Page 90 of Where Shadows Bloom

“Why did you seek an audience with me, Ofelia?” asked the Shadow King.

I folded my hands tight, holding them against my thrumming heart. “Your Majesty,” I said softly, “I’ve come to ask for our release from this world.”

The white lights of his eyes turned cold. “Ah,” he said, setting down his pen. “I told you, child. It is impossible. Onlyyourkind can create a door. And our friend, Sagesse—she has attempted this to no avail. Such doors can only be made in the world above.”

I frown. “You are certain?”

“Doors are outside my domain. Whatever magic allows mortals to send their prayers and offerings to us gods, it is one-way. So it has always been.” The Shadow King gestured with his long, wispy fingers toward the tables of oddities.

“These are offerings?” I asked, approaching one table carefully.

He moved silently, like the heavy creeping of fog. He was beside me in a moment, running his smokelike hand over the treasures. His white eyes became half-moons, almost as if he were smiling. “Generous gifts,” he said in his whispering, slithering voice. “Stories, dozens of stories. Little glimpses ofyour world above. I always want more.”

The Shadow King lifted a small ceramic figurine depicting a couple dancing. He brought it closer to me. “They are called dancers, aren’t they?”

His voice was so hopeful and small. It startled me, how mild he could be. “Yes,” I answered softly.

“But this does not move,” he continued. “What is the purpose of this object?”

The knot in my chest from standing beside this monster, this giant Shadow, began to loosen slightly. He spoke like a child, asking to understand the world for the first time.

“I think it’s only decoration,” I said. “Humans... humans sometimes keep objects in their homes just because they’re beautiful. Or because they inspire memories.”

His white eyes sparkled. “Fascinating!” He glanced around his chamber. “Where should I put this ‘decoration’?”

It was almost like a strange dream, how light and happy he was in this cold, dark world. “I—I suppose it’d look nice on your desk,” I offered.

The king swept over to the white desk, setting the painted figure on one side—then the other. He turned it, hemming and hawing as he went.

“Is there nothing you can do for us, Your Majesty?” I asked softly. “You are a god; nothing is impossible for you. Please, if you like humans so much, won’t you show us some mercy and release us?”

He turned away from his desk, his eyes piercing me. “It cannot be done, Ofelia. No matter how you beg or cajole. Your king made his bargain. His door is closed.”

The sharpness of his tone made me flinch back, prepared for him to move and strike me, to take my breath. But the Shadow King simply returned behind his desk and back to his papers.

“It’s... it’s over, then?” I asked softly. “We’re truly trapped?”

He tilted his head, farther and farther than what was natural for a human. He said nothing for a moment, almost like an animal watching its prey. Then he said, “I want to hear the story of your life, Ofelia. From beginning to end.”

Beginning... to end.The implication pierced my heart. My mouth felt dry and thick as cotton. I couldn’t save any of us. We were down here for who knew how long. Frozen in time.

Would I be the same, unendingly young until time itself was just a memory to me?

Could I truly be trapped here for eternity?

The Shadow King lifted a hand, and a white chair evanesced up from the marble. “Sit,” he said. “Tell me about your life in the world above.”

I supposed I had no choice. I was too tired to fight back, too heartsick to resist. Still, to relive the life that was now lost to me felt like salt in my wounds.

The new shoes he’d given me clinked musically as I approached and sat across from him.

This is my existence now.

Stories had always been a source of comfort for me. I could control how they’d end. I could watch different emotions dance across Lope’s face as I wove a tale for her. The happiness, devastation, and laughter my tales had wrung from her.

“Go on,” coaxed the Shadow King.

I imagined it was Lope I was telling my story to. That she was here, listening as carefully as she always had. Her eyes gleaming, like I was telling her the most interesting thing she’d ever heard.

---