Page 9 of The Yuletide Fairy's Curse
A bittersweetness tinged her awe. She would not be able to stay long enough to read every book, to explore every nook of this wondrous palace.
Dalla’s stomach grumbled again, reminding her of why she’d left her room in the first place.
She looked at the unruly pile of accumulated books with guilt. It would take hours to put the books back where she found them, if she could even teach herself the organization system and remember where things were supposed to go in this massive place. “Sorry,” she whispered. Her voice broke through the library’s quiet spell. “I don’t think I can return these books.”
One of the books lifted into the air, and then another, until a steady stream of books came and went.
“You haven’t abandoned me after all,” Dalla said to the servants. “If only you would show me somewhere to break my fast.”
Only a few minutes later, a tray was placed before Dalla with a cup of ale and a loaf of steaming rosemary bread. Dalla dug into the food ravenously as she observed the rest of the books being put away. There was an odd humanness to the act that gave her pause—some of the books went one way and then pivoted around, like the servant had gotten the placement wrong and had to look elsewhere.
This made the servants seem less like enchantments and more like people.
Dalla finished her ale and, satiated, went in search of somewhere else to explore.
Finding a path back to the hallway was not easy, but she did it without the help of the servants, which gave her some hope. Perhaps she could navigate this strange place on her own and escape if needed.
Dalla walked down the hall some way, ignoring the closed doors that called to her like sirens to sailors. She could have spent a lifetime perusing the wonders this palace had to offer. But she only had until Kolfrosta awoke.
Around a turn, one doorway in particular stood out to Dalla. The trim was different than the other doors, looping in a skillfully carved vine pattern.
She opened the door. A riot of colors greeted her. The walls themselves were painted with flowers, and ornate paintings littered every surface, propped up against walls and each other. Among the clutter, Dalla was drawn to a painting that took up an entire wall.
The painting was of Kolfrosta. She wore a skin-tight purple dress that fanned out around her feet, and the artist had given her eyes an uncharacteristically elfish look. Even so, Kolfrosta was striking, and the painting must have taken a long time to finish. At the bottom of the painting were the wordsa gift from the faerie queene. It wasn’t until she saw the inscription that Dalla realized she assumed Kolfrosta was the sole artist.
Unease stirred in Dalla as she examined the painting closer. Kolfrosta was undoubtedly beautiful, but the attention to detail indicated the artist knew Kolfrosta quite well, perhaps intimately. Her skin, rather than the midnight hue Dalla saw in person and in her dreams, was the cloudy blue of day, and the flecks of snow under her skin sparkled on the surface. The hills of her breasts were done in such great detail that embarrassment crept into Dalla’s cheeks. Kolfrosta’s slender wrists were exposed, and her hands tapered into well-shaped fingernails.
A silver ring adorned the middle finger of her left hand.
Dalla gasped. She fumbled at her hip for the dagger she’d commissioned and held it up to the light.
Both the ring and the dagger bore the same exact snowflake pattern. Dalla’s breath caught. In this painting, Kolfrosta wore Dalla’s missing ring.
Dalla jumped into action. She left the room and shouted down the hallway: “Take me to Kolfrosta! Take me to her now!”
CHAPTER 7
Gentle hands guided Dalla down the eastern flight of stairs and through the main hall, past the magnificent tree, and back up the west stairs. Everything looked different illuminated in natural light, but she didn’t have time to appreciate the view.
She came to a stop at an unassuming door. The invisible servants knocked for her.
“Come in,” said Kolfrosta.
Dalla stepped through two sets of doors.
Calmly, Kolfrosta brushed her hair at a vanity. Her hair rolled in elegant waves past her shoulders. She wore a cloak that hung loosely on her body. As in the painting, her skin resembled a snowy sky during the day: a bright white with a faint blush of blue.
She raised her eyebrows at Dalla.
“Show me your hands,” Dalla ordered.
Kolfrosta set the brush on the table. “Why?”
Heat crept up Dalla’s neck as she approached. Perhaps shocked into obedience, Kolfrosta splayed her fingers on the table. She wore no rings.
One of Kolfrosta’s smooth legs dipped out of the cloak and settled back under it as she shifted. Flustered, Dalla forced her eyes to Kolfrosta’s face.
“There is a painting,” said Dalla, voice shaking, “in one of the rooms here.”
