Chapter One

The first thing Mable Lawrence woke up to every day was her alarm. She hated her alarm with a passion, and it was in this type of mood that she smashed her snooze button and rolled over, her mood foul. Mornings were not her thing, and she was going to sleep for as long as she could. Mornings were heinous, in Mable’s opinion, and whoever invented them ought to be dragged out into the street and shot. She fluffed her pillow and settled in, sighing in contentment. The stillness that seemed to echo the room meant that it had snowed during the night, a perfect excuse for staying in bed. Mable buried her head underneath the pillow, cutting off all chances for light to disturb her sleep. She let her mind wander, and found herself remembering an intense dream where she was being seduced by some actor. Who the actor was she was not entirely sure, but the warmth she had felt at his touch lingered in her mind. She smiled, not altogether awake, and just slid right back into sleep. The dream was returning, and her lover was running back up to her. His face was still blurred, like a painting that had come in contact with a rainstorm. The man reached out to her, opened his mouth, and let out a shrill scream.

            Mable launched herself upward in bed, her heart racing wildly as the dream started to fade, but the shrill noise remained. She pushed her reddish-blonde hair out of her face, and glared at her digital clock. It was ten of seven, an ungodly hour that she detested. She flung herself backward, and then grabbed the phone from her nightstand, without sitting up. She glanced at the caller ID and winced. She couldn’t just ignore the phone, like she had planned. Groaning in irritation, she pressed the button and let the annoyance she felt wash into her voice.

            “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

            “Mable?  It’s Jean. Where’s Dad?”

            “If he has any sense he’s still sleeping. God, Jean, it’s seven in the morning. What could possibly be so important that you had to wake me up?”

            “I always call you on Wednesday, to check on Dad. Just like Colette always calls you on the weekends, to check on Dad. It’s a family tradition.”

            “Tradition dictates that I should hang up on you. Really, it is seven in the morning. You couldn’t have called me later, like at a decent hour?”

“I’m in court later today. I had to call now, otherwise I would wake you up at seven at night, and you’d complain even more.” Mable gritted her teeth. The insinuation that she was lazy sharpened her temper to a razor edge.

“Ah, well, we can’t all be active, Jean. Some of us have to watch their fathers, while their sisters go off and become famous, or raise families, or even both. Some of us have to watch our father lose more and more of his memory, because Alzheimer’s disease likes to take its sweet, goddamn time as it destroys lives. Some of us find some comfort in an activity as simple as sleeping when our father is sick, and our sisters live on the opposite sides of the frigging country.” Mable punched her pillow in rage, and punched it again in remorse. Jean was the eldest, and took care of Colette and herself when their mother had passed away. She didn’t deserve to be spoken to in such a way. Mable rubbed her forehead, took a deep breath, and got ready to taste some crow.

“Jean, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Mable felt guilt writhe in her belly as she pictured tears in her sister’s eyes. She hated making someone as strong and motherly as Jean cry.

“It’s all right, Mable. We did sort of push this onto you. Is Dad really doing okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. He has plenty of good days to make up for the bad ones. Really, Jean, I am sorry. I guess I’m just feeling a little stir crazy. I’ve been stuck here for a couple of days, been cooped up, you know?” Mable smiled indulgently, even though she knew her sister couldn’t see her. She still felt guilty, but the warm acceptance Jean had given her was like a balm, calming her nerves.

“I can understand that. Why don’t you call that nurse and go outside today? You know, take a walk or something. Get yourself out of the house.”

“Will do. I first got to make sure the roads are clear, though”

“Right. I got to get going, the girls are going to be up any minute.” Mable glanced at the clock. It was almost seven-thirty.

“Tell them Auntie Mable said ‘hi’, okay?”

“Sure. Say, we got a vacation coming up. Do you want us to fly up there? The girls have been bugging me about a visit.”

“Sounds good to me. Hey, do you know where Colette is this week?” Her other older sister was a fashion designer, and was often in places that Mable had only read about in books.

“She’s somewhere in Europe. Italy, I believe. She’s always got to be in the middle of the fashion scene, and if I’m not mistaken, she has a big show coming up. I’ll give her a call; see if she can make it in time. Give Daddy my love.”

“All right.  Bye Jeanie.”

