Princess Esme's Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

Esme did not sleep. She sat by the cold hearth in her slate blue gown and watched the door. Nine nights had passed since her father sentenced her to marry the duke. Five remained. She had counted them like stones dropped into a well. At midnight the lock turned. Esme rose, ready to fight. But two guards stepped aside instead of seizing her. Between them came a servant woman in a black gown and white apron, white gloves on her folded hands. Esme knew her face from the kitchens, one of the many who had smiled at her all her life. "Quiet, child," the woman whispered. "We love you. We will not watch her sell you." She glanced back at the guards, who nodded. "There is a witch. Morganna Blackthorn. She lives in a tower, four days' ride east. She helps girls the crown throws away. She can help you." Esme's heart pounded. "Why would you risk this? The queen will punish you." "Let her." The woman pressed a folded map into Esme's gloved hand. "Go now, while the queen sleeps. Take the warm cloak from the chest. Your horse waits in the yard." Esme pulled a heavy wool cloak over her shoulders. Her hands shook as she tied the cord. She squeezed the woman's arm once, unable to speak. Then she slipped past the guards and down the dark tower stairs. The halls stood empty. She kept to the walls, her ballet slippers silent on the stone. Every torch seemed too bright. At a turn near the great doors she heard voices and froze against a pillar until they faded. Then she ran for the yard. Her horse stood ready in the moonlight, a great black shire with a silver saddle. Someone had cinched the straps and left the gate unbarred. Esme climbed up, her gown bunching under the cloak. The horse shifted, strong and steady beneath her. She looked up one last time. Behind her rose the castle she had known all her life, its red-roofed turrets black against the stars, its golden banners hanging still. Somewhere inside, the queen slept easy, certain of her win. Esme's father slept too. He would not come for her. She turned the horse toward the open gate. "Go," she whispered. The shire broke into a canter, then a gallop. The castle shrank behind her. Cold air stung her cheeks and pulled her hair loose from its half-pinned knot. For the first time in a month, no locked door stood between her and the sky. By dawn the castle was gone from sight. Esme reined the horse to a walk and unfolded the map. Four days east, past the dark trees, to a witch's tower. She did not know if Morganna Blackthorn would help her or harm her. She only knew she could not go back. Ahead lay a stranger who traded in magic. Esme rode toward her.