The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) by Andrea Cefalo Page B
Authors: Andrea Cefalo
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and that I have nothing to give,” I say. “But I have one other favor to ask of you. I’ll forever be grateful and keep you in my prayers, if you grant me this.”
The doctor chortles. “I think, between the two of us, I am not the one in need of prayers.” He slowly turns from his chair again, purses his lips, and gives me the annoyed, yet triumphant look of a man once wronged who is now in need of a favor. “But you’ve piqued my curiosity. What is it you want?”
The doctor grants my request. With that finished, I race back to the tavern, praying the entire way for the old doctor, for Ivo, for Mama, and for myself, that I do not get caught in this scheme.
I push through the door to the tavern, nearly running down a drunkard who curses me, but I continue toward the stairs. Quiet voices come from our rooms, and I slow my pace, tiptoeing up the stairs. I peek in through the doorway, unseen. A man barely old enough to be a doctor looks Galadriel over, his face muddled with confusion.
Galadriel slips in and out of sleep, answering the boy’s questions. He feels her for fever and chills. He offers to bleed her, but she declines, saying she feels better. Then he asks something nightmarishly awful, something I had never considered. I dig my fingernails deep into my palms to keep from gasping aloud.
The boy doctor asks lowly, discreetly, if Galadriel might be with child.
The silence is piercing. I hold my breath and wait for them to both adamantly, fervently say no and finally Galadriel does. I exhale and quietly peel the door open, entering my room.
Father may ask me why I never came to check on her and why I didn’t bring a doctor. Of course I shall lie to him later, telling him I could not get a doctor to come with me. I’ll tell him that when I returned, a doctor was already in the room, and I heard Galadriel speaking, so I assumed it best to give them privacy.
Now it is time to enact the second part of my plan. To show Father that this trip to Bitsch is cursed, that the heavens above do not want it to be.
I take the potion from yesterday’s wine, still half–full, and before it can mock or goad me anymore, drink the entire thing.
31 March 1248
Wheat tickles my arms as I run, giggling through the fields. The stalks sway lazily in the timid breeze ahead of me, but their brilliant blond heads part just before I reach them.
His long shadow grows closer to me.
If I slow down, he’ll catch me. Perhaps, I should let him.
A wanton smile pinches my cheeks.
No, not yet .
With another giggle, I sprint ahead. The swipe of his hand tosses a tendril of my hair.
Almost, Ivo.
I laugh aloud and veer right, running straight into the sun. The searing pink orb and the illuminated edges of the mountainous plumes of clouds scald my eyes. I turn left, avoiding the blinding brilliance. The wheat goes on and on until the fiery firmament and the gilded fields embrace at some point beyond forever.
The night sky and stars roll down upon the sunset, squeezing it into the horizon until it is nothing but the faintest lavender line. The moon hangs by a string, swaying in the breeze. It grins widely and beams down upon the stalks, casting silver highlights and pewter shadows.
I open my hand, running my fingers along the billowy heads of wheat. I expect to hear the brushing sound as I pass through, but instead the stalks ring like whispering bells. A set of fingers caress my open palm, and I slow. I can’t wait a moment longer. His fingers wrap around my hand. They weave together. Panting, I come to a quick stop. He doesn’t expect it and tries to halt, but it’s too late. He yanks me forward. I fall into him, laughing as we plummet into the chiming stalks of wheat.
I rise up on my hands, the weight of my body upon him. His face reflects the smile that cramps my cheeks. His hand presses into my lower back. A stray strand of hair falls into my face, and he brushes it away, his fingers warm against my cool cheek.
The
The doctor chortles. “I think, between the two of us, I am not the one in need of prayers.” He slowly turns from his chair again, purses his lips, and gives me the annoyed, yet triumphant look of a man once wronged who is now in need of a favor. “But you’ve piqued my curiosity. What is it you want?”
The doctor grants my request. With that finished, I race back to the tavern, praying the entire way for the old doctor, for Ivo, for Mama, and for myself, that I do not get caught in this scheme.
I push through the door to the tavern, nearly running down a drunkard who curses me, but I continue toward the stairs. Quiet voices come from our rooms, and I slow my pace, tiptoeing up the stairs. I peek in through the doorway, unseen. A man barely old enough to be a doctor looks Galadriel over, his face muddled with confusion.
Galadriel slips in and out of sleep, answering the boy’s questions. He feels her for fever and chills. He offers to bleed her, but she declines, saying she feels better. Then he asks something nightmarishly awful, something I had never considered. I dig my fingernails deep into my palms to keep from gasping aloud.
The boy doctor asks lowly, discreetly, if Galadriel might be with child.
The silence is piercing. I hold my breath and wait for them to both adamantly, fervently say no and finally Galadriel does. I exhale and quietly peel the door open, entering my room.
Father may ask me why I never came to check on her and why I didn’t bring a doctor. Of course I shall lie to him later, telling him I could not get a doctor to come with me. I’ll tell him that when I returned, a doctor was already in the room, and I heard Galadriel speaking, so I assumed it best to give them privacy.
Now it is time to enact the second part of my plan. To show Father that this trip to Bitsch is cursed, that the heavens above do not want it to be.
I take the potion from yesterday’s wine, still half–full, and before it can mock or goad me anymore, drink the entire thing.
31 March 1248
Wheat tickles my arms as I run, giggling through the fields. The stalks sway lazily in the timid breeze ahead of me, but their brilliant blond heads part just before I reach them.
His long shadow grows closer to me.
If I slow down, he’ll catch me. Perhaps, I should let him.
A wanton smile pinches my cheeks.
No, not yet .
With another giggle, I sprint ahead. The swipe of his hand tosses a tendril of my hair.
Almost, Ivo.
I laugh aloud and veer right, running straight into the sun. The searing pink orb and the illuminated edges of the mountainous plumes of clouds scald my eyes. I turn left, avoiding the blinding brilliance. The wheat goes on and on until the fiery firmament and the gilded fields embrace at some point beyond forever.
The night sky and stars roll down upon the sunset, squeezing it into the horizon until it is nothing but the faintest lavender line. The moon hangs by a string, swaying in the breeze. It grins widely and beams down upon the stalks, casting silver highlights and pewter shadows.
I open my hand, running my fingers along the billowy heads of wheat. I expect to hear the brushing sound as I pass through, but instead the stalks ring like whispering bells. A set of fingers caress my open palm, and I slow. I can’t wait a moment longer. His fingers wrap around my hand. They weave together. Panting, I come to a quick stop. He doesn’t expect it and tries to halt, but it’s too late. He yanks me forward. I fall into him, laughing as we plummet into the chiming stalks of wheat.
I rise up on my hands, the weight of my body upon him. His face reflects the smile that cramps my cheeks. His hand presses into my lower back. A stray strand of hair falls into my face, and he brushes it away, his fingers warm against my cool cheek.
The
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