“Bye, Mable.” Mable could hear the smile in her sister’s voice, and grinned. Jean always loved it when Mable used her old nickname. She set the phone back on its hook and shoved herself out of bed. She would not be able to go back to sleep now, her father would be up in another hour or so, and she still had to make breakfast.

She quickly made her bed, her desire for order overcoming her desire for a hot shower. Perhaps it was strange, but Mable always had a burning need for everything to be in its proper place. She fluffed the pillows, and stumbled into the bathroom she had once shared with her sisters. It was, as always, pristine with its minty green walls and decorative tiles. Her father had repainted it when she and her sisters had complained that the old color was gross. She remembered he had laughed at their less than accurate descriptions, then agreed to repaint it, but only if they could agree on a color. It had taken the three of them weeks to figure it out, because they could rarely decide on anything together. Finally they had come up with a color that mixed all their tastes into one, simple design that had left everyone feeling satisfied. Mable had refused to paint over it again when both her sisters moved out many years ago. Jean had moved to Massachusetts, where she went to get a degree at the sophisticated Harvard, and start a family. Colette had gone to New York, to find her way down the road of fashion. No one wanted to stay in their little town way on the outskirts of Grand Marais, Minnesota. It was a small sight-seeing community, not really a place to find fortune. Mable understood why they left, but even after all these years, it still hurt.

Mable counted off the list of things she had to do while she took her shower, and decided that if she did call the nurse from the senior center, she would have time to take a leisurely walk in one of scenic spots before she did all her chores. Jean was right about that much; she really needed to get out of the house. Her mind was going crazy with all the things she had to do indoors, not including keeping an eye on her father, and she just couldn’t resist the chance to get out of the stuffy house and admire the cold, quiet scenery outside.

Mable turned off the water, hoping she had left some hot water for her father. She went to the floor length mirror that was hooked to the back of the door and stared at her body, another morning ritual. Her eyes traveled from the top of her head, where her normally red-gold hair had darkened from the spray, turning it a deep crimson color. She had cut it short, so it only touched her shoulders, making it easier to manage. She studied her hazel eyes, arched nose, and high cheekbones. Her skin was pale, as it usually got in the winter. She was not, by any means, beautiful. She was overweight, chubby, and looked more like an awkward high school girl than a twenty-five-year-old woman. She had not grown an inch since her last year of high school, so her height was still a couple of inches above five feet. She was not tall and leggy like her sister Jean. Nor was she short and sophisticated like Colette. She didn’t even have a pretty name. Mable was just as she had always been. Ordinary.

Mable threw on her robe and marched back to her bedroom, which was thankfully right next to the bathroom. The two-story, old Victorian house did not hold heat as well as it used to. Mable had learned to take a long shower and get dressed quick; otherwise she would be frozen permanently. Winters were merciless in Minnesota, and though Mable was fond of frosty, snowy days, she still liked to stay warm. With a winter hike in mind, she had better dress as warmly as she could.

Unlike her sisters, she did not much care for her appearance, so she threw on jeans, an old sweater, and a grubby green sweatshirt that was two sizes too big and came down to her knees. Putting her hair up in a ponytail, she shuffled her way down to the end of the hall to where her father slept. The master bedroom had been Stephan Lawrence’s sanctuary for years, a place where he could go to get away from little girls’ eyes and have some quiet time with the memories of his late wife. Now it was still his special place, the only place where memories did not collide with the present and become messy puzzle pieces in his mind. Mable knocked once, and then stuck her head in without waiting for an invitation. Her father’s room was still dark, which meant he was probably just lying there, waiting for someone to tell him what to do, because he couldn’t remember. Mable walked up to the bed and shook him a little. She could hear him breathing, so he was all right, just confused.

“Daddy, are you awake? It’s time to get up.”

Her father rolled over and turned on the lamp next to his bed, nearly blinding her. He sat up, and like a small child, rubbed his eyes. His eyes were like hers, a hazel color with flecks of dark green that used to twinkle when he looked at his girls. Of course, now his eyes were cloudy, blurred with confusion and heavy with sleep. His hair was once a dark, burly red, but now it was faded like an old photograph, and baby-fine. His face had once been filled out, chubby and jolly, with a permanent smile. Presently his face had become narrower as the years went by, and his once-smooth chin was gray with stubble. He was just a shadow of the man he used to be, but Mable still admired him, still adored him, even.

