Chapter Text
If the nightingales knew how ill
And worn with woe I be,
They would cheerily carol and trill,
And all bring joy to me.
— "If the Little Flowers Knew" by Heinrich Heine
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The rose petal fell.
Annette watched as it fluttered to the wooden boards beneath her feet, soft, luscious red shining against the dull brown. Just across from her, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester leaned in, one hand sliding to adjust his cravat, and the other holding a single rose. At this distance, she could see the velvet fuzz of his doublet and count the golden threads of its embroidery. He stood out like a sore thumb against her homely surroundings of chipped wood and rusted iron.
"Well, Miss Dominic?" said Lorenz with a saccharine smile. "How does it feel to win the ultimate lottery of your life? Yes, amidst every trial, every obstacle, and every rival, you have beaten the odds and you have come out victorious. Since you are so persistent, I will finally accept your offer of romantic courtship."
Annette balked. What?
Lorenz swept back his gleaming locks, which would have looked much nicer if they didn't slap her right in the face. "Although it quite pains me to lower myself and wed a mere commoner, I believe your passion and focus would be a great asset to any household." He smiled at her, showing a row of perfect, pearly whites. "We shall be wed no later than spring. I should like for it to be sooner, but alas, the bluster of winter is not so agreeable, and no indoor venue hereabouts would match the splendor of our matrimony—"
"Uh, just—hold on a minute, Sir Lorenz," Annette said, panicked.
Thankfully, Lorenz stopped for one blissful moment of silence, allowing her to think.
Lorenz Hellman Gloucester was the governor of the village, newly uprooting his retired father—and he made sure everyone knew it. Passionate, beautiful, and utterly shallow, he was sought after by every eligible maiden for miles around. But in a twist of fate, as fate often liked to do, he set his attentions upon the only girl who was in no way interested: Annette Fantine Dominic, the daughter of a humble lumberjack on the outskirts of the village. He had been extremely forward with his advances, to the point where he now stood in her own house, pinning her against her own wall, and demanding marriage without her own say.
Needless to say, Annette did not appreciate this.
"Sir Lorenz," she said, summoning up as much politeness as she could muster, "I apologize if I made it seem like I was interested in you. Believe me, that was my very last intention."
Lorenz didn't seem to notice the veiled insult, or if he did, he merely waved it away. "I understand your reservations. You must be wondering if my feelings are true, for how could the prestigious heir of Gloucester possibly fall for a homely, lowly, odd little thing who is rumored to be the daughter of a witch—"
"Uh, excuse me."
"—but allow me to assure you in every sense that this was no gamble with my peers, nor a sore attempt at a joke." Lorenz extended the rose again, which Annette had yet to accept. "My greatest wish is to see you as my wife. I shall dote on you, and you shall adore my beauty. And we shall see our happiness fulfilled through many children, each as beautiful as me and as brilliant as you. Together, we shall make the house of Gloucester shine until its legacy is written in the very stars."
Goddess, Annette didn't know what she wanted more: to punch him straight in his pompous, pointy face, or to throw him out of the house.
She decided on the latter.
"Well, Sir Lorenz," she said slowly, sidling towards the front door, "when you put it that way..."
He moved his arm to follow her. "Yes?" he said eagerly.
"I just don't see how I could deserve you," Annette finished. She swiftly opened the door and shoved him out. He stumbled over his fine purple boots, hair swaying into his own face. "You'd best find a better wife! Good day!"
Before he could respond, she quickly shut the door and locked it.
She stood there for a moment, leaning against the wood even as Lorenz pounded on it. She stared at the ceiling, feeling a vague headache coming on.
"Miss Dominic!" Lorenz yelled, voice muffled behind the door. "Darling, that wasn't what I meant! Please open the door!"
Annette closed her eyes. She stepped away from the door and breathed in deep, giving herself room.
"Goblins and bobbins and ooey gooey phlegm"—and she danced lightly on her feet, punctuating the ditty with a spin—"go away and don't come back again!"
She snapped her fingers and pointed at the door, waiting.
A moment of blissful silence.
Then Lorenz pounded on the door once more. "Miss Dominic, please!"
She sighed. It had been a rather lousy excuse for an incantation, resembling a children's rhyme more than anything. If only a simple little song could successfully ward off Lorenz's advances. He wasn't exactly a bad person, but he was extremely dense, and in the world of courtship, those were basically the same thing.
