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The air in Penelope’s chamber is stifling, as though the walls were empathetic to her condition. Each time Pearl ascends the spiraling stone staircase with her daily provisions, she feels the heaviness grow, an unease she carries alongside the simple tray and laundered linens in her arms. At the top of the steps, she knocks on the door.
“Come in,” comes the soft and wavering voice of her closest friend.
Pearl enters to find the other girl sitting on the edge of her bed, her lithe frame illuminated by the sun’s early rays spilling through the window. Penelope’s hair, done up loosely into twin buns at the base of her head, shines brightly, and Pearl can swear it’s bright enough she sees real silver. Penelope turns to face Pearl, eyeing the things in her arms with intrigue.
“You’ve brought me something.”
“I thought you might like something more than gruel today,” Pearl says gently, setting the tray and basket on the wooden table next to the bed. “And there’s wine to go with it. Just a bit.”
Penelope laughs weakly. “How rebellious of you.”
Pearl says nothing, allowing a smile to grace her lips, and busies herself with laying out the food and ensuring the room is in order. Her gaze is drawn for the hundredth time to the shelf above Penelope’s cot, where a milky white crystal rests. Its small, unassuming shape allows it to be easily passed over, yet its faint glow sends a shiver through Pearl’s fair frame.
Sensing Pearl’s curiosity, Penelope stands. “I know not what the crystal’s purpose is. It has always been there,” she offers.
Pearl steps closer, the air around the crystal almost feeling colder, heavier. “It feels… wrong,” she says, her voice low.
“Wrong or not, it is beyond my place to question,” Penelope replies. “And I have more pressing things to concern myself with.”
Pearl’s lips press into a thin line, but she lets the matter rest.
—
With evening’s arrival and Pearl’s absence to tend to her other duties, Penelope remains in her chamber, left to her own wandering mind ruminating on the crystal. Its faint glow seemed almost alive, pulsing so gently one would nearly miss it in the darkness. Her gaze lingers on it, a strange compulsion rising within her.
With trembling hands, she pushes herself to her feet. Each step toward the shelf seemed an effort, her body weak and unsteady. When she reaches out and her fingers brush its surface, a searing heat shoots through her as though burned, forcing her to stumble back with a cry. The crystal’s faint pulse flares to life, its glow blazing brighter than ever.
Immediately, in the quiet of the throne room, Whitney’s circlet around her head begins to hum and vibrate, resonating with the crystal’s disturbed peace. The Queen rises from her throne, her face darkening with fury.
“Taryn.”
The chilling steps of the queen’s closest and deadliest guard are the only sound echoing in the hall as she approaches the steps to the marble throne. She kneels, head bowed.
“Bring her to me at once.”
—
At the foot of the dais, Penelope is at her knees, trembling in the hands of the guard.
Her majesty speaks, “You know why you are here.” Her voice is like a dagger in Penelope’s ears.
Penelope can only shake her head, though her mind wanders to the crystal–surely her curiosity was not so much a transgression as to summon her to the queen’s own throne room. She is still trembling.
Whitney descends the short steps to the floor slowly. Her lips curled into a cold smile, leaning down and gently lifting the girl’s chin with one finger, forcing her to lock eyes with Whitney’s sharp gaze.
“If I have wronged you, your Majesty, it was unintentionally, I know not of what–”
“Silence.”
The queen rises to her full height once more. “Ignorance is not a shield against consequences, child. The crystal takes what is mine by right. To tamper with those that are not yours is a serious transgression. For that, there must be consequences.”
Penelope’s blood runs cold. Struggling to find her voice, she straightens in the guard’s grip. “Please–I did not know–”
“Did not know,” Whitney repeats, mocking. “You meddled with things beyond your comprehension, and now you will learn the price of unchecked curiosity.”
The queen raises her right hand, fingers curling as if grasping an invisible thread. Cold air rushes through the room, crackling like thunder with each movement. A searing, burning pain blossoms behind Penelope’s left eye. She gasps as her body becomes stiff, curling into herself.
“I beg of you!” She cries, desperate and loud and wailing as the agony intensifies.
Whitney’s gaze remains cold, her hand tightening as the magic surges. The room seems to darken, the light from the thin windows dimming as if recoiling from the cruelty within the stone walls. The only sounds coming from the girl in the middle, her sobs and gasps like a symphony to the queen’s ears.
The queen yanks her arm back, twisting her wrist sharply. The world stops for a split second as Penelope screams, raw and desperate as blood and tears stream down her freckled cheeks. The guard lets her crumple to the ground, holding her face as she shakes.