He yawned, scratched his chin and looked at her. Then he smiled like he used to, and she felt as if she was ten years old again, coming to wake him up because it was a snow day and she didn’t have school.

“Good morning, honey.” he said. Mable sighed in relief. It looked like it was going to be one of his good days. Her father glanced out the window and grinned.

“Well, looks like it’s going to be a pancake day, huh, sugar? Why don’t you let me take a quick shower and I rustle us up some breakfast?” Mable bit her lip at the mention of pancakes. Her father always made pancakes on snow days, saying that they were the ultimate breakfast on a cold day. He would flip them high in the air, making Mable and her sisters giggle and squeal as they would come close to falling on the floor and he would catch them at the last minute. Mable swallowed the lump in her throat, knowing that it was impossible for her father to do something as simple as making pancakes again. He was just too mixed up.

“It’s okay, Daddy. Why don’t you let me make breakfast, while you shower and get dressed?” She thanked God that her father could still remember something like taking a shower. People, names, and places were confusing, since there were so many, but it was easy for him to remember something that he did on a daily basis.

“Okey-dokey. You just get those pancakes started, Mable.” He hugged her, then got up and lurched into the master bathroom. She waited until she heard the old pipes wheeze, and a low, rumbling voice as her father started to sing before she went downstairs to start the pancakes.

 

 

Mable had just put the last pancake on the plate when he father came into the kitchen. Placing the plate on the small, oak table that sat in the nook overlooking the backyard, Mable set about making coffee. Back when her sisters were still living in the house, they would all have breakfast in the next room, at the far larger table. However, in the small, cramped kitchen, the little table served as a good spot for only her and her father. Mable breathed deep as the smell of fresh pancakes and coffee wafted through the morning air. The kitchen was cramped, but cozy. The bright, butter-colored walls were filled with pictures, drawings, and old schoolwork that Mable, her sisters, and now her nieces had done. The cabinets were a dark oak, gleaming with the regular care she gave them, and the stove and refrigerator sparkled with cleanliness. Cleaning was the one thing Mable knew how to do right. Even now, while the coffee was heating up, she continued to wipe the countertop and stove, to get rid of the extra flour and batter she had spilled. She kept one eye on her father as he sat down and started to help himself, murmuring nonsense under his breath as he usually did when he was concentrating on how to do something as simple as serving himself. Mable grimaced. Maybe today would not be one of his good days, as she had hoped.

“Jeanie, these pancakes are delicious!” Her father exclaimed, and Mable sighed. Her father often confused her with Jean, who did most of the cooking when Mable was younger. Mable knew better than to correct her father, though. If she did, he would just get upset and throw a fit. It was easier to just pretend to be her sister for today. The buzzer sounded on the coffee, and she quickly poured some and sat down to her own breakfast.

“Thanks, Daddy. I’ve got someone coming to shovel for us today, so you stay inside and rest, all right? I may be going out later, so Miss Carol is coming to keep an eye on things.” Mable smiled indulgently at her father, trying to be cheerful even as she saw his face go blank when she talked about someone different.

“Why does someone else have to shovel? I’m not sick, I can do it.” Her father frowned, annoyed. Mable was used to this; her father had done work around the house for so long, he still wanted to help out. On his good days, she let him do small projects to keep him happy, but on bad days she had to work around him, otherwise he would forget what he was doing and just leave, or worse, hurt himself.

“It’s the neighbor boy down the road. He asked me if I would pay him to shovel the walk, so he could make a little extra cash. He’s done a good job, Daddy. You just relax today. Start on that puzzle you wanted.”Mable breathed in relief when he father smiled and nodded. He didn’t always listen to her, but today he would do as she said.

“Ah, well, all right. If you think he’ll do a good job.  You want to help me with that puzzle, sweetie?” He gave her the bright, child-like smile he used to charm her. It worked when she was little but it wouldn’t work now.

“Sorry, Daddy. I’m going out today.” She said it as if she had just remembered to tell him, other than trying to remind him.

“Oh? Whereabouts are you headed? It’s only Wednesday, we don’t need groceries.” Mable raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t often her father remembered the days of the week.

“No, just for a little walk” Mable smiled at her father. She loved moments like this; it was like he was still as he used to be, before Alzheimer’s. “I like the cold and I love the woods when they’re like this, all covered with snow.” She took the last bite of her pancakes and got up to clear the dishes. Her father sipped his coffee, and his eyes crinkled as he looked at her over the rim. Timeless things, like walks and weather, did not confuse him as much, and tended to be safe subjects.

