—Richelle E. Goodrich
The term “fairy tale” or
“conte de fées” was first used by French writer Countess d’Aulnoy at the end of
the seventeenth century. “Once upon a time” is even older and can be traced
back to an English poem from 1380! Of course, short stories based on myths and
folklore existed long before people started to call them fairy tales, and they
continue to evolve as new writers reinvent the characters and their
circumstances.
Last year I wrote a blog post about Beauty and the Beast retellings. It was the first time I’d used a fairy tale as the basis for my reading choices, and I really enjoyed both the research and the reading. With that in mind, I repeated the exercise this week with a different fairy tale. I chose Rapunzel, partly because I’ve always loved the film Tangled and partly because I was curious—it’s a less mainstream fairy tale and arguably more difficult to reimagine.
Once again, the research
was a lot of fun, and I’m already looking forward to exploring a new fairy tale in the future. I hope you find my choices interesting, and thank you very much for
visiting my blog today 💕.
** Writing update: Further to my previous post about villains, I’ve written prologues for both new books, and now I feel like I should apologise to my characters for what they’re about to face! **
What if Rapunzel was Snow
White’s evil stepmother? In this kingdom, only one fairy tale can end with
happily ever after.
I love descriptions that begin with “What if…?”
I also like the idea of bringing two fairy tales
together and exploring what happens to Rapunzel after she marries her prince. Then
I read the prologue, and I was hooked. I can’t resist a sympathetic and
complicated villain.
Prologue (extract)
I was the girl with the
long long hair, trapped in the tower. You have no doubt heard of me. As a young
woman I was very famous for those tresses, even though I lived in the middle of
the woods and had never been to court, not for a feast or a wedding or a matter
of law.
[…]
Poets and troubadours
sang of my beauty then.
It was sorcery, that
hair. Sometimes now I wonder if things would have been different, had I been
plain.
It is a hard thing, not
being that girl any longer. Even as I sit here, I cannot help but turn toward
the mirror and ask the question I have asked a thousand times before:
“Who is the fairest of
them all?”
The mirror shifts. The
glass moves back and forth, like water. And then my image disappears, until a
voice, like a memory, or something from my bones and skin, gives me the same
answer it always does now:
“She is.”
I turn back to the
parchment in front of me and try to ignore the ache inside. The apple waits on
the table next to me, gleaming with poison. All that’s left to do is write it
down, everything that happened, so that there will still be some record in this
world.
Gothel is a witch.
Punished for the actions of her mother, her choice is simple: either she stands
guard over Princess Rapunzel—or she dies.
This caught my eye
because the story is told from Gothel’s POV, and she’s not the villain from the
original story. Rapunzel’s father, the king, became a powerful sorcerer by
stealing from Aethel, Gothel’s mother. Aethel took her revenge by cursing
Rapunzel. Rapunzel can only be freed by a prince of noble heart and some
special, heavily-guarded magical shears. Oh, and the prince also has to kill
Gothel, the innocent witch forced to guard Rapunzel. As if that wasn’t enough
of a challenge, what happens if Gothel and the prince fall for each other along
the way? I can’t wait to find out... Here’s a short extract from the beginning of
the book.
“My name is Prince Merek
Duc’Line.”
“You’re the king’s son?”
He nodded.
My stomach knotted. A prince? Could he be the one? If he was, then I should’ve fought him off. I should’ve kept him as far away from the tower as possible. There was a foretelling that a prince of noble blood would free the princess and kill the witch. Kill me.
She never wanted to leave the tower. He never wanted to rule the country. But when war breaks out, this reckless prince and reclusive maiden are faced with overcoming their deepest fears in order to determine not only their own fate, but that of their entire country.
I was intrigued by a
Rapunzel who doesn’t want to be rescued, and the Italian setting, and a prince
with his own character development challenges. Plus the main character’s name
is Nella, short for Petrosinella—just like the original version of the story 😀. Here’s a short extract of some dialogue between Nella and Prince
Benedict about a third of the way through the book.
