Roxanne Werner

Seventeen years passed. A human would have given up by now, but the Queen had the patience of the Fae. Tonight was different. Unsoftened by summer’s touch, the air shimmered crisp and clear as the moon swung over Wyrmwood Hall. It had waned along with the season, leaving behind only a silver sickle whose edge shone razor-sharp against the midnight sky. Harvest had come.

—from a History of the Rosewood

Moth to a Flame

Chapter 1

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Goosebumps rose on the naked skin. Cold. The word sprang unbidden in her mind. Its sharp teeth bit into her flesh, harmless enough in a book, no doubt, but not when experienced. Shivering, she groped in the dark for a remedy. Her hand brushed a silky material pooled about her feet. It slid over her body, providing both warmth and comfort.

Moonlight filtered through four crescent-shaped windows set in a domed roof high above. The walls wrapped her in a complete circle, leaving no corners to hide. She glanced over her shoulder. No one was there, yet the nagging tingle at the base of her neck remained.

A tower? Was she confined? If so, her jailor wished her to be comfortable. A plush chair with a small table and reading lamp sat on an area rug in the center of the room. The walls were thickly padded, but unlike a sanatorium, the padding consisted of thousands of thick leather-bound volumes running from floor to ceiling.

The only other furniture was a tall mahogany ladder. She grasped the smooth rail, placed her left foot on the first rung, and pushed off with the other. It glided soundlessly on its track, whirling past book after book. She’d read every one of them. From the highest shelf, she’d moved clockwise around the room, spiraling down tier after tier until she reached the last one, and something changed.

But what? The ladder slid to a stop, and she stepped off.

She rummaged through a mind as cluttered as an old attic full of facts, words, and stories, yet she couldn’t recall if she climbed the ladder to reach the books or sat in the chair to read them. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing a memory, but nothing appeared.

Part of her mind was an empty chest covered in cobwebs. She jumped as something brushed her cheek. Only a moth. Its wings, thin and fragile as a page from an ancient tome, flashed silvery grey in the moonlight. It fluttered around her and alighted on a dark gap at the end of the bottom shelf where a book was missing. Kneeling on the floor, she peered into the empty space. The moth flew past her, circling higher and higher until it disappeared among the windows. She should have asked if it knew where the missing book went.

Casting her gaze around the room, she spotted it lying on the floor. Why hadn’t she noticed it earlier? It must have been hidden under the material at her feet. She bent to return it to its place. But first, she pressed the slim volume to her face and inhaled the familiar smells of must and leather. The cover was worn and cracked; the paper yellowed with age. She turned to the first page. Empty. So was the next and the next. Her hands trembled, and her breaths came fast. There must be something. She riffled through the rest—seventeen pages as blank as her memory. Did it hold some dark magic that absorbed her life like a sponge?

When she tried to shove it into the empty slot, a memory surfaced—the letter ‘L’—its shape, long and thin with a solid foot to stand on. Lenore! The name rang in her head, anchored her, made her real. Words did that. They defined and created. Even a single one contained a spell, and combined, they became more powerful. Words would fill in the blank pages of her life.

“I am Lenore!”

Clutching the odd book in one hand, she closed her eyes and walked around the room. Arm extended, her free hand trailed along the shelves. Her fingertips picked out the titles and authors embossed on the leather covers like reading braille. Old friends invited her to visit, but she didn’t stop to chat. She needed answers the books couldn’t provide.

A six-foot-tall, three-foot-wide panel of polished oak interrupted the wall of books. A round crystal knob jutted out from it. A door. Her hand reached for the knob as automatically as her mind found the word. She snatched it back as though it might burn her. Doors led places. What was on the other side? She couldn’t remember.

Voices called out from the books.

Don’t open it! Remember what happened when I did?

Oh, don’t be such a goose. Grow up! Not every door has an evil witch waiting on the other side. Go ahead, Lenore, open it.

Just because I’m a children’s book doesn’t mean I’m not right. Lenore might let something evil in. She can leave, but we can’t.

Lenore covered her ears with her hands. “Hush! Let me think.” She was in a building. There would be other rooms, other people. Perhaps someone who knew her and could help her remember.

An unknown voice whispered, A door is like a book cover, Lenore. You’ll never know what waits on the other side unless you open it.

That made sense. Her brow smoothed, and the hint of a smile crossed her lips. Every book cover was a door to a new adventure, and if nothing else, she knew she’d never been afraid to open a book. She turned the handle.

Lenore peered around the door. She’d expected a hallway but found another room. Unlike the library, this one was rectangular, and there was nothing dangerous or exciting in it.

No fire glowed in the fireplace. Heavy velvet drapes masked a large window. Sheets shrouded a massive desk and chair. It must have been an office or study. But why was it shut up? Shelves filled with more books lined the wall across from her. Pages whispered in a language she didn’t understand, but she refused to acknowledge them. One voice persisted. She shook it off. Maybe someday, but now she wanted to know her story, not theirs.