“Well, you be careful out there. Black ice, snow drifts, and God only knows what else. It can make you regret you ever wanted to go out in the first place, and I don’t like that you’re going out alone. No telling what kind of weird stuff might happen.” He looked at her sternly, like he would whenever she would go out unattended.

“I’ll be fine Daddy. I’ll bring my cell phone. Oh, speaking of phones. I got a call from Jeanie this morning. Guess whose granddaughters are coming to visit you in a couple of weeks?” She grinned at him. Despite his illness, the man loved his family, especially those two little girls. Mable watched his face light up, and his smile became pure and beautiful, almost like an angel’s.

“Jeanie and the girls are coming up? When are they coming?” he asked. Mable pondered a moment, not sure whether she should give him a date or not. Chances were that he wouldn’t remember it and would get upset that she didn’t tell him if they showed up unexpectedly. She was saved when the doorbell rang, and she heard the familiar tapping of heels on the front steps. It looked like the nurse was here.

“That sounds like Miss Carol, Daddy. You behave yourself while I’m gone, you hear me?” She kissed his cheek and hurried her way towards the door. She smiled at the plump, motherly woman on the front steps. Miss Carol had been her helper and babysitter for a couple of years. She always gave her father the best treatment without ever giving off the feeling that she was from a nursing home. Mable thought of Miss Carol as the ultimate caregiver, a woman who never stopped smiling that sweet little smile, and who always had time to help out. Miss Carol was the only person Mable trusted to take care of her father, and even now Mable was given a quick, maternal kiss and hug before being shooed out the door.

“Go, go on, dear, me and your father will have a wonderful time together. You go out, meet some friends, and have lunch! Get yourself out and about. Go on, now!” Miss Carol bustled off to the kitchen and Mable’s father.

Mable called a quick goodbye and gathered her winter things before hurrying outside to start up the little Saturn that had been in the family since Jean had first started to drive. After a few grueling moments, the heat finally kicked in and Mable was off.

Mable let her mind wander as she drove, mostly about what Miss Carol had said about meeting friends. Mable had not had any friends since high school, and most of them were probably busy with work and children. Even when she was in high school she did not have as many friends. She was not part of the intellectual crowd, like her sister Jean, although she did manage to keep on the honor roll for all four years of school. She was not fashionably conscious, like her sister Colette. Hell, half the time she would go to school and find out that there was a giant mustard stain on her shirt, something that never happened to Colette. Mable’s friends had consisted of some of the drama club students, one or two honor roll students like herself, and one jock. Presently the theater students had all gone off to Broadway, the smart students to rich, sophisticated colleges, and the jock was working a full time job to earn his way through college. Mable had not made any friends once she left college because she and her sisters agreed that since Jean wanted to be a lawyer and Colette a designer, it would be easier if Mable stayed at home to keep an eye on their father. Her father had started to lose his memory a lot more right as Mable finished her second year of college, and she felt she owed it to him to stay. Her passion mostly existed in writing, anyway. She loved creative writing classes, and even took some night courses over the summer. She loved literature too, but writing was something more. She wrote when she had time, but everything she wrote always seemed too immature, or it just never got finished. So her half-finished, cheesy works had stayed shut up in her closet, where she would look at them occasionally in moments of nostalgia.

Mable admitted there were times when she thought she had a good idea. When an inspiration, a tiny, spark of thought lit in her head, she would feel the heat of the idea fill her. The idea would grow, and her fingers would itch for a pen and paper, or keyboard, and the sheer need to write the story down would almost swallow her whole. Then she would finally have a chance to sit down, and just write, but the idea would disappear, becoming so imprecise that sometimes she thought she had only dreamt it. Once she had the greatest idea only to write it down and find that it was a silly, stupid tale that had already been told a million times.  It had almost brought her to tears. But despite the hardships, she still loved it, even if inspiration only came once in a great while.

Mable snapped herself out of her reverie when she came upon the exit sign for a small, nature walkway. She had never been here before, since she didn’t like to exercise a lot, but for the occasion she decided to go on one of the shorter, more scenic walks than the popular hiking trails. This trail, from what she heard, was short and easy hike that disappeared into the woods and wrapped back around in a small oval shape. Mable took off her sneakers that she had worn for the car and put on her new hiking boots that she had gotten from Colette. They were not as ugly as her old boots, being that they were from Colette, and quite comfortable. They were much better than walking through the snow in her sneakers.