“And do you—that is, have
you any betrothals currently?” she asked.
He laughed. “I do seem to
go through them at an alarming rate, don’t I?”
“Well, you did when I was
a child. I think there were five before I reached the age of twelve.”
“Oh, probably at least
eight or nine.” He grinned. “No, not currently. I seem to have a bit of bad
luck with that.”
Nella was horrified to
find herself glad. Jealousy was a sign of attachment. Or worse. “Well, I wish
you all the best in that, then.” She hated saying the words, and she hated that
she hated it.
Benedict seemed not to
notice. “Do you ever hope of getting married?”
[…]
He looked at her and
grinned. “I suppose being tethered to a man for the rest of your life makes you
shudder.”
“Until the rest of his
life,” she corrected, not able to restrain a smirk.
My tale has been told
again and again, and I’ve heard each one. Except for my hair, I barely
recognize the pitiful renditions. Muddled versions, crafted to entertain
laughing children… but the children wouldn’t have laughed if they’d known the
real story. It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know the truth. Nobody did. My
name is Rapunzel. I will tell you my story. I will tell you the truth.
The first person POV in
the description works really well, and it sets the scene for a fresh take on
the story with a strong protagonist. Anything could happen following an
introduction like that!
Prologue (extract)
I peered out my window,
waiting for the right moment. There. The sun dropped below the horizon,
casting the castle grounds into darkness.
Now!
I tied the corners of my
blanket together into a knot then slung the makeshift sack over my shoulder. I
scurried to the door. Looking back was not an option.
I had thirty minutes,
maximum. That’s all I had between the setting of the sun and when the dragon
would expect to see the candlelight flicker in my window, my daily assurance to
him of my presence in the castle. If he didn’t see that glow from my tower…
Rapunzel is not your
average teenager. For one thing, she has a serious illness that keeps her
inside the mysterious Gothel Mansion. And for another, her hair is fifteen feet
long. Not to mention that she’s also the key to ultimately saving the world
from certain destruction.
I had to include a
retelling with a contemporary setting, and Rapunzel Untangled is my
choice. At the beginning of the story, Rapunzel is reluctantly accepting of her
captivity because she’s been told she has an immunodeficiency. But she also has
a computer with internet access, and one day she discovers social media. She
connects with “Fab Fane Flannigan” from the local high school, and her
perspective soon begins to shift. I’m interested to know Fane’s backstory in
this version and his real name. Here’s a short extract from one of Rapunzel’s
and Fane’s early conversations.
Rapunzel closed her eyes
tightly, thinking, debating. Then, before she could change her mind, she typed:
Rapunzel
There was nothing but her
flashing cursor, then
Rapunzel? That’s your
name?
Yes.
You’re not kidding
around?
No.
Unusual. Rapunzel. Never
heard of it. I like it.
Please don’t try to guess
my last name.
Okay, you win. For now.
Rapunzel.
— Jessica Shirvington
Heroes and villains are
typically defined in opposition. The hero becomes a hero because the villain
gives them a reason to do something heroic. And villains make things
interesting. They push other characters out of their comfort zones, forcing
them to discover things that would otherwise remain hidden. Without conflict,
there would be no story.
I’m at the beginning of a
new book right now, and I find myself in need of a villain. When it comes to the
writing process, I’m not a natural planner (unfortunately!) which means I
discover each story one chapter at a time. But it helps if I have something to
write toward, and that’s why I try to figure out the villain first.
Taking my most recent
book as an example, Lost in Magic’s prologue introduces Averine and her
father. I knew Averine’s father would be the villain Kellan ultimately had to
face. However, I didn’t know the villain’s identity or how Kellan’s and
Averine’s paths could possibly cross. Wanting to know the answer motivated me
to keep writing.