She hopped twice, trying again. "Obtuse Lorenz, dense as a brick, please let this chant do the trick!" She waved her arms in an arc, then flicked her fingers at the door. "Fall in love with someone else, literally anyone but me! Oh, that doesn't rhyme, um. Fall in love with someone else, and sound off different wedding bells!"
She waited anxiously.
The pounding continued. "Miss Dominic, I urgently request that you open this door!"
Annette pulled her cloak to her ears with a groan. If only she was trained in actual magic, like her mother. If only she could make Lorenz see that she was the absolute worst option in the world for him, and he was the absolutely worst option in the world for her. If only Lorenz would settle for any one of the hundred girls eager to join his harem, rather than an eccentric bookworm on the outskirts of the village.
Lorenz rapped again, and Annette had enough. She needed a respite.
She slipped out the back door of the cottage, fleeing to the grassy hills that crested into the forest. Around her, the sunset sang colors of orange and purple, reminding her that another day was drawing to a close.
Annette let herself fall on the hill, feeling the grass tickle at her hair and neck and hands. She stared at the sky and idly swept her limbs around, creating a lopsided grass angel.
The sun was setting, Lorenz wouldn't leave her alone, and her father was still missing. It had been, very decidedly, Not a Good Day.
She closed her eyes, humming to new words in her head. Sunset, sunset, find father dear. Please bring him home safe and near.
She lay there for a long moment, unwilling to get up. Getting up meant returning to the house. Returning to the house meant speaking to Lorenz, who would most certainly still be at her door. And speaking to Lorenz meant attempting to say things to someone who listened about as well as a rock—except rocks were better, because rocks wouldn't actually interrupt her. She didn't feel like getting up and returning to the house and attempting conversation with an argumentative rock, so she continued to lie in the grass, counting the seconds as the sunset bled by.
Then she heard hooves in the distance.
Annette leapt to her feet, frantically brushing the blades of grass from her skirt. She recognized that syncopated pounding, punctuated by the light creak of old horseshoes.
Father!
She hiked up her skirts and ran down the hill to the forest. Dandelions were thrown up from the soles of her shoes and scattered into the sky. The wind whispered at her back, but she didn't stop to listen.
Out of the hedges tore a pale horse, bone-white and broad with a rough, spindly mane.
"Crusher!" she cried joyfully, running faster.
But something was wrong. Crusher darted away, panicked. Foam frothed at his mouth and his eyes roved wildly, seeing visions that weren't there. Even when Annette reached for his neck, murmuring soothingly, he was still skittish. His hooves danced in place as she took the reins.
It didn't take long for her to see what was amiss: he had arrived riderless, and the cart once fastened to his saddle had torn free.
"Crusher, where's Father?" Annette asked frantically.
Crusher tossed his head, snorting. He was trembling all over, but his eyes managed to focus on Annette.
"You have to take me to him," Annette begged. "Please. Please, take me to Father."
She hoisted herself into the saddle and snapped at the reins. Crusher veered, bringing her into the darkness.
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The rose petal fell.
Felix crushed it, talons searing into the velvet red. He swept to the balcony, scattering its remains to the abyss below like droplets of blood. They wavered in the wind, then swept behind ebony parapets and twisted gargoyle statues.
Behind him, a soft voice murmured beneath a tea spout. "There's still hope, Master."
"Don't call me that, Mercedes," he snapped. The words expelled from his forked tongue in a hiss. "I'm no one's master."
He was met with silence. There was a soft burble as his teacup was refilled: fragrant oolong.
"She's right, you know," said a jaunty voice at his feet. Three dim flames of a candelabra flickered in the dark. "Sure, this is the last year before we're completely and utterly doomed. But it could be the miracle year. I'm feeling good about this one, Felix."
A flash of ivory in the moonlight nudged at the candelabra. "Not helping, Sylvain."
"Ow, Ing, careful around the waxy parts."
Felix expelled a gravelly sigh, and his wings furled. "You're all too noisy," he said bitingly. "Get out."
"But Master Fral—"
"Don't call me Master, and get out." He turned back to the moon, crimson eyes glowering at the silvery light. His tone brooked no room for argument.
Metal, ivory, and porcelain clinked gently on the floor as the household objects scuttled out of sight. Felix waited. His head sank into his hands, talon-like nails threading through steel hair. He breathed. Across from him, a single standing rose shivered.