“Points for Colette,” Mable grumbled to herself. Talking to herself was an old habit, one she couldn’t grow out of. She quickly checked her front pocket for her cell phone, her back pocket for her driver’s license, and her head for her hat. It wasn’t very windy out, so she probably wouldn’t need it, but she liked having her ears covered up. She glanced around, and was a little dismayed that there were no other cars in the lot. She didn’t want company, but it was a little creepy having to walk around here by herself.

“Well, what kind of weirdoes would be on a scenic trail, anyway? S**t, Jean was right. I needed to get out of the house.” Mable shook her head at her own nervousness, and then took her keys out of the ignition, where they had been ready to turn on the car and go home. Mumbling to herself, Mable locked the doors, shoved her keys into her other pocket, and headed towards the woods.

Even for someone who didn’t like hiking, Mable had to admit it was the perfect day for it. The air was crisp, with no hint of wind. Mable’s cheeks stung a little from the cold, but she kept going, appreciating the cloudless sky and the picture of white ahead of her. The ground crunched under her feet, and she could hear the sounds of wildlife coming out from their hideaways. Days like this came only once in a long while during early November. Usually once the month started, it became downright impossible to get out of the house until the end of April. Mable barely saw any grass even during the short, but satisfying, summer. It felt good to be out of the house, in the fresh air. Mable stopped and took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs, making her nose tingle.

Mable continued to walk in the peaceful, silent woods, alone in her thoughts. She would kick her heels in the snow, sending white flakes dancing into the air. She stopped once in a while to take a deep breath. The weather, the area, the fact that she was out of the house, it all seemed to calm her, ground her. She whistled for a little bit, a tuneless sound that echoed through the dark forest of pine trees. She watched a squirrel and some kind of jay have a hilarious fight, the squawking and enraged squeaks ringing through the empty wood. She liked animals, for the most part. Maybe someday she would get a pet. Not now, of course, not with her father the way he was. But someday, she decided, maybe someday she would have her own house, to do with as she pleased. She watched the squirrel and jay a moment more, and then set off to walk further down the path.

It was then that the ground came out from underneath her, and sent her flying into blackness.

 

 

Mable felt herself coming to, gradually. First it was just sensations. She felt something tickling her face. Her cold hands and feet started to tingle and she finally felt the impression of her head resting on something incredibly hard. Her breath was coming in fast, shallow puffs, and panic started to consume her. She opened her eyes, and all she could see were sky and the tops of trees. She went to move, and only felt numb.

Oh s**t. I’m paralyzed.

Mable tried to move again, whimpering in fear. This time it worked, and she was able to slowly sit up. She let out a relieved laugh, flexing her fingers to get the blood moving. She felt the back of her head, and winced. There was a very large lump. Bones cracking in protest, she turned her head to discover the source of the lump. She had hit her head on a large, icy rock. Panic started to dissolve away, and anger started to kick in. How the hell did she fall backward, when she had been walking forward? Frowning, she slowly started to stand, and groaned as her body ached from the cold and from being in one position for so long. Mostly to test her voice, to make sure that worked, she started to talk to herself again.

“D****t, that hurts. Crap!”She stretched, and looked at the sky. The edges of the sky were darkening, as day turned to dusk. “D****t!” she yelled, and felt some satisfaction at yelling a swearword into the woods. She glanced around, but, despite the frozen covering of snow on the ground, she could not figure out where she was. She couldn’t see the path she had been on, and the trees no longer looked familiar. She yelped loudly when she heard rustling in the bush, but before she could react a squirrel streaked in front of her and up an opposite tree. She shook her head at her own stupidity. She reached for her cell phone, very eager to get out of there. She studied it; it didn’t look damaged from the fall. She’d call the house first; let Miss Carol know where she was so her father wouldn’t worry. Then she would have to call the police, because she had no clue where she was. Mable dialed the phone with numb fingers, silently praying that someone would pick up.

She didn’t even get a dial tone.