It got me to wondering
about the key ingredients that make for an interesting fictional villain. Of
course, I’m not an expert, and I can only speak from my own experience, but my
list includes the following four things:
What’s the villain’s
endgame, and why are they pursuing it in the first place? In their eyes, their
choices should be defensible. They are the protagonist of their own story, with
an agenda that lends a certain logic to those choices, even if it doesn’t
excuse them.
“I need to know what
happened, but she can’t tell me. She’s too damaged. And if she could? Would it
make a difference? Would I understand? Would I understand the depth of
grief and fear that could’ve led her to take my entire life away from me?”
— Everything, Everything, Nicola
Yoon
Every hero deserves a
worthy opponent, and a hard-won victory is a lot more satisfying. If the villain
is so powerful that you can’t imagine how on earth the hero can ever beat them,
then it sets the scene for something unpredictable and engaging.
“Rhen coughs again,
wetly, and presses his forehead to the ground. He’s coughed up enough blood
that a dark pool sits beneath his jaw. […] ‘Make your request,’ says Lilith. ‘I
grow bored, girl. Rhen knows what happens when I grow bored.’ She jerks his
head back and he makes a sound I never want to hear again.”
— A Curse so Dark and
Lonely, Brigid Kemmerer
Determined villains drive
the story. The stakes are raised when the audience knows a change of
heart is impossible.
“The Darkling would not
hesitate. He would not grieve. His darkness would consume the world, and he
would never waver.”
— Shadow and Bone, Leigh
Bardugo
When there’s a heartfelt connection
of some kind between the villain and the hero—be it family, or perhaps a former
friendship, or a romance that ended badly—everything is more complicated. It
gives the villain’s motive an extra edge, and it really puts the hero’s
conviction to the test.
“Cinder studied her aunt.
[…] Her trembling lip and defeated shoulders. She was too exhausted for even
her glamour. Too weak to fight anymore. A shock of pity stole through her. This
miserable, awful woman still had no idea what it meant to be truly beautiful,
or truly loved. Cinder doubted she ever would.”
— Winter (The Lunar
Chronicles), Marissa Meyer
What makes for a
memorable villain in your opinion? Would your list be different from mine? A great villain sets the stage for the hero to shine. A lot of my favourite books and movies became
my favourites because of the villains as much as the heroes. And now I’m off to write a new prologue so I can
discover another villain for my characters to face! Thank you very much for visiting
my blog today 💕.
Under the trees
light has dropped from
the top of the sky,
light
like a green
latticework of branches,
shining
on every leaf,
drifting down like clean
white sand.
A cicada sends
its sawing song
high into the empty air.
The world is
a glass overflowing
with water.
— Pablo Neruda
I have a small update
about the Light Mage books, which gives me an excuse to post this beautiful poem
about the magic of light. Because I already shared Spell Tracker from
start to finish on this blog, I can’t put it into Kindle Unlimited the way I have
with all of the Androva books, so I decided to make Spell Tracker and Spell
Mason free to download in other sales channels (per the universal
book links below).
The final book in the trilogy, Spell Master, is likely to be the next story I write, but I’m really excited to continue the Beyond Androva series too. Perhaps I’ll swap back and forth between them so I don’t have to choose! Thank you for visiting my blog today, and I hope you liked the poem 💕.
― Leo Tolstoy
Love is an enigma. It can
be the best thing that ever happened to you, or the worst. It’s impossible to
plan for, and it can’t be controlled. I guess that’s why love is such an
enduring theme in storytelling. It’s endlessly complicated.
I’m a hopeless romantic.
I enjoy reading and writing stories where love shows up to challenge the protagonist.
And love is on my mind right now as I consider which book to write next. It’s a
choice between the fourth Beyond Androva story and the conclusion to the Light
Mage trilogy. The former will begin with the love story that happened off the page in
the previous Beyond Androva book, and it has a real ‘enemies to lovers’ vibe (fun to write!). The latter concerns two characters who deserve to find their way to a happy ending because they’ve been mad about each other almost since the day they met.
