Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

Torin

Unable to stand it any more, Torin escaped from the celebratory dinner. Inside, the manor house was aglow with light, music and laughter with servants scurrying from the kitchen to the banquet hall bearing steaming platters, bottles of wine and delectable desserts.

The Comte had insisted upon throwing a gala in honor of his daughter’s birthday. All the gentry from miles around had been invited. And, no one appeared surprised to hear from him. Apparently the witch’s demise had set everything to rights. All was as it should have been; had Odette lived. Twenty-one years of collective memory regarding Swan’s Rest and its inhabitants had been wiped clean. Which was all well and good for some, but did little to ease Torin and Jessamine’s suffering. They were trapped in a maze for which they could find no key.

It embarrassed him that Jessamine had made the first approach. She’d snuck from the manor house that first night to search him out. Climbing to the loft she’d found him sitting in the open door staring miserably out into the now disenchanted field. Self-consciousness had proved a barrier at first but was soon dispelled when it became obvious their experiences were so similar. They had talked through the night and parted as friends, though none the wiser to solving the mystery.

Tonight, all the gaiety and merrymaking had gotten under his skin. The walls had seemed to press close and he’d had to escape.

He kicked a pebble and the sound was harsh and discordant. Jessamine was lovely; that was undeniable, a true fairy tale princess. But she was not his Solace. Nor was he her knight. [They were both uncomfortably aware that the Comte held hope that a love match might be in the making. After all, he had been privy to their exuberant meeting. He’d found their reticence afterwards puzzling but accepted it as a private matter and did not pry, for which they’d been extremely grateful.]

His ambling led him to the small orchard beyond the carriage house. The sweet aroma of apple blossoms brought a pang of homesickness he wasn’t prepared to deal with. Steering clear he crossed to what the servants referred to as The Mistress’s Garden. [He’d assumed they meant the late Odette.] Settling on a bench he glumly considered his current circumstances.

Stay or go? It was a decision he simply could not make. If he stayed and Solace never reappeared, he’d go mad. [Also, remaining would only encourage the Comte’s desire for a betrothal.] But if he left and she did come back, he’d never know, and still go insane from not knowing. In desperation he’d gone so far as to pose his dilemma to Fortenbrass and the cat, but had received nothing more helpful than a pair of blank stares.

Twisting irritably around, he lay down full length upon the bench. After laboring hard under such pressure his mind decided to declare a recess and shortly he drifted off to sleep.

Soft fingers caressed his hair.
Springing upright…clasping her close…
he cried her name in relief…
“Solace!”
A voice gently answered
“No”.

Jerking back
he beheld a face he’d seen only once…
in a miniature
saved long ago from a watery grave…
Odette.

Smiling…
she drew him back down to her side.
“You must go.
You’re no longer needed
and
the one you love
is not truly here.
To find her again…to save her…
is your next task.

In order to do so will take time
for you must journey
far to the north
to the realm betwixt and between
the Seventh and Eighth Kingdoms…
the Land of Nod
and there seek out a White Maiden.
Only one such as she
can help you, now.

Now, go…
leave as soon as you can.
It does no good to linger
and much harm if you tarry.”
So saying
she pressed a kiss to his cheek…

Torin came to, his mind free of uncertainty and sure of purpose. Abandoning the garden, he hastened to the barn to prepare for an early departure.

Jessamine

Downstairs
shadows and mice now partied
where a short while ago
gaily attired guests
had danced…flirted…dined…laughed.

Upstairs
the Comte slept soundly
happy and content…
his precious daughter…
presumed long dead…had been restored…
his beloved wife
once again resided within their home
in spirit if not in flesh.

Down the hall
sniffles…sobs issued from beneath
a huddle of silken sheets.
Contrarily a fist punched a toppled pillow
then clutch it tightly
staining the fabric with tears.
Righteous Indignation…abject misery
played tug-of-war
with her heart…in the dark.

The mattress depressed.
Familiar arms pulled her close
rocking…comforting…quieting.
Odette kissed her daughter’s forehead
smiling tenderly
as the girl’s sobs dwindled into hiccups.

Jessamine listened hungrily
as her mother’s words
erected building blocks of hope.
Pacified she sank into exhaustive sleep
pillowed against her mother’s breast.