Guests in Whire

Wynter waited with baited breath, her forehead lent against the back of the door. In the grand room beyond she could hear a number of bootsteps crossing over the stone floor. Echoing through the pillars of pale stone.

Concentrating, she managed to pick out three individual sets of steps. Dorien? She wondered and two others? Her heart was hammering, pounding against her chest. Throbbing in her ears. She felt sick, yet despite Fenrir’s determined dismissal, there was nothing that could make her move away. Not until she knew who the newcomers were.

‘State your business,’ Fenrir spoke up from his throne and she was able to breathe easier. Some part of her had expected him to betray her instantly. After all, he’d left the bed behind without a second look.

‘Please forgive our intrusion, your Highness,’ it was a thin, masculine voice that broke through the room. Filtering through the crack between the door and the frame. She knew that voice, Artruss. She hated him as much as she hated Malachie, perhaps even more. She had never liked Artruss.

‘We come in search of our Sister. We are gravely concerned for her wellbeing.’

‘Your Sister?’

Even without being able to see through the door, Wynter could imagine the way Fenrir shifted on his chair, leaning to the side. Sister? Her heart skipped a little beat. That’s what they were telling everyone?

‘Our much beloved, and missed Sister. She has a fantasy that she’s some skilled huntress, this is not true. We seek permission to hunt through the Forests of Whire in search of her?’

‘The forests of Whire are no place for strangers, Sir?’

‘Artruss,’ there was a pause, ‘Sir Artruss of Company Ashton.’

‘Ashton? Is your Commander not in attendance? Is he aware that you’re running a personal errand?’

‘We have his full support,’ Artuss replied, confident in his weasley ways. ‘He is most keen that our Sister is safely returned to our home. If the forests of Whire are particularly unsafe, we would appreciate your permission to start looking? I would hate for anything to happen to her, should we be delayed.’

‘I’ll stop you there, Sir Artruss and…’ there was a pause, ‘I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Thom,’ came a confident voice and Wynter curled her fingers into fists. Thom and Artuss were Malachi’s second in command. If they were here, then it meant that Malachi wasn’t. She had the answers she needed. Standing behind the door was just asking for trouble.

Fenrir wasn’t going to give her away, was he? She wet dry lips with the tip of her tongue. No. For all that had happened between them, and no matter how confusing that was. It didn't sound as if he was at all convinced by their story. He had given his protection. Under the lore and the magic of the land, he would be a fool to break his promise.

It took all of her will and determination to back away from the door. She couldn’t look away from it, afraid to turn her back on her fears. She wasn’t afraid of Thom and Artuss particularly. Artuss was a mean and unpleasant man, and Thom was crude, bullish.

They didn’t frighten her in themselves, but what they meant was terrifying. If they found her, if they saw her. Malachi would stop at nothing to reclaim her from Whire. Fenrir had given his protection, and although he was a Prince and lived in a Castle, there was little evidence that he had an army at his command.

Even if he wanted to uphold his promise of protection, she was starting to realise that the forces of Whire would be no match for Ashton. Perhaps it wasn’t Fenrir’s protection she ended, but just a safe place to hide.

She managed to back down the corridor, the sick feeling still turning in her middle. Her stomach was in knots, filled with sharp little needs of anxiety. She forced herself to turn away from the door, but couldn’t help but look back at it as she walked away. Then started to jog, fumbling down the long corridor, as Fenrir had commanded.

Every time he gave her a command, she bristled in rebellion. Malachi had spent far too long giving her orders. Demanding her obedience. It was hard to accept from anyone else. This however, was the Prince’s home and she was at his mercy.

In the end, as she jogged through the corridors, she found the kitchen by sense of smell. The scent of fresh baking bread was hard to ignore and she followed the rumbling of her own starved stomach.

The stone of the throne room gave way to warmer wooden floorboards. The walls were narrowed, but more recently painted and Wynter found herself imagining people living and working in the castle for the first time. To the right was a large door that swung open to the touch. Beyond was a bustling kitchen, filled with half a dozen servants that turned to look at her entrance.

‘I’ve been sent to find Genevive,’ she explained her presence hurriedly and stepped down steps into the kitchen. There was an enormous fire on the far wall with a chimney that stretched up into the high ceiling. Ovens covered the walls beside it, stretching as wide as four men. Cupboards lined the walls with doors out to pantries. Long white sinks stretched under high windows that cast light down into the warm room.

‘I am Genevive,’ a tall young woman straightened from where she’d been bent at the hip, rolling out dough on the wide table. She wiped flour covered hands in the apron tied around her waist. Her dark brown eyes were warm. She had sharp features with a pointed chin and elongated ears, like an elf from a fairy tale.

Wynter scanned the rest of the kitchen, pointed faces seemed to be a trait that all of the servants shared. Were they all related? They all stared at her with dark brown eyes, pausing in their work. Genevive followed her gaze around the kitchen as clapped her hands together.

‘Lunch won’t fix itself!’ She commanded the kitchen crew and peeled off her apron. She hung it neatly on a hook and beckoned for Wynter to follow her. ‘Come,’ she ordered and led the way out into the corridor beyond.

This castle was getting bigger and more like a labyrinth with every step that she took, Wynter realised.

Out of the kitchen, Wynter flexed her fingers again. Still trying to shake off her fear, her nerves. Her disappointment at Fin’s reaction to seeing her again. She pushed her heart ache away. It didn’t help that Genevive, kitchen hand or chief of staff, whoever she was, was the most beautiful woman that Wynter had ever come across. Even compared to those of the King’s court. Her skin was flawless, the colour of a ripe peach. She was tall, willowy and moved with an enviable grace.

‘The Prince commanded me to see you,’ Wynter explained. ‘I’m to tell you that I’m setting up in the East Lodge,’ she hoped it would mean more to the woman than it did her. Hopefully, it meant safety.

She hadn’t expected Genevive to grimace, the expression comical on the beauty’s refined features.

‘How did you offend him?’ The woman demanded. 'Why does he hate you?'