In the name of writing
research, today’s post is a collection of ten beautiful poems about love. A few
of them are famous, others are less well known, but they all capture something
of the pain and joy that love can bring. And because I’m such a Shakespeare fan,
he gets to open and close the list! I hope you enjoy the poetry, and thank you
very much for visiting my blog today 💕.
For thy sweet love
remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to
change my state with kings.
— William Shakespeare
it does not steal the
night —
it only unveils the
beauty
of the dark.
— isra al-thibeh
way home
never felt
long enough
— Ben Maxfield
and you call him quite in
vain,
if it suits him not to
come.
― Ludovic Halévy
What is this stance we take,
To turn away and then
turn back?
What did we hear?
It was the breath we took
when we first met.
Listen. It is here.
— Harold Pinter
The blue and the dim and
the dark cloths
Of night and light and
the half light,
I would spread the cloths
under your feet:
But I, being poor, have
only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams
under your feet;
Tread softly because you
tread on my dreams.
— W. B. Yeats
So deeply I never thought
I would
I love you
More than you will ever
know
So much more than I can
show
I love you
I believe in you and me
With all my heart until
infinity
— Ann Hirsch
when you are
next to me.
As though my senses
cannot focus
on anything
but you.
— Blake Auden
Into my heaped-up heart
And passing over
All the foolish, weak
things
That you can't help
Dimly seeing there,
And for drawing out Into
the light
All the beautiful
belongings
That no one else had
looked
Quite far enough to find
— Roy Croft
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
— William Shakespeare
Prologue: Averine
Averine watched as the hint of golden light disappeared behind the mountain. Her last sunset. She had not made a habit of staring at sunsets before this one. And yet, when the fiery colours filled the sky, she felt a pang of regret, knowing she might not see them again. She set her jaw, pushing the emotion away. Regrets were manageable. Regrets wouldn’t keep her from the cure, but dying would.
Shadows gathered as the light faded, hiding the rocks and grass on the mountain’s slopes beneath a veil of darkness. She drew up her knees, looping her arms around them as she leaned into the corner of the window seat. The Gallium Dagger lay on the table where her father had placed it after creating the message she would leave behind. Its magical energy shone brightly in the gloom, reminding her that she was almost out of time. The Stasis Spell had to be applied tonight. Before the deadly mage-sickness attacking her body reached her heart.
With a sigh, she turned back to check the horizon. A breeze found its way through the partially open window, lifting the curtain of reddish-brown hair resting against her collar. The last of the light had gone. Averine reached to close the window, carefully pushing aside the sprawling blue leaves of the vines clinging to the exterior wall. Though much of the city was in ruins, her father’s house was still standing due to the extensive use of Protection Spells—a privilege of his position. It was hoped the imminent truce would enable rebuilding to begin. After forty years, the war was finally over. And everyone lost, thought Averine bitterly.
The door opened. It was time. She was trembling a little, but her fear did nothing to lessen her resolve. This was the only solution. To Averine’s disappointment, her father wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by the alchemist, Averine’s least favourite person by a considerable margin. Both of them were wearing titanium gloves that shone silver in the semi-darkness.
“What’s she doing here?”
“I’m not taking any chances with your life,” her father explained.
“It’s bit late for that,” said Averine.
“I know,” he said. His face tightened. “I am going to put this right, Averine. You will wake up, and you will survive. We will find a magician whose force field is undamaged to administer the cure.”
The alchemist smirked. “We’ll find them. Especially with that message of yours. Who could resist such a heartfelt cry for help?”
“Shut up,” said Averine fiercely.
“So authentic,” the alchemist continued. “No one would ever suspect.”
Averine’s eyes narrowed. “Suspect what?”
“Marath, don’t,” said her father with a scowl.