“Let this be a lesson,” the queen said, her voice chilling and cold like the stone beneath the shaking girl. “You belong to me, and so does your life.”
Penelope clutches her face, vision blurry and half gone, and she tries to find her voice once more as she’s dragged from the room. Whitney turns back to her throne, a satisfied smile plastered on her face as she settles back into her seat of power.
—
The castle was abuzz with whispers and gossip, the news spreading throughout the staff, reaching the handmaids’ quarters. Pearl hears of a punishment meted out by the Queen herself, cruel and swift. Her mind goes to Penelope–her fears are confirmed as a fellow chambermaid recounts hearing the cries of her dearest friend echoing through the throne room and halls surrounding it.
Quickly gathering her supplies for the day’s work, she sneaks into the apothecary for bandages and a salve, silently praying to the gods that she will not encounter what she dreads most. Ascending the spiral stairs as quick as she may get away with once more, the pit in her stomach grows heavier. When she pushes open the door, the sight nearly drives her to her knees.
Laid upon the narrow bed is Penelope’s frail form, barely a shadow of her former self. Wrapped across the left side of her face is a bandage, strikingly white against her tan skin and bloody where her eye had once been. As Pearl shuts the door, Penelope stirs and locks her gaze with Pearl’s, her eye unfocused and exhausted.
“Poppy,” Pearl near sobs, dropping the basket unceremoniously next to the door as she makes her way to the bed and sits on the edge.
Penelope looks away, shame growing on her face. “You should not have come,” she starts, “There is nothing left to be done for me. Please do not waste your time on me any longer, Pearl.”
“Do not say such things!” Pearl gasps.
Penelope offers no reaction. Stature loosening, Pearl grabs the bandages and salve from the basket. Her hands shake as she says, “I will help you.”
Penelope says nothing, her gaze distant.
The work is slow and delicate. Pearl unwraps the bloodied bandage with painstaking care, heart breaking with every wince and chirp of pain that escaped Penelope’s mouth. Beneath the wrappings, the wound is angry and raw, the empty socket a permanent reminder of the queen’s cruelty. She applies the salve slowly.
“All will be well,” she whispers softly, though the words felt hollow in her mouth.
After the bandage is replaced, Pearl reaches for the tray of food she’d brought–another assortment of cheeses and some bread, breaking them into small pieces and holding them to the other girl’s lips as if to tempt her into helping herself. Penelope acquiesces, and eats slowly. Each bite seems a visible effort, but Pearl is patient, and aids her until she has her fill.
A moment of quiet fills the room.
“You should not waste your time on me,” Penelope repeats, voice faint.
Pearl shakes her head. “No time spent with you is ever wasted.”
—
Days pass with their new routine. Pearl makes sure to include an occasional small comfort as often as she can get away with–soft cloths, a glass of wine, and on one day, slices of citrus from the private kitchen. Despite her efforts, Penelope’s energy diminishes further, and she grows unable to so much as sit up without aid.
Pearl opens the door to Penelope’s chambers once more, a quiet evening with a golden sunset stretching to birdsong outside the window. She approaches the bed with a light step, holding something in her right hand.
“A gift, for you, so that you may be reminded of what you mean to me,” Pearl states, grasping something in her hand gently.
Penelope turns her head, maroon eye narrowing suspiciously to the object in Pearl’s grasp.
She gasps as Pearl unfolds her hand and holds it up for Penelope to see. In it, a delicately sewn eyepatch, with a band made of fine lace. The square contains delicate embroidery of roses and poppies arranged in a mesmerizing spiral, reds and pinks so reminiscent of her home.
“I do hope you like it. I would allow myself another dozen needle pricks to make it perfect for you,” Pearl whispers, breaking the calm silence.
Penelope’s gaze is fixed on the eyepatch. Then, slowly, tears well in her remaining eye as she looks up to Pearl. “It’s beautiful,” she chokes out, her voice dripping with thick emotion, “thank you.”
“You are most welcome. You deserve kindness–I intend to be your reprieve, Poppy,” Pearl states, grasping Penelope’s hand and running her fingers over the other’s.
Weeping, yet smiling, Penelope turns Pearl’s hand and brings it to her lips in a display of affection unlike her, and puts the garment around her head, fitting it into place. “I know not how to express how much this means to me other than this. Thank you… and I also thank your dedication to facing many needle pricks.”
Pearl barks out a laugh at that. The two stay side by side until the sun lays to rest under the horizon, in which Penelope falls asleep during. Pearl draws the blankets up to her chin, and runs her fingers through the girl’s hair before stepping out of the room, the day’s work in her basket ready to be reset for the following day.