The only sounds I’ve heard from him are grunts. The only look I’ve seen on his face is those grumpy facial expressions, but there was that one spectacular smile. I wonder how long he’s been here. How long must he have been in this castle to be so jaded?
Left, right, I remind myself this is a dream world. I can change the people around me, if only I knew how. Smile, just a little smile, I repeat over and over again, willing him to do anything more than frown at me. Can he read my mind in my dream world?
Left, right, the expanse between me and the grump seems to grow and grow. Probably because of the dread I feel in spending another meal with his grunts and frowns.
Right, left, after what seems like an eternity, I finally make it to him. I smile obscenely, hoping to crack his rough exterior to see his dimples again. His long brown hair is braided back today, his beard appears freshly trimmed. I look into his eyes, one brown and one what looks like an ice blue. I’ve never seen two different colored eyes in person before.
He extends his arm to me again, bent, awaiting my hand so we can go on whatever walk through the corridors he has planned for me today. Tentatively, as I look into his eyes, I start to raise my hand to rest in the crook of his arm. I gasp when I feel an immediate spark on contact. His intake of breath tells me that he felt it, too. He leads me through the doorway, closing the door behind us, and away we go.
* * *
I can’t help but keep up a constant stream of chatter. The tingles up and down my arm, stemming from the contact my hand has to the crook of his elbow, makes me even more nervous as we continue walking.
I ask all the questions that have run through my head since I woke up in this place what was last night in my world. Except the one question I want answered the most, how did he get those scars? So long in last night’s dream I spent traveling, waiting, not really getting to explore anything, that now that I have time with an actual human who can answer questions, I can’t stop them from flowing from my mouth.
I’ve asked several questions before realizing that he hasn’t answered a single one of them. Holding my tongue, I admire the artwork on the walls as we pass by. Along with portraits, there are also many scenes of the outdoors.
Finally, we’ve made it to the end of a long hallway with a door at the end. Two doormen nod to my escort before each taking their respective doors and opening them wide so we can make our way through. I nod as I pass by, not sure if saying “thank you” is appropriate in this dream world. Although, I can’t imagine it would be considered rude. It’s polite, right?
As soon as we step through the door, I notice the colors: red, pink, blue, yellow, and many others. The air is cool and my long blonde hair whips around the both of us. He releases my arm before gently taking my shoulders and moving me so I am standing in front of him, facing away from him.
Back and forth, my eyes dart as I take in the beautiful garden he’s brought us to. It’s still winter, but there’s a large clear dome over our heads. Some kind of fans are moving the air back and forth for circulation. This is some kind of large greenhouse, with every kind of flower I read about in the journal and so many more. Some I recognize from my world, and so many others I’ve never seen before.
I jerk away when I feel his hands in my hair. Turning around, I see he’s holding a leather cord. He gestures to my hair and then grabs my shoulders again, forcing me back into the position I was in a moment ago.
It’s weird to feel someone’s hands in my hair. Shivers run throughout my body at the feel of the strange king’s hands in my hair. But I recognize the feeling of his movements. My mother used to braid my hair when I was a child, anytime we were somewhere and it was windy. He makes quick work down the braid, clearly practiced in the art. It makes me wonder if he did his own hair today. When he finishes the braid, he secures it with the leather cord.
His fingers graze my neck. I gasp at the contact, warm, with that damn spark again. Goosebumps spring up on my arms, I move my hands up and down them, trying to get them to go away.
I slowly turn back around to face him. His face has relaxed, his hands are in his pockets, and he looks like a regular guy.
He turns and walks down an aisle of flowers, and I follow him. There is so much to see here, so many colors, so many flowers, so much beauty in the middle of winter. I am in awe of the entire garden.
Aisle after aisle, we walk side by side. He occasionally stops to pick a flower and he motions for me to turn as he places the flower in my braid. Neither of us speaks. It’s when we’re finally back at the entrance I say, “Thank you.”
He tilts his head to the side, a puzzled look on his face. I decide to answer the unspoken question.
“Thank you for bringing me here. Your garden is beautiful.”
There’s that smile, those dimples, and his eyes light up like I haven’t seen before. It takes years off his face and I decide to do what I can to keep the smile on his face.
He walks away from me, holding his pointer finger up, indicating to me he’ll be back in a moment. He grabs a pair of garden shears off a cart of other gardening supplies and moves toward a rose bush. The roses are a deep, beautiful red color. He cuts one, puts the scissors back on the cart, and hands me the rose with a flourish.
Tentatively, I reach out and grasp the stem of the rose. I bring it to my face and inhale the wonderful scent. It’s been a long time since someone has bought me flowers, let alone trimmed one off the bush themselves.
“Ouch,” I hiss, looking at the palm of my right hand, beads of blood already forming along the small cut on my hand. Automatically, I clench my hand into a fist, trying to hide the scratch. Something I used to do as a kid to keep my mom from finding out I was hurt.
His hand comes up and grazes the back of my injured one. Carefully, he grasps my wrist, and with his other hand, gently pries my fingers apart. Then he brings my hand up to his face to examine the wound, a frown marring his brow again.