The alchemist, Marath, gave him an assessing look, her grey eyes expressionless. “Your father and I disagree on something.”
“On what?” said Averine. “Father?”
“He thinks we shouldn’t tell you the cure will kill the magician who administers it. I think we should. What’s your view?”
“Marath!” said her father.
“Is this true?” said Averine, backing away. “Is it?”
Marath didn’t answer. Averine’s father examined his shoes.
“Is it true?” Averine repeated, her voice raised.
Her father gave a heavy sigh. “It is. But you have to understand, the cure could save everyone. Half of the world is already dead. What’s one more life if we can save the rest?”
“Are you going to warn them?” said Averine.
The silence that followed her question was as good as any confirmation.
“I’m going to change my message,” said Averine. She turned to the table, and Marath and her father exchanged a glance of perfect accord, stepping forward together.
“I won’t let you send someone to their death without giving them all the facts. I have to—”
Averine broke off with a choking sound as Marath flicked a thin titanium rope around her neck and tightened it. Her father grasped her shoulders and dragged her to the table, pinning her to its surface while she kicked and arched her back in a desperate attempt to escape.
Marath picked up the dagger and held it to Averine’s struggling body. It burned her skin through the tailored grey shirt she wore, and she froze, her eyes wide and bloodshot. Marath didn’t hesitate. The second Averine stopped moving, Marath drove the dagger straight into her heart.
Time’s thievish progress to eternity.”
— Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXVII
1 A New Home
After
swallowing the bitter-tasting remedy that would suppress my force field, I gathered
every scrap of my remaining bravado and painted it across my features like a
mask. I hoped it would last until I was alone. The one thing that could make today worse would be stepping into the Dimension Cell having shown my audience
how scared I really was. Xytovia only knew how it had come to this. I swallowed
again, willing my heart to stop beating so fast. The sensation of my magic
dissolving was like an icy fog swirling inside my head, so cold it made my
teeth ache.
With a
little more flourishing than was strictly necessary, Hilton Vierre, the senior
magician, adjusted his cuffs and prepared to create the necessary spell. He was
a pompous fool. The accuracy of the symbols was what mattered, not how stylish
his hand movements looked while he drew them. There were no reporters here. Who
was he trying to impress? I glanced at his deputy, Ava Pationne, a tall
dark-haired magician with refined features. Surely not.
Hilton lowered
his arms, and the symbols glowed purple and silver where they’d been engraved
at chest height on the bark of the largest tree. A shimmering doorway rose up
from the dark-blue earth. I averted my gaze. I knew what was on the other side.
The doorway led to an empty square chamber, ten feet wide by ten feet tall,
sustained by the living magic in the trees, and magically programmed to exist
in a never-ending time loop. It was the doorway to my future.
At least
my family had remained in Vayl City. I was glad they weren’t permitted to make
the trip into the xyleander woods to see my sentence carried out. It was a lot
easier to hide my feelings now that I was alone with the six officiating
magicians. My mouth curled. Six. That was twice the number they needed. Even if
I put my mind to it, I couldn’t overpower more than two of them. No, they wanted
to dine out on the story of how they were here when I walked through that door.
I had no
false modesty about anything, and certainly not my magical ability or my notoriety.
This day, the day I was to be finally imprisoned, had been kept secret from the
citizens of Vayl because public opinion regarding my guilt remained divided, and
the vote to condemn me had been passed with a majority of just two. I’d spoken
passionately in my own defence, arguing that I was a victim of circumstance and
not a criminal. There had been calls for a recount. There had been a petition
signed by some very well-known citizens, magicians and cotidians alike. My face
and my name were everywhere: in newspapers, on flyers. I’d heard someone was planning
to write my biography.
The only
recent likeness of me had been produced by Vayl City College a few months earlier
in readiness for my graduation. If I’d known what the likeness would eventually
be used for and how many people would see it, I would never have posed that way.