Oh boy. This was bad. She started to walk, even though she knew she was probably just going to get even more lost. But her body was starting to shiver from the cold and ache from the fall, so standing around was out. Plus, if she didn’t do something, she was going to panic. She hunched her shoulders, blinking back tears of fury, terror, and distress. She glanced her phone. Surely there would be some signal, or someone’s voice telling her she was out of range?  She had signal when she got out of the car, hadn’t she? For the life of her, Mable couldn’t remember. She continued to walk, her hair whipping around her face. Great. Not only was it getting darker by the minute, but the wind had started up.

Nevertheless, she continued until it was almost dark. The wind had turned from a soft blow to a nasty howl. Her heart racing in her chest, Mable started to jog through the woods, trying to ignore the sounds coming from around her. She thought she heard people talking, laughing, singing. It had to be the wind. That was the only explanation. She tucked her face further into her jacket, so the only part of her face showing was her eyes. Even those were useless. All she could see were trees that were right in front of her. There was no path, nowhere to go, but she didn’t dare stop. If she did, she might find that those voices might be real. She strained to see up farther. Was that a gate or just a shadow?

It was, in fact, a gate. Feeling a little braver, but not much, Mable looked up, daring to lift her face up out of her jacket. The gate was taller than she was by about five feet, going far above her head. It was cast iron, black with no spots of rust. It gleamed even in the dark, as if it had been recently polished. Mable tried to look past the gate, but she couldn’t see much. She looked around. The gate seemed to be the only entrance along a gigantic brick wall that stretched outward into the dark. Mable struggled to make up her mind. She wasn’t sure how to get in, but surely it was better to try and climb the gate than to wander down the length of that endless wall?

She hadn’t even finished her thought yet when the gate, soundless in the howling of the storm, opened on its own accord.

“That is definitely spooky.” She murmured, her voice lost in the wind. She backed up a step, uncertain, but hurried forward when she realized that it had started to snow again. She strained to look through the snow, which started to fall faster and thicker, and wondered if she was in a courtyard of some kind. She thought she saw statues, but her eyes could only see odd shapes in the dark. She hurried on, trying to ignore the fierce pounding of her heart.

She was just beginning to wonder how much further she had to walk until she found a damn house or shed or something when she tripped and fell flat on her face. Swearing profusely, she got up, and found that she was at the steps of a humongous castle.

Cue the creepy lightning.

It had to be a castle, her mind stuttered, it was too big to be anything else. She could see towers and turrets even through the blinding snow. The windows were small, but brightly lit, and she could see some were made of stained glass. Other were plain, etched glass that made the light blazing from inside sparkle and dance among the snowflakes. The castle itself was made of stone, some thick granite that was cut taller than she was. Each was artfully placed, making the thin lines that connected them together look like ivy or some other plant racing up the sides. The whole effect made her feel incredibly small and insignificant.

How the hell do they keep this place heated? Mable thought to herself, and then bit back laughter that came close to hysterics. Falling on her head must have had some effect. It probably wasn’t even as big as she thought it was, it was probably some sort of hallucination. She forced her fist in her mouth, her breath coming out in quick, painful gasps. Falling headfirst, walking through a snowstorm in unfamiliar woods and then getting stuck asking some stranger for help. Finding a fake castle in the middle of the wilderness just put icing on the cake.

It took a couple of minutes shivering in the cold until she was finally composed enough to start looking for a door. She inched her way up the stairs, watching out for patches of ice that would send her on another trip into unconsciousness. She got to the top of the stairs and gaped at the huge, oak door that loomed in front of her. It had to be solid oak, and it stood about three feet over her head. Not just one door, she discovered giddily, but two. It was one of those double doors that were found only on castles.

She stupidly started looking for a doorbell.

Idiot. Why would they put of doorbell on something like this? Haven’t you been paying attention to those old movies?

She shook her head, and looked for a doorknocker instead. Sure enough, there were two gold, ornate doorknockers in the shape of lions’ heads. Each of the lions’ heads was bigger than her fists. Fear made her hesitate, but cold, aches, and annoyance made her grab the ring that was hanging in one of the lions’ mouths and knock. The thing was heavy, so she knocked again. The sheer weight of the knocker hammering against the wood made her very bones vibrate. She could hear the pounding echoing through the castle, and wondered if there was even anybody living there. She rubbed her hands together, and went to grab the knocker with both hands, intending to knock the damn door off if she had to.

Before she could even touch the knocker, the door opened, and she blinked as warmth brushed her face and the bright light filled her eyes.