He holds out his arm again for me to take and we make our way back inside the mountain. I’m not sure how he doesn’t get lost in this place, tunnels branch off in all directions. Finally, we come to what looks like a small medical facility. He leads me to a table and turns to me, placing his hands on my waist and lifting me to sit on the surface.
I watch his back and wide shoulders as he walks away and moves toward a cabinet, opening the door and looking through its contents. He returns to me with supplies to bandage my hand and sets them on the table next to me.
His eyes meet mine, and he holds out his hand, palm up. I place my injured hand in his and again unfurl my fingers so he can examine my hand once more.
The goosebumps appear again on both my arms and legs as he carefully tends to my wound. Cleansing the area with a wet cloth, he washes the area before drying it. Then, he carefully wraps it in gauze he ties off snugly, but not so tight as to cut off the circulation.
When he stands, turning to dispose of the used medical supplies, I jump down from the table. My good hand grasps the flat surface to steady myself after the slight drop. He spins around at the noise and moves back to my side.
We both look down as my stomach growls, loudly. “I guess we should make our way towards some lunch?” I suggest.
Taking my uninjured hand, he places it in the crook of his elbow again and we make our way out of the medical facility. I glance back and try to piece together the grouchy man I had dinner with before with this kind, gentle version.
We take so many turns and stairs I don’t know where we even started from, before we arrive at what appears to be a study.
I gasp when I see what’s inside. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled with more books than I’ve seen in anyone’s home, or any place really, except maybe a bookstore or library. I walk to one of the shelves and read the titles when I’m startled by a bell ringing. Turning, I see he is holding the bell, and shortly, one of the staff comes in with a tray of food.
They leave quickly and I move over to the tray, grabbing the first thing I can and shoving it in my mouth. The sound of a shocked laugh pulls me from my food-consuming distraction, and I look up to see him staring at me, a big smile on his face, and those dimples.
Carefully, I set down the food. “I’m so sorry. Is it improper for me to eat before you?”
He motions for me to go ahead, coming around to pull out my chair for me, and slowly pushing me in. He sits in a chair beside the table and grabs a plate from the tray to fill with his own lunch.
It’s now that I notice there are plates for us to use. Here I was eating like I was raised in a barn. My mom would shake her head at me if she were here. He places the second plate in front of me, already filled with an assortment from the platter.
“Thank you.” I wait for him to start eating his food before picking something up and taking a bite. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
He shakes his head slowly, chewing the food in his mouth.
* * *
When we’ve finished eating, he stands and comes around to help me to my feet. His hand lingers on mine before he moves toward a desk in the corner of the room. He grabs an old pen, the style of which I’ve only ever seen in the movies. I take the opportunity to look at more of the books, eventually snagging a worn copy of a book I don’t recognize the name of.
There is a soft-looking couch nearby and I stretch my legs out in front of me on the cushion. I cross my legs and prop the volume up on the top knee, carefully turning the pages and getting lost in the story.
When I finally glance up from the book, I realize hours must have passed. I stand and stretch my arms above my head, my back and ribs really feeling the fact I’ve been hunched over a book while wearing a corset for hours.
Movement out of the corner of my eye startles me. I glance over to see him walking toward me.
He smiles and again holds his arm out for me to take. I should find it odd that I’ve never heard this man speak, but something about him seems calm and composed. His demeanor has changed entirely from our first dinner together. It’s like he knows what he wants and he’s not afraid to take it. Right now, I think he might want to take me.
I place my hand in the crook of his elbow again, and he leads me out into the hall and back to the room where we had dinner last night.
Remembering my startled fall from last night, I chuckle at my clumsiness. I sneak a glance at him and see the corner of his mouth turned up, and mirth in his eyes. He must be remembering the same thing, my ridiculous tumble.
Unlike last night, once we’re finished eating, he is the one who walks me to my room. His entire demeanor has transformed from the frown he had on his face this morning. He looks almost calm, content. He follows all of my movements with his eyes as we climb the stairs to my room.
I’ve enjoyed the day I’ve had with this quiet, brooding man.
When we reach my door again, I turn to him to say goodnight. Before the words can escape my lips, he brushes the backs of his fingers across my cheek. A warm flush immediately comes to my cheeks. He moves both of his hands to gently grasp my face, fingers wound in my hair. My hands move to his elbows, gently holding him in place. Anticipation looms in my belly, those butterflies going crazy again.
I hold my breath, looking into his different colored eyes, thinking he’ll kiss me, not sure if I want him to or not. But sometimes doesn’t it just feel good to be bad? Not that kissing him would be bad. I hold my breath in anticipation. He begins to move toward me, then he just releases me, quickly turning and making his way down the hall. I watch after him, not sure what just happened, and also not sure why I feel like I’ve just been abandoned. My hand comes up to my chest as I watch him disappear around the corner.
* * *
Opening the door, I realize I’m on my own to get ready for bed tonight, and I struggle to unlace the strings behind my back. For the first time today, I’m able to fully expand my lungs. It takes me a while longer to pull all the flowers out of my braid and untie the leather strap he used to secure my hair. But when I finally do, I climb into the bed, briefly wondering what kissing the beast would have felt like, before falling blissfully asleep.