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Two weeks ago, Gilbert Gustave Edward Dominic had reluctantly departed the house with his prized six foot tall wood carving, setting his course for the grand Annual Woodworking Festival in the capitol of Fhirdiad.
The idea had been Annette's. Gilbert had been withdrawn and melancholy since the death of his wife, seeking work as a lumberjack to scrape by. What little enjoyment he found in life came from his simple hobby of carving little figurines from scraps of wood. It had started as small symbols—a crucifix here and a knight's helm there—but the complexity grew with his skill. It wasn't long before he had finished an intricate carving of a sparrow, with its wings and tail and crown and all the little ridges of its feathers.
My little sparrow, he often called Annette. He had wanted to gift it to her, but their pantry had contained nothing but scraps. Instead, they'd agreed to sell it for food.
The little sparrow was sold to a passing traveler. Impressed with its craftsmanship, the traveler informed Gilbert of an upcoming festival within Fhirdiad that celebrated wood carving. Even third place offered a reward handsome enough to promise relative comfort for the winter months.
But more than the reward, Annette had prized the gleam that had returned to her father's eyes while he was carving. He'd seemed alive, the grim line of his mouth easing and the ridges of his brow smoothing while his hands were fixed on whittling. She'd urged him to create a piece for the festival and journey to Fhirdiad. Winning didn't matter; all that mattered was that he would find satisfaction, and perhaps with it, direction.
Gilbert had set off on the journey, promising to return with a gift.
The greatest gift, Father, Annette had said, is just yourself.
Gilbert had smiled—really smiled, perhaps the first time since the death of his wife—and after touching her cheek, snapped the reins and disappeared into the forest.
He had never returned.
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Crusher bolted through the gloom of the forest, hooves pounding at the misty floor with abandon. Annette clung onto the reins and lowered her head against the wind whipping at her face. In the distance, she could make out the distant howling of a pack of wolves, each keening to the rising moon.
She was a long way from home, and she had the sinking feeling that she wouldn't be returning anytime soon.
Crusher broke free into a wide cobblestone path, then reared to a halt. Snow wafted around them, flaking into Annette's hair and on her eyelashes. Before them loomed a giant iron fence, pickets of welded spines stretching up to pierce the sky. And behind that fence—behind it soared onyx ramparts and parapets dotted with poison-green vines and blood-red roses, each piled together to construct a castle of frightening shadow. Looking at it did not inspire good feelings in Annette. Frankly, they inspired very bad feelings, and she wanted nothing more than to turn her steed and bolt in the opposite direction.
Annette ran her hands along Crusher's mane. "Are you sure, boy?" she murmured. "Is this the place?"
Crusher neighed nervously, but didn't move.
Annette slid off of the saddle, bundling her burgundy cloak around her shoulders. The snow seemed to fall faster now, gathering in little piles on her figure. If she didn't move soon, she would be frozen solid.
Annette slid through the half-open gate, looking around as she made her way to the entrance of the castle. If everything wasn't so dark and bleak, she imagined it could be quite beautiful. There was a sharp, angular sort of artistry in the statues around the courtyard, and the thorny rose bushes would have been lovely if they had been given a decent trimming. The emptiness of the place didn't help matters; every crevice was hollow and abandoned, devoid of life. With a bit of laughter and song, this place could easily turn into one of the luxurious mansions that Lorenz so coveted.
The trend continued indoors as she knocked on the entrance and, met with silence, stepped inside the castle. Bleak but beautiful, grand but empty. The foyer split into corridors, then converged into an ornate staircase that wound into two wings. Gold-framed portraits were hoisted on the walls, but it was too dark to see what was on their canvases.
Then, deep in the quiet, Annette heard something.
"Goddess above," came the faint voice of a man. "It's a woman."
"Yes, Sylvain, I have eyes."
Annette turned sharply, squinting into the dark. Nothing moved in the shadows.
"She's young and pretty and—she has red hair. Hoooo, baby. Sound the trumpets, Ing, because the miracle of the year has arrived."
"Sylvain, would you shut up. She can hear you."
The voices quieted. Annette reached for the nearest light—a candelabra, silver and cinnabar with a teal rim. She turned, raising the candelabra into the foyer, and watched the shadows flicker in the dim firelight.
"Hello?" she called nervously. The sound of her voice echoed off of the walls, throbbing in the foyer like a cathedral.
She was met with silence.
Annette swallowed. "I don't mean to intrude," she said, turning. "I'm looking for my father. Please, have you seen anyone pass this way?"
Still silence.
