Nothing happened.
“Open that I might follow my lord husband!” she tried, with no success.
Snow continued to settle over the ground and along the top of the wall, burying the palace and garden in a blanket of white.
Annelise kicked the heavy door, cursing whoever had seen fit to design such a solid gate. “I demand to be released!”
No voice came to her ears this time, despite her efforts. “He is not even here!” Annelise wailed in frustration. “There is no reason to keep me here alone!”
The gates did not move.
She brushed her hands and backed away, glaring at the doors. She began to think of them as sentient beings, deliberately denying her will. They might well be, if they had been enchanted by a djinn. “If I must submit to force, then I shall do so.” Annelise shook a warning finger at the gates. “Do not insist that you were not warned.”
It was midday by the time Annelise had gathered everything she deemed useful. The sun was obscured by clouds overhead and she shivered in her cloak as she approached the gates.
First, she would try to force the lock. Annelise snatched up a dagger and turned on the gates, as though she might surprise them with her tactic.
Of course, there was no sign of a lock.
Annelise peered into the seam where the two doors met, hoping to get a glimpse of the catch. Either the space was too narrow or the doors fitted too well to give her any clues.
She decided that halfway up, at about shoulder level, would be the most logical place for whatever kind of latch these odd gates might have. Annelise jammed her blade into the space as far as she could.
The tip of the dagger snapped off.
The point did not even remain wedged in the door, but fell to the snowy ground so suddenly that Annelise imagined the gates had spit it out.
No matter. She had a bigger blade.
Her husband’s quillon dagger was her next tool of choice. Annelise refused to be daunted when it met with the same fate as the first blade.
Obviously, she needed a sturdier weapon.
Annelise hefted the weight of her spouse’s broadsword, making no small effort to brace it on her shoulder. She peered down the blade, took aim and dove at the gate.
To her delight, the blade slid neatly into the minute space between the doors. Annelise leaned forward to drive it even farther and savored a moment of elation before she heard the sharp crack of metal.
Then she pitched forward as the tip snapped off this doughty blade, as well. Annelise lost her balance and twisted her ankle slightly. Her spouse’s sword fell in the snow, as if it had been spit forth by the gates. She was momentarily glad that he was not present when she saw the state of the blade.
Judging from all the nicks and scratches, it had been a trusty and sturdy weapon for him. Annelise rubbed her ankle as she thought.
The power of Mephistopheles was added to the endeavor. Being a creature of moderate sense, he refused to participate in Annelise’s direct assault on the gales. She had the idea that she might ride the destrier at full attack and break them down by throwing their combined weight against them.
Mephistopheles stopped dead an arm’s length from the gate on every try. Faced with such a lack of cooperation, Annelise was forced to attempt another method of escape.
She used the destrier to drag furniture through the snow to the wall. Annelise, at times less easily than others, stacked it in an effort to reach the top.
When she deemed the pile to be high enough, she dropped Mephistopheles’ reins and scaled it. A chest rocked precariously when she put her weight on it, but she scrambled onward, her heart in her mouth.
She gained the summit with relief. “I will let you out from the other side,” she declared as she waved to Mephistopheles and reached for the top of the wall.
It was just beyond her fingertips. Annelise stretched to her toes and strained with all her might, but to no avail.
She could not reach the top.
But she was close. So close.
“One more!” she cried to the destrier. “We need just one more thing.” Annelise hurried down the pile of furnishings and led Mephistopheles toward the palace.
A quick scan of the palace showed the perfect choice, a table carved of rosy wood. It was rife with ornamentation, tall and probably quite light.
She tugged the table out into the garden, rolled it onto its back and tied a rope around it Mephistopheles flicked his ears, but obediently hauled it over to the wall.
Annelise’s breathing was labored by the time she reached the top. She pulled the table up the last stage, smiling in anticipation.
She was almost free.
At the top, she took one last look over the snow-clad palace and its gardens. It was pretty in its own way, but a prison all the same. Annelise pivoted to face the wall.
She reached up, but the summit was still just beyond the tips of her fingers. She stretched, but it made no difference.
She could not reach the top.
How could this be?
The table she had added to the pile came to the height of her hip. How could it not have brought her closer to the top? Annelise stretched again and was forced to confront the illogical truth.
She was no closer than she had been on the last try. How could the top of the wall always be just beyond the reach of her fingertips?
How had the portal opened without a keeper?
Where had the voice that had hailed her originally come from, if there was no keeper?
And if there was a gatekeeper, where was he hidden?
Sorcery. A djinn’s sorcery. The evidence surrounded her when she cared to look.
Annelise sat on the table and crossed her arms. She stared at the garden and watched the glittering snowflakes meander out of the sky. Magic was an unsatisfactory explanation. She glanced up and the top of the wall seemed so close.
Maybe she had misjudged the distance. Maybe one more item would make all the difference in the world.