Even to my own eyes, I looked arrogant, but I’d received a lot of letters expressing
support. There had even been a few declarations of love.
During the
rare moments we’d succeeded in ignoring the ongoing trial to talk about more ordinary
things, my brother had teased me about the love letters. I’d pretended to be flattered,
but in fact, I was more than a little annoyed. I hated being judged on the
basis of my looks and a few sensational newspaper articles.
Recalling
yesterday’s editorial in the Vayl City Chronicle, a publication known for its exaggerated headlines,
I scowled. The reporters were not something I would miss. Kellan
Bavois, his dark eyes flashing with a defiance undiminished by the long legal process,
continues to protest his innocence. It is this reporter’s understanding that no
further interviews will be granted before his imprisonment, though the Board of
Mages refuses to confirm the date. Dare we hope that the authorities might listen
to reason and give this intriguing young man the benefit of the doubt? Watch this
space!
I was all
out of hope. According to the laws of the land, a majority was a majority, no
matter how small, and the board was determined to uphold those laws. I was
going to be made an example of. My sentencing had been intentionally postponed
by a week. A week during which I’d turned seventeen years of age and become
eligible for the maximum one-hundred-year Dimension Cell term.
I stood
straighter and tried to ignore the disorientation inside my head. For the first
time in almost five years, I had no magic. I’d always used magic instinctively,
right from the day my spark had ignited, and its loss was jarring, impacting my
senses as if the world had gone dark or silent. When I tried to project my force
field, the stupid dizziness increased. I curled my toes inside my boots and
gritted my teeth, staring at the ground until my vision cleared.
As expected,
the symbols stitched onto my shirt collar and cuffs had stopped glowing. My mother
had created a complicated and unique design made from all of the various symbols
that signified protection, ignoring me when I told her there was no point. Without
my magic, they were nothing more than embroidered shapes.
It was
early morning. Fat drops of water glinted on the waxy surface of the xyleander
leaves, evidence of the overnight rainfall. There was a chill in the air and a pale
quality to the daylight. Autumn sunshine slanted through the trees’ branches,
highlighting their distinctive purple colour. Winter was a few weeks away.
There would
be no seasons inside the cell, no colours, and no change in temperature. Each
day would be spent surrounded by four blank walls and only my thoughts for
company. Every morning I would be returned to the same moment. Over and over. Physically
unchanged. Whereas outside the cell, time would continue to pass. I looked at
the wet leaves, wondering if I would forget what purple looked like, or the way
my favourite drink tasted, or the crunch of frost underneath my boots on a cold
morning. What about my sister’s smile? My best friend’s terrible jokes? I
scowled again. Don’t get emotional. Sentiment won’t help anything.
“Open your
shirt pocket,” said Hilton.
“I was
searched before we left,” I said. I pushed my black hair off my forehead. It
was too long. Scheduling a haircut hadn’t seemed important.
“You misunderstand
me,” said Hilton. He extended his hand, opening his fingers to reveal a small
polished crystal, round and flat and sparkling with magic. Layers of intricate symbols
had been carved into its centre, too many for me to decipher. His voice softened
in an imitation of sympathy, but his eyes remained cold. “This goes into your pocket. Had you forgotten?”
I had. I
stared at the Death Charm with sudden loathing.
“If you
wouldn’t mind,” added Hilton, meeting my gaze. The man’s anticipation was
almost palpable. He expected my resolve to crumble at the reminder of what I was
facing.
“I wouldn’t
mind at all,” I said, holding out my hand. Hilton made a tiny magical cut in the
centre of my palm—enough to release one dark red drop of blood. He pressed the
crystal against it, and I watched with morbid fascination as the crystal changed
colour, giving off a steady hum of energy only I could feel. It set my teeth on
edge. It made my stomach clench.
After the
drop of blood had been absorbed, I tucked the Death Charm into my pocket with careful
fingers. To my relief, I didn’t fumble the buttons, even though inside I was quaking.