You're going crazy for real, Annette, she thought. Just keep going. Look for your father.
She moved to the foot of the staircase, clutching the candelabra like her sole lifeline. She waited, her hand cradled on the banister. Suddenly, the castle felt so cold and empty, and she was terrified to move another step.
Down a distant corridor, she heard a wheezing cough.
A chill flooded her veins. She immediately turned and raced down the corridor, her shoes slapping against musty stone as she ascended up a winding flight of stairs. She burst through a wooden door with rusty hinges and was met with a row of battered dungeon cells, dimly illuminated by dying torchlight. The metal bars were dotted with frost and the wooden supports were festering with mold.
The cough sounded again. Annette peered, and in the third cell, she caught a glimpse of orange hair.
"Father!" she cried. She knelt at the cell, clutching the bars despite the bite of frost.
Gilbert Dominic was slumped against the wall, face pale and thin, eyes sunken into his skull. His hair, which was ordinarily tied into a neat, conservative braid, lay in a disheveled mess on his shoulders. When his gaze turned blearily to Annette, his jaw slackened, and his brows bore down in a grim line.
"Annette," Gilbert said weakly. Every breath shuddered with the promise of a cough. "What are you doing here? Get out."
"No—no way." Annette's eyes roved the dungeon. "We have to get you out of here. You're—"
Gilbert's chest seized up and he coughed, dry and heavy.
"Who put you here?" Annette begged. "You're not well. I have to get you to a doctor. I'll speak with the master here, I can negotiate something."
"Annette. You must leave." Gilbert's eyes fixed on hers, and for one blissful moment, his gaze was sharp and clear. "The master of this place... is a monster. I cannot go free... but you can. Run."
Annette shook her head furiously. "I'm never leaving you behind, Father. I don't care what kind of monster this man is—"
That was when a sharp gale snapped through the corridor without warning, screaming against the stone.
The candelabra in Annette's hand extinguished, leaving the hall in pitch black, save for the scant moonlight that bled through a ceiling grate. She leapt to her feet. Her pulse pounded against her throat, and her fingers scrabbled for a hold on the walls to ground herself. Silence surrounded her, broken only by the low wailing of the winter wind outside the dungeon windows.
"Great," said a dry voice at the end of the corridor, low and powerful in a way that shook the walls. "Another trespasser."
Annette froze. Fear quailed in her stomach, and she couldn't move.
"Run, Annette, please," Gilbert begged.
There was a harsh, rushing wind right next to Annette. She pressed herself against the bars of the cell, gripping her cloak with white fingers.
"Don't bother," said the voice, and this time, it was much closer. "It's already too late. You forfeited the opportunity to escape when you stepped inside this castle."
Annette's tongue unfroze in her mouth, and words tumbled out of her. "Please, I didn't mean to intrude. I was just looking for my father," she begged, turning frantically. She could see nothing in the darkness.
"Your father," said the voice cuttingly by her right ear, "is a trespasser and a thief. He grabbed my ivory clock, and he was about to run for it."
Annette turned, clasping her hands together. "Father would have never done that," she said, distraught. "I'm sure that he was simply examining it to admire the craftsmanship! He's a wood carver, he probably just thought it looked beautiful and was wondering how it was made—"
A rushing wind by her left ear. "It wasn't his to touch."
"Of course not," Annette said, turning again. "Of course. But it was an honest mistake, sir. Please, he's sick. I need to take him to the doctor, sir, please. We promise, we won't come back here again."
Silence fell on the corridor, and Annette waited, her heart pounding frantically in her chest.
"I have no way of trusting your word," said the voice. "Leave. Your father will pay for his own sins."
Annette bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She breathed in deep, her fingers whitening in her cloak. "I can't leave him."
"Why not?"
"He's my father."
Silence again in the corridor. This one grew harsher, and it settled on Annette like a bad omen.
"Then it seems we're at an impasse," the voice finally said, an odd note to its tone.
The gale rushed around Annette, then settled. She felt a heavy presence nearby and turned her head. A vague figure loomed right behind her, close enough that she could reach out her hand and touch it. She didn't dare.
"Unless," said the figure behind her, his voice dripping sarcasm, "you'd like to take his place. I'll let him go, and you can stay forever as my prisoner. Sound like a good deal?"
Clearly, he didn't expect her to entertain the offer—if it could even be called an offer. Annette swallowed.
The figure chuckled dryly and swept away from her, heading down the corridor when—
"Come into the light," Annette said.