Mephistopheles trailed behind her with even less than his previous enthusiasm. He ambled into the foyer as Annelise sought another piece of furniture that would not be too heavy to haul up the side of the growing pile, yet would give her some more height.
She decided upon a chair and made to pull it away from the wall. It resisted. Annelise pulled harder, and it slipped free so suddenly that she sprawled on her rump.
That was quite enough.
“Curse this place!” she cried. “Curse the wolves and curse the gates and curse my husband and curse this ridiculous wall! Curse each and every one, from today through the end of time!”
Mephistopheles nickered. Annelise looked at the horse just as he lifted his glossy black tail and relieved himself in the middle of the beautifully tiled foyer.
Annelise could have sworn there was a mischievous glint in his eye. She laughed aloud, forgetting her own anger when the destrier’s gesture so accurately reflected her own response.
Her laughter might have faded, but Mephistopheles snorted. He glanced about, and appeared to be offended by what he found upon the tiles behind himself. He then strode back through the archway to the garden.
And abandoned his fragrant souvenir.
The sight of the steaming manure on the inlaid floor, surrounded by tastefully understated opulence—in the wake of her trying day—made Annelise laugh and laugh. Out of the blue, she pictured how horrified Enguerrand would be if he were here.
A tear rolled down Annelise’s cheek as she laughed.
She imagined Bertrand de Beauvoir’s lips puckering tightly in the disapproval.
Annelise laughed some more.
She pictured Bertrand’s mousy wife, desperately anxious to please, scurrying in to remove anything offensive to her husband. Likely that woman would try to cover Mephistopheles’ mess with her embroidery, rather than burden her husband with the sight.
Annelise laughed until her ribs hurt
And Tulley? Ah, the overlord would be pr
iceless. She could see the lord’s eyes shooting sparks and his neck turning red as he pointed to the offense with an imperious finger. He would bellow a demand to know who was responsible, setting both servants and tableware to quaking.
Annelise thought of the conspiratorial glint that would light Yves’ eye and sobered immediately.
Yves was probably dead.
She sat up, her laughter dismissed. She hugged knees to her chest and acknowledged the ache within her heart.
If nothing else, she and Yves had had each other these last two years. Now she was alone again, as she had been for most of her life. Tears welled up in Annelise’s eyes and she looked for her discarded veil.
That was when she remembered the book.
As befit her experience of the day, it had vanished as surely as if it had never been. It was not on the table where she had seen it last, nor even in the bed chamber. It was not in the courtyard, so Annelise embarked on another hunt through the entire palace for the cursed book.
It must be her husband’s will that it be hidden from her, although Annelise could not understand why he no longer wished for her to break the curse.
One day in the forest, still burdened with the curse of being a wolf, was enough to make Rolfe’s anger fade.
Indeed, it was sufficient to make him question his choice to leave the palace.
And his wife.
Annelise had not left the palace during the day, although he had heard sounds of activity within the walls.
He was curious beyond all to know what she was doing.
He knew she was not taking her leisure. That was not the lady’s inclination.
No, she had a scheme of some kind. He knew her well enough to guess that. Rolfe could not help but wonder what it was.
Still, he retreated to the tower that night, wanting to be certain of his choice. He could not even see the palace from the high windows, which he had found vexing. The rustle of the wind irritated him as never before, let alone the wail of it in the stairwell of the tower. Rolfe hated that no human sound carried to his ears once he moved away from the palace gates at sunset. He ached to hear Annelise’s laughter or the tread of her foot upon the stair.
He spent that night pacing the floor of the abandoned tower, instead of finding peace in his refuge.
All through that night, Rolfe was aware of what he had denied himself. He recalled the smooth, warm satin of Annelise’s skin beneath his hand. When he closed his eyes, Rolfe could smell the honeyed perfume of her skin. It was all too easy to remember the taste of her kiss—and long to sample it again.
It was more than the pleasure that he and Annelise found abed that Rolfe missed, though. In his memory, he saw her eyes sparkle, her lips curve and part as they did before she laughed aloud.
He missed her company, her conviction that his cause should be defended, and her faith that she could be the one to do it.
As the moon crossed the sky, it became increasingly difficult to recall why he was denying himself the pleasure of her company.
In hindsight, Rolfe knew he should have anticipated that Annelise would try to look upon him. She was curious. Indeed, that was one trait he admired about her. She solved matters for herself, apparently having learned no expectation that any other soul would show a care for her needs. She had asked him repeatedly to show his face to her, and he had declined.
So, she had found a solution.
It was not that much of a crime, or even that much of a betrayal.
Rolfe stared over the snowy forest and admitted that both hiding himself from her and retreating from the palace had been mistakes. Annelise had not recognized him. He should have anticipated as much. Her years in the convent probably meant that she would not recognize his name, either.
Just before the dawn, he had a troubling idea. What if the bottle offered his dream come true, but he was too fool to take it?
What if love was not merely physical?
What if there were women who, unlike Rosalinde, did not demand concrete gains for the surrender of their favors?
