eyes and took the cup from her hand.
She smiled eagerly as I gulped down the water. Once I was finished, she took the cup
and moved a tray in front of me. My treacherous stomach growled loudly at the sight
just as I opened my mouth to deny the food. Her pretty little face wrinkled in disapproval,
and she pushed the tray into my lap.
“Don’t make him angry,” she whispered and I couldn’t help but to think that I probably
“won’t like it when he’s angry.” The stupid line from The Hulk pranced through my mind, and I scoffed inwardly.
Unsure of why this rebellious attitude had surfaced or where it had come from, I pushed
away the tray of fresh strawberries, grapes, bananas, and orange slices and stared
at my pretty little prison guard. I wouldn’t have been left alone with this girl if
it wasn’t believed that she could handle me if I got unruly.
She was beautiful, from her dainty nose to her too-round eyes. I wondered how many
people the little sprite had drank dry, her victim realizing too late what a real
danger she was. I shuddered at the thought.
She smiled again, and those sharp teeth made me want to move to the other side of
the bed. “Please, just a few bites. Do you think it is poisoned?” Confusion clouded
her eyes. “Your père would never harm you. You must know that,” she insisted.
Père? I gaped at her. I knew that word from French class in school.
“My father is dead,” I whispered, and not on purpose; my throat was improved, but
not better.
My heart cracked at the mere thought of my father, and though I knew my father couldn’t
be there, hope washed over me.
She smiled creepily and pushed the tray back to me. “No, he is not. Now, eat.” Her
voice was soft but held a demand. “If you want, I will taste it and confirm that it
is not poisoned.”
The girl grabbed a grape, popped it into her mouth, and then grimaced.
Hmm… I quirked a brow in question. “Not poisoned, huh?”
She ate a strawberry and then one of each items remaining on the tray. “Not poisoned,
but after two hundred years of sang , I’d prefer it over fruit.”
She pushed the tray at me yet again, with a bit of force. “Now. Eat.” Her voice had
lost all of the sweet charm it held before, so I ate, hating that every piece of fruit
tasted like heaven to my taste buds and wondering about the “sang” that she mentioned.
As I ate, she busied herself around the room: poking that fire, getting me another
glass of water, and folding my clothes. I watched her. Where was I? Who was she? And
where was Laurent? The woodwork over the bed was ornate, and the wood panel over the
fireplace was oak. Eighteenth century oil paintings lined the walls—all with dates
and names, all reminding me of the field trip I’d taken in high school to the Baltimore
Museum of Art. From the room, I’d think us in another country, but there was no way
that I’d been out that long, was there?
I finally gathered the courage to ask a question. The burning sensation in my bladder
wouldn’t allow me to sit quietly anymore. “Excuse me, uh…”
“Anastaise, but call me Ana.” She kept busily folding the clothes that I’d arrived
in, which reminded me. I was wearing a formfitting lace dress. The gently pleated
and handkerchief-hemmed white skirt was soft and light to the touch, and the cream
laced bodice with earth-toned beaded embellishments fit snuggly on my chest. Who had
changed my clothes?
There was no time to ask as my bladder shuddered around its contents. “Ana, bathroom?”
I asked urgently as I gently slid off of the bed, holding my full and cramping bladder.
She pointed to one of the two doors in the room.
I carefully but quickly made my way to it. Once inside, I quickly handled the call
of nature, only sparing a quick glance around at the marbled floor and modern elements.
Not wanting to spend too much time in the small space—Laurent was probably
She smiled eagerly as I gulped down the water. Once I was finished, she took the cup
and moved a tray in front of me. My treacherous stomach growled loudly at the sight
just as I opened my mouth to deny the food. Her pretty little face wrinkled in disapproval,
and she pushed the tray into my lap.
“Don’t make him angry,” she whispered and I couldn’t help but to think that I probably
“won’t like it when he’s angry.” The stupid line from The Hulk pranced through my mind, and I scoffed inwardly.
Unsure of why this rebellious attitude had surfaced or where it had come from, I pushed
away the tray of fresh strawberries, grapes, bananas, and orange slices and stared
at my pretty little prison guard. I wouldn’t have been left alone with this girl if
it wasn’t believed that she could handle me if I got unruly.
She was beautiful, from her dainty nose to her too-round eyes. I wondered how many
people the little sprite had drank dry, her victim realizing too late what a real
danger she was. I shuddered at the thought.
She smiled again, and those sharp teeth made me want to move to the other side of
the bed. “Please, just a few bites. Do you think it is poisoned?” Confusion clouded
her eyes. “Your père would never harm you. You must know that,” she insisted.
Père? I gaped at her. I knew that word from French class in school.
“My father is dead,” I whispered, and not on purpose; my throat was improved, but
not better.
My heart cracked at the mere thought of my father, and though I knew my father couldn’t
be there, hope washed over me.
She smiled creepily and pushed the tray back to me. “No, he is not. Now, eat.” Her
voice was soft but held a demand. “If you want, I will taste it and confirm that it
is not poisoned.”
The girl grabbed a grape, popped it into her mouth, and then grimaced.
Hmm… I quirked a brow in question. “Not poisoned, huh?”
She ate a strawberry and then one of each items remaining on the tray. “Not poisoned,
but after two hundred years of sang , I’d prefer it over fruit.”
She pushed the tray at me yet again, with a bit of force. “Now. Eat.” Her voice had
lost all of the sweet charm it held before, so I ate, hating that every piece of fruit
tasted like heaven to my taste buds and wondering about the “sang” that she mentioned.
As I ate, she busied herself around the room: poking that fire, getting me another
glass of water, and folding my clothes. I watched her. Where was I? Who was she? And
where was Laurent? The woodwork over the bed was ornate, and the wood panel over the
fireplace was oak. Eighteenth century oil paintings lined the walls—all with dates
and names, all reminding me of the field trip I’d taken in high school to the Baltimore
Museum of Art. From the room, I’d think us in another country, but there was no way
that I’d been out that long, was there?
I finally gathered the courage to ask a question. The burning sensation in my bladder
wouldn’t allow me to sit quietly anymore. “Excuse me, uh…”
“Anastaise, but call me Ana.” She kept busily folding the clothes that I’d arrived
in, which reminded me. I was wearing a formfitting lace dress. The gently pleated
and handkerchief-hemmed white skirt was soft and light to the touch, and the cream
laced bodice with earth-toned beaded embellishments fit snuggly on my chest. Who had
changed my clothes?
There was no time to ask as my bladder shuddered around its contents. “Ana, bathroom?”
I asked urgently as I gently slid off of the bed, holding my full and cramping bladder.
She pointed to one of the two doors in the room.
I carefully but quickly made my way to it. Once inside, I quickly handled the call
of nature, only sparing a quick glance around at the marbled floor and modern elements.
Not wanting to spend too much time in the small space—Laurent was probably
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