The figure hesitated.
"I need to know what I'm agreeing to," Annette said, and she straightened, raising her chin. Her heart fluttered in her fingertips. "Come into the light."
There was a long period of silence, and for a moment, Annette thought that the figure might have left. Then she saw slight movement in the darkness—a gleam of ebony and crimson. The figure stepped forward, letting the moonlight bleed through the ceiling grate and cast over him.
Annette clapped her hands over her mouth.
He towered over her at seven feet, sinewy and lithe with a humanlike form. Two crimson irises leered at her from within the depths, eyes black where they should have been white. The slight gleam of fine scales covered every inch of his skin like a shield, cresting into razor-thin steely hair from his head. Protruding from within the head of stiff hair were two large ribbed horns, jet-black like obsidian, torquing forward like a battle helm. And the wings—from his back spread two enormous wings that covered the entire width of the chamber, laden with sleek black feathers that ruffled in the cold of the night.
A demon, a human, a dragon.
He waited silently beneath her gaze. Every instinct screamed for her to shrink away, to run before it was too late, but she held firm.
"Oh," was all she managed.
The monster arched a brow, then raised a hand towards her. "Well?" he said. "Do we have a deal?"
His hand was nearly human, but like the rest of his body, sheathed in sleek scales. From the ends of his fingers protruded long, thick nails, as curved and deadly as talons. Annette shivered. Revulsion swelled in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn't bring herself to look away.
"Annette," came Gilbert's faint voice, punctuated by a fit of coughing, "you must not."
Annette closed her eyes. She breathed in and out. The musty air of the dungeon coated her lungs.
This would be her fate forever.
"Do you give your word?" she said shakily.
The monster was quiet for a moment. "I give you my word," he said. And for some reason, she knew he was telling the truth.
Gilbert coughed again, raspy and overwhelming. Annette heard droplets of blood heave from his throat and hit the stone flooring.
She made her decision.
She raised her hand and gripped the monster's. The ribbed texture of his scales pressed against her palm, and she strangled the impulse to gag. She stared straight into his eyes, red-and-black and endlessly hollow.
"We have a deal," she said hoarsely.
The monster watched her for a long moment, unmoving. Then he swept around, wings furling, and wrenched the cell door open. He stooped inside and seized Gilbert by the arm, dragging him out unceremoniously.
"Annette," Gilbert croaked. He reached a shaking hand towards her.
Annette scrambled towards him and dropped on her knees, but the monster hoisted Gilbert away before she could touch him. "Father!" she cried. "Father, I—"
Gilbert reached into the folds of his cloak and dropped something small and palm-sized on the ground, rolling it towards her. Annette seized it desperately, turning it in her hands. Varnished wood met her fingers, carefully etched with an intricate design, forming a tail to a wing to a crown and beak—
A wooden sparrow.
"Father!" Annette shrieked, but the monster dragged Gilbert around the corner and slammed the door behind him. Her voice was met with cold wood.
Annette stumbled to the tiny, misshapen window at the edge of the dungeon cell, peering into the blizzard. She watched as the monster flung her father into a moving carriage without decorum, then swept back into the castle. The carriage rolled into the blinding snow and disappeared from sight. She sank to the ground, tears clogging her throat.
Footsteps approached, and a giant shadow drew inside the dungeon, blotting out the moonlight.
"You didn't, didn't even let me say goodbye," Annette choked out, fingers scrabbling into the floor. "It was my last—it was the last time I'd see him, and you, you didn't even, let me say, goodbye."
The monster watched her as she shook, sobbing and cold. He said nothing.
Annette turned from the cell door, hiding her face in her sleeve. She wouldn't give him the pleasure of seeing her break. He didn't deserve it.
"You'll be shown to your quarters," the monster eventually said. His voice was low and quiet, reverberating off of the walls in a misty echo. "There's guest chambers in the east wing. You'll—"
"Guest chambers," Annette said. A bleak laugh bled from her throat. "I'm not going to stay in guest chambers. You kept my father in the dungeon. A deal is a deal. I take his place."
A long moment of silence.
"Fine," said the monster, the ends of his syllables sharpening into a bitter noise. "Have it your way."
He slammed the cell door shut, letting the metal squeal into the corridor. Heavy footsteps disappeared with him. Annette crumpled, clutching the wooden sparrow to her chest. She lay quietly on the stone floor and listened to the moaning of the wind until she fell asleep.