When I spoke, I kept my voice level. “It’s not as if I ever plan to use it.”
“Oh, we’ll
see about that,” said Hilton.
I was so
annoyed, I barely heard Ava’s disapproving murmur. “Hilton.”
There was
no way I was going to let him get the upper hand.
“Who’s ‘we’?”
I said. I hid my anger behind a small smirk. “You won’t. Not unless you plan to live to the
age of…” I paused. “One hundred and seventy? Seventy-five?”
A flush
of red climbed from Hilton’s neck onto his cheeks. His iron-grey hair seemed to
bristle with indignation. “I’m forty-six,” he said.
I pretended
to be shocked. “Excuse me. My mistake. Perhaps you’ve been working too hard.
The stress of the trial and all. You’ll still be dead long before you find out
what happens to me.”
“I don’t
care what happens to you!”
Arching
an eyebrow, I refrained from answering, choosing to let the man’s red face and
raised voice speak for him.
“Enough,”
said Ava. “Kellan Bavois, in accordance with the laws of Vayl, you have been
tried and found guilty of the murder of your grandmother, Opal Bavois, and you
will serve one hundred years in this Dimension Cell as punishment. The board
grants you mercy in the form of a Death Charm. You may use the aforementioned charm
to escape the cell at any time.”
I just
managed not to scoff. Mercy. Right. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
“Do you
wish to make a final statement for the record?” she asked.
I shook
my head. You’ll be dead long before you find out what happens
to me seemed like a decent
enough parting shot. I was tempted to tell them I was innocent, but I’d said it
many times already. It would make no difference. I wanted it to be over. I wanted
to escape the semicircle of magicians with their curious eyes. This would be the
last moment for a very long time when I could still choose for myself. Suddenly,
it seemed important that I enter the cell of my own accord rather than at the
request of Hilton Vierre. I turned on my heel to face the shimmering doorway,
and after barely a second of hesitation, I walked through.
The chamber
on the other side was quiet, unnaturally so. I huffed a quick breath, reassured
when the sound emerged as normal. My mouth lifted in a wry smile. At least I could
talk to myself.
Cautiously,
I took a couple of steps, looking left and right and up and down. The walls were
uniformly beige except for a faint shadow indicating where they met the floor
and the ceiling. My neck and shoulders prickled as if I’d been touched by a
spell, and I spun around to find that the doorway had disappeared. They hadn’t
wasted any time.
I reached
out a hand. The wall was cool, smooth, and depressingly solid. It felt like stone.
It wasn’t, of course. It was magical energy that had been made to resemble stone,
and I wouldn’t have been able to punch my way out even if the wall had looked and
felt like tissue paper. But the stone ensured I would never mistake it for
anything but the prison it was. It was lucky I’d never been claustrophobic, but
even so, the lack of any visible exit was unnerving.
When I checked,
I discovered the entire cell was the same. The floor was just as solid as the walls.
Sleeping was going to be uncomfortable. I was dressed in a dark green shirt and
a pair of black trousers, and I had no coat or sweater I could use for a
pillow. I supposed I could choose to stay awake. After all, each morning the time
loop would reset to the moment I’d entered. I wouldn’t age. I wouldn’t die from
lack of sleep, or from thirst or starvation. I wouldn’t run out of air. My punishment
was complete isolation and the knowledge that everyone I cared about would carry
on living without me.
Dimension
Cells were a new kind of magic. I was the third prisoner to have earned the rather
dubious honour of inhabiting one, and the youngest, and the one with the longest
sentence. Never let it be said that Kellan Bavois does anything
by halves. I shook my head
and pushed the thought away. I sounded like one of the newspaper editorials I
hated. I paced the cell, getting to know its dimensions while checking in vain
for weak spots with an occasional kick. The buckles on my boots clinked together.
I told myself I could do this. One day at a time.