A glint of crystal drew her eye. Another doorknob. This time, she didn’t hesitate.

A faded runner led past closed doors on the left and a broad, mahogany staircase to the right. A ruddy glow that could only be a fire drew her to the room at the end of the hall.

Moth to a flame.

“I am not a moth. I am Lenore.” She waved her hand before her face as if to brush away a cobweb.

Not a moth. Of course. And the silken robe that wraps you is no cocoon.

Lenore detected a faint chuckle. Was he laughing at her? She stamped her bare foot, but it made no sound on the carpeted floor. “Stop whispering in my head. I am not a moth and you…” She groped for a word. “You, you are just a character from a book. Go back to the study where you belong.”

There was no reply. Satisfied that she had driven him away, Lenore continued down the hallway.

The glow was indeed a fire. Its rosy light and quiet crackles wrapped the small parlor and set it apart. An intimate retreat protected from the world. At first glance, it appeared empty, but an elderly woman dozed in a wing-backed chair.

Though the room was warm, she wore a sweater, and a crocheted blanket draped her legs. An open book lay in her lap, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles balanced precariously on the tip of her nose.

A reader. Lenore smiled, feeling an instant kinship, and edged closer to see if she recognized the book. She bumped into a table, setting a delicate china teapot and two cups—one half-full, the other unused—rattling.

Was another person expected? Lenore hesitated. She should return to the library. The woman would never know she had come.

Too late for that, Moth.

Lenore whirled. Was a stranger hiding in the shadows? But no, it was the annoying voice from the study.

Jumpy, aren’t you?

“I thought I told you to go back to your shelf,” she hissed.

The fire popped, and the old woman sighed and stretched. Her eyes opened. “Who’s there?” She plucked the reading glasses from her nose and looked around.

Lenore froze.

A smile spread over the woman’s face. “Oh, it’s you, dear. You gave me a start. I’ve been waiting ever so long for you. I must have fallen asleep. And the tea is probably cold.”

“Waiting for me?”

“Why of course, Lenore dear. I wait for you every night. But what are you wearing? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Lenore had forgotten about the garment she’d found pooled about her ankles in the library. For the first time, she had a chance to see it in the light. The color was grayish green, like the silvery undersides of leaves when an approaching storm turned them over. It was sleeveless and fit her body snugly from her collarbone to mid-calf. A row of white and yellow dots ran up each side where a seam might be, but it appeared to be one piece. She glanced over her shoulder. Two large black spots like enormous eyes stared back.

She stretched her neck and squinted. They weren’t solid black, but contained swirls of blue that spun, drawing her in, their depths promising secrets.

Pull back, Moth!

Part of her wanted to push the meddling voice away. She was perfectly capable of making her own decisions, and the orbs might know who she was. But the voice’s urgency cut through the illusion’s lure.

Too late. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the hypnotic swirls. They sucked her under like a riptide. Heart racing, she squeezed her eyes shut. The connection broke so suddenly, she almost fell. Shaky and sweating, she expected an I told you so from her annoying guardian, but he made no sound unless the whisper of a released breath was his.

Had he been frightened too?

She jumped at the splash of a sugar cube and the tinkle of a spoon against a china teacup.

“Lenore, the cozy kept the teapot warm. Sit and have a cup with me. I’m sorry there’s no cream left, but there’ll be a delivery in the morning.”

Grateful not to be alone, Lenore sank into the offered chair and focused on the stream of amber liquid being poured. “Thank you.” Cradling the warm cup in her hands, she fought off the sudden desire to tear the ‘eyes’ from the back of her dress and fling them in the fire.

“Lenore?”

“Sorry.” She looked up. “What were you saying? I guess I’m a bit tired.”

“It’s the fire. The warmth and flickering light always lull me to sleep. I was talking about your dress. The material is quite lovely. It’s a sin to waste it on something you can never wear. If you let me, I’m sure I could make it into a more suitable garment. Perhaps a skirt and scarf? It matches your eyes.” She paused, as though picturing something long ago. “Such an unusual shade, just like your father’s.” Her voice trailed off.

“Are my eyes like his?” Lenore bit her lip. She shouldn’t have said that. The woman would think it odd that she didn’t remember her father or the color of her own eyes.

“Yes, they are. But of course, you wouldn’t know.” Her voice softened as she drifted away again. “You never met him. He faded away once your mother was gone.” A single tear ran down the old woman’s wrinkled cheek as she peered into the flames.

Lenore sipped the tea, taking time to collect her thoughts. Her parents were dead. Even though she had no memory of them, a wave of loss swept over her. If only people were like books, she could read all she needed to know in the old woman’s face. But if she wanted answers, she would need to find the right questions and ask them.

The woman shook her head as if dispelling ghosts. “Well, it won’t