Chapter One : A Short Story

The princess began to weep, for her lover was to die or to marry a woman she despised. She flew up and out of her seat, and she ran as fast as her feet could take her; she could not bear to see her lover’s fate. She knew the fair maiden was behind the door he was to open, and she wanted so badly to be standing in her place. She must find a way to meet him as he opened the door.

The inn keeper's parlor was the best in town, they told her. His wife was wearing a heavy dress, adorned with lace and a massive broach that she raised a plump hand to touch, as if to be certain it was still there. They spoke of the massive rug, bought from Paris, and the finely crafted furniture they all sat upon. The preacher listened quietly, smiling as though their vanity wasn't a sin, while Mrs. Hartford eyed the dress with longing. Della thought that the dress was tasteless. The lace was poorly made, and the line of the bodice wasn't flattering. The fabric was an odd shade between blue and green, and the woman inside it was far less appealing. She didn't bother to mention that her own parlor had been filled with crystal, and priceless art her father had collected around the world. She didn't mention that her toys had cost more than Mrs. Johnson's gowns, or that she was mispronouncing the tea they'd been served. Not to be kind, not to be deceptive, but because did not matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. She'd given up that life to marry Ben, given up her family, given up her home and her gowns and her education.

Colette dreamed. She was sitting down though the ground was hundreds of feet below. In the northeast she make out her tower, though it was just a dot from where she was. Across from her was another Colette, motionless save for the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. The black, smoky eyes betrayed it as Fetch. They sat across from each other wordlessly, and Colette began to clear her throat softly.

Her mind awakened before her eyes could opened and a thirst plagued her. Soft lips were licked and slender fingers laced through locks that rivaled the darkness of a black sky, as though her mind ached. Finally, a fan of thick lashes lifted and one thing remained: the fire in those eyes. Though Bella could not recall the last few details of her turning, she knew that she had been turned. Fingers and she felt a slight weakness and a burning hunger in the pit of her being, but the girl trudged on with her new found self. Isabella sat up. The girl propped up with her hands behind her, fine digits sunk into the luxurious surface of a very ornate bed as she scanned the room. Alistair, was indeed there, but she stared at a nearby lit candle. The fire was so mesmerizing. The light dancing in her eyes as hunger plagued her, but she paid it no mind, despite how indescribably weak she was feeling. With a sift sigh her support gave out once more and she laid upon her side and watched the dancing flame of the candle. "Alistair." The name a soft whisper upon her barely hued lips. Surprisingly enough a soft little laugh escaped her lips as

She was seated at a garden table set for two and looked at the menu. All she wanted at this point was a small cup of coffee and nothing else. She looked out onto the streets of Rome as she watched the people walking by and the lovers surrounding her. As she took a deep breath of the freedom she felt from exposing the secret that was hidden for so many years, she also smelled a familiar

And so with that, Beathan followed Felix back to his home. There Felix had Beathan wash his hand as food was prepared by the Barocco women: Dorothy, Felix’s wife, and Oriana, their daughter. The feast, cooked so elegantly as would have been for a king, included a wide assortment of grains, meats, dairy products, fruits, greens, and wines. Beathan gladly gorged the food, which made the girl pleased that someone enjoyed their cooking so much. When the prepared food became less than scarce, Felix led Beathan to a shower, and Beathan cleaned himself. After that, they allowed their drowsiness to overcome themselves.

Hinton, an amiable tobacco planter in Virginia, inspected the mill infrequently and trusted him to make an honest trade. There was no way to forecast when loggers would arrive, depending on the weather and the wind and water currents so Matthew remained available year-round. He was tall, burley with bushy, red hair, and freckles that almost connected into a solidly tan face. People never forgot him because his freckles were such an assortment of colors, red, brown, tan, beige, pink, auburn, rust, black, and orange. He entertained visitors with stories of animals and men fighting themselves and each other along with spine-tingling stories about ghosts and Indians that intimidated the settlers. If they were true, it did not matter.

"I do apologise.' Pickett looked in on Mirella. "It's not often Redwood sees cultured young ladies from all the way out East." He smiled genially, making no reference to their earlier conversation, nor betraying a hint of the thoughts that had followed it. "I hope you're feeling better. Hannah runs the finest establishment in the State. She'll draw a bath, and show you to your accommodations" Pickett would have assumed that last responsibility, but now probably wasn't the most appropriate time to suggest that he escort Mirella, alone, to her sleeping quarters. "She's quite the chef, too, if you're

“Ping, bang,” the not so subtle sound of the evening storm, awoke Lucynell from her slumber. The youth behind the counter stared in awe at the angel before him, at the request of Mr. Shiflet, he gingerly pushed the plate of cold ham and grits toward her. Without so much as a glance the boy’s way, Lucynell quickly gobbled down the hearty meal and then began to brush through her hair with the fork.

Later that day, following a scandalously-good afternoon of delicious and repeated sex, Joan slipped her light shift over her head, rose from bed, and crossed to the dining table. She dug around in her cloth satchel; Joan had a present for Perceval and was so excited. She sealed her fingers around the gift and approached the bed again. A shirtless Perceval sat up at attention.

Braeden's attention was pulled away from setting the table by a knock at the door. She smiled and set the last plate down before walking to the door. She briefly looked in the mirror by the entrance and straightened her orange floral bowtie, before opening the door with a smile.

The women helped one another dress, and right after, Une and Faye returned to their husbands and children. Audra pulled her chaise up to the hearth, then sat, nursing a mug of warm cider. Whatever emotional state Rory returned in, Audra would handle it, now that she’d had the opportunity to relax with her ladies. Friendship was clearly effective medicine.

She awoke with great discomfort; the huger pains impaired her, and fogged her mental clarity, but she persevered, and crawled out of the neatly kept bed. It was early in the morning and no one was awake, there was no food on the table, and no servants guarding the doors, so Proserpina made her way to the front of the palace. Each step she took was carefully calculated, for the floors creaked. She arrived at the black wooden doors, still impaired from hunger, and the motionless fog that clouded her mind remained, she clasped the handle of the wooden doors, feeling the carved intricacies, and pulled only slightly. Just then, a hand reached from the dim, and somber atmosphere. The darkened room shadowed everything except the pair of hands that gripped the refulgent, pearl shaped seeds. The sweet smell of the berries was enticing, and her mouth began to water. Emaciated, and weak; Proserpina took the berries and ate. Of all the horrid possibilities she had thought of, this was among the worst. She was taken advantage of in her moment of

The receptionist normally situated at the front desk was absent at the moment. Wether she left or was simply on break I didn't have time to contemplate over. The ride to the fourth story was one of subtle unease. Such unease mounted into alarm when i saw the door was slightly ajar, lighting pouring out from the small gap of space.

Jeanne woke to the smell of beans scorching. Carefully, she worked her way from bed and hobbled into the other room. Using a wooden spoon, she stirred the beans, making sure not to scrape the bottom. The room was chilly, and she added another log to the fire. Not taking the time to find a bowl, she ate from the pot, looking around guiltily. If Henri were here, he would have teased her for standing in her bare feet and dirty gown, eating from the kettle. But she was alone.