“Hey, Chic. You okay?” Pepper squinted against the sunlight and peered at my face. “You look kind of mad.”
If she only knew. “No, I'm all right. Just one of those days. You know how it goes.”
“Boy, do I? I hear ya, sister.” Pepper reached out a hand. “Looks like you have mail going out?”
I glanced down at the letter in my hands. Did I want to send it, or did I want to tell my story at all? Maybe things were best left alone. After all, there had been that one time, long ago, when the outside world mingled with my world. No good had come of that. None at all.
But, then again, human nature was destined to repeat itself. I guessed I was no exception. But that time was not yet.
I thrust the letter into Pepper’s hand and stormed back to the castle. John Jenkins didn't deserve to know the rest of my story. He didn't believe me! That was the last laugh he would have at my expense. It was hard enough to relive the memories I'd tried so hard to suppress. Explaining the hurt and the torment I had gone through ripped my heart to pieces. I could hardly bear to remember.
A horn honked behind me. Pepper! I spun around to wave good-bye to my friend. “I’m sorry. Just one—”
“—of those days. I get it. It’s all good.” Pepper grinned and waved her hand out the window as she drove away.
Now, how could Mr. Jenkins possibly understand what I went through after I awoke on the ground that night?
Not one sound could be heard in the forest. The horses had run off, the witch was nowhere to be found, and Henry was gone. I was alone. I wept for what felt like an eternity, until no more tears fell.
John Jenkins mocked the night I lost my existence. I was never the same after that. A part of me had died, and it was funny to him.
It was entirely my fault the witch had released her wrath upon us. How could a nine-year-old girl understand the consequences of an unfulfilled promise? I'd been stupid to have forgotten my promise to Gretta all those many years before. That promise took my life and ended Henry's. And Mr. Jenkins called it all a fairy tale.
I would tell Mr. John Jenkins, the old codger, that Henry had adored my long hair, and that the witch wanted it. Since she took Henry's life, I vowed she would never have my hair. No matter what. No matter that I’d promised. So far, I’d managed to keep her from it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After mailing the letter, I knew I had made the wrong decision and I decided to finish my story. It had to be told and Mr. Jenkins needed to hear about the arrival at the castle if he’d ever believe what followed. How to phrase it? I poised my hands above the keyboard and pondered the starting point for today’s letter.
***
Dear Mr. Jenkins…
It was the year 1831. When the wagon came to a full stop, I climbed down, but couldn’t pull my eyes from the sight of my new home. Father had been right in all his stories. It was a castle. Sparkling marble, ornate stained-glass windows, a drawbridge. And the tower. I could see right away why its height scared Father as a child, but I wasn’t afraid. I was eager to explore my new home.
Gretta’s shrill voice yanked me from my thoughts as I heard her directing her driver where to put her things. I hadn't spoken two words to her since we started the journey. Too bad ignoring her hadn’t made her disappear. Yet, ignorance was nice while it lasted. I took no small pleasure in the fact that she’d be kept busy cleaning that monstrosity of a home. As magnificent as it was, it needed a good dusting.
Father grinned as he trudged up the steep driveway and climbed the cobblestone steps leading to the front door. He looked back at me and winked, then motioned for me to follow.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from the enormity of the structure I was about to enter. Forget enter—I was going to live there. I reached the spot where Father stood and we stepped through the arched doorway together.
My breath caught as I was swallowed by the foyer. Marble tiles covered the floor under a copper ceiling that seemed a mile away. To the right stood a stone stairway that spiraled to…I craned my neck to find the top. Well, it spiraled straight to heaven, it seemed. I realized that must be the tower.
Father’s memories had been accurate, if not a bit restrained. His were definitely not the exaggerations of a childlike imagination.
I stepped away from Father and peeked into the nearest room. All the furnishings had remained in place. They had been covered with heavy white fabric to keep the dust from collecting, but it was clear they were authentic to the castle. It would be fun to fold the covers back and expose the treasures beneath.
Paintings decorated the walls in every room, and silver candlesticks sat on just about every flat surface. The floors were splayed with authentic hand-woven rugs of the finest quality from far-flung regions of the world. No expense had been spared in decorating.