What if he was wed to one? Annelise had declared herself unwilling to marry a man who did not love her. She had seemed confused when Rolfe talked about material comforts in the same breath as love. Was it possible that Annelise was not like Rosalinde?
Could he have misjudged his wife?
Could destiny have brought the one woman to him who could hold his heart captive for all his days and nights? Annelise might be his dream come true, albeit a dream he had not known he possessed.
He hated being without her, though.
And Annelise seemed to know more of love than he did.
Rolfe decided that marriage might be a reasonable place to start a search for love, whatever it was. His mother had professed love for his father, as he recalled, although Rolfe had always assumed she meant the act that begot children. Looking back, he saw that he might have been wrong.
Perhaps Rolfe could convince Annelise to love him.
And why not? She laughed at his jests. She welcomed his touch and took his side. In fact, they were wed, and she had been the one to insist that love belonged in marriage.
The sun rose as Rolfe began to form a new plan.
He had found something that his wife would be glad to see. Due to the curse, he could only show it to her in the daylight, when he could leave the palace.
It was perhaps time she encountered him as a wolf again.
She had, after all, wanted to see his truth.
Chapter 8
A day of shouting potential spells had made no difference in the gates. A thorough hunt of the palace and its grounds had not revealed the book, so Annelise retired to the chamber her husband favored in poor temper.
He was not there.
Her venison stew was there, though she had little appetite for it. There was only one portion and she feared that meant he had no intention of returning that night. Did the meal mean that he was not quite so vexed at her? Was it a promising sign? Or did he have a standing order with the palace to see her fed?
Or was he gone, and the palace would see to her basic needs forever?
She waited, but he did not appear.
She ate, but he did not appear.
She paced, partly to keep warm, but he did not appear.
She retired, extinguishing all the lights, but still he did not appear.
Annelise could not sleep without her husband’s heat by her side and feared the import of his absence. He could not have abandoned her completely, could he?
How would she apologize if she never saw him again?
And still there was the most vexing question of all: who was Rosalinde? Why did he utter her name in his sleep? The possibilities plagued Annelise.
Without much else to do, she struggled to recall every childhood tale she had ever heard. Perhaps the secret to the spell of the gates was there, hidden in her own memories.
Every puzzle had a key, she reminded herself. She had only to find it.
The palace grew steadily colder during the night and by morning, winter had settled in with a vengeance. As Annelise had originally thought, the broad arching windows were ridiculous. The wind ripped through them with delight and stirring the drifts of snow that had appeared in the corridors. She had to break the ice on the surface of her bathing water in the morning and was reluctant to abandon her cloak at all. She donned every item of clothing she possessed, her hands shaking with cold, then left the bed chamber. She hoped there was something hot to break her fast.
There was a bowl of porridge, a thin line of steam still rising from it.
But beside the bowl was the missing book.
Annelise hastened to the table and opened the book. The script was still legible, thanks to her husband’s touch. She sank down onto the cushion, ate her porridge, and began to read a tale for children.
Surely the book was here for a reason.
Surely there would be a glimmer of truth within it.
Her husband had bee
n cursed by djinn, after all.
There were, there were not, in the oldness of time, twin daughters born to a djinn and his wife. Herein lies the tale of Leila and Kira, twins born to Azima and Azzam. They were matched in looks but not in manner.
This was in the days when man and djinn walked the earth together—one wrought of potter’s clay, the other of smokeless fire—in echo of the master’s creation. Equal but different, they shared trials and successes, in those times before the djinns were dispatched to the realm beyond the world of men. Good and evil stalked the ranks of both man and djinn in those times, as always it did, and as this tale soon will show.
For Leila, being a child of the night, grew to womanhood with an intuitive understanding of the dark arts, while Kira, a child of the day to her essence, was filled with innocence and joy.
Though both children were fair in their way, the sight of Kira made others feel as though they looked into the warm beauty of the sun itself. People and djinns both smiled when she passed them, even when she was an infant. Unbeknownst to her family, Leila’s dark heart grew to nurture a dreadful jealousy of her sister.
The sisters grew, becoming more themselves with each passing day. Kira was good and kind, thinking of others before herself, willing to give the last of what she had to another in need. It was said that diamonds and pearls fell from her mouth when she spoke, and all she gave was returned to her tenfold.
Leila, though gifted, did not have such abundant charms. As she grew older, her jealousy deepened into a dark force that claimed all her attention. She turned to sorcerers’ arts to compete with her sister, but though she could oft mimic her sister’s gifts, whatsoever is wrought of shadows does not stand the test of time. The flowers she created withered and died more quickly than real ones, while Kira’s blossomed with rare vigor and thrived even in adverse conditions.
It was noted by all that Kira was a rare and special daughter and the parents showered affection on their golden child. All this served only to feed Leila’s hatred, though none might have guessed unless they looked into her eyes. Accidents began to befall Kira, and as their severity increased, those outside the family wondered about Leila. Kira would not listen to any questions though and would hear nothing said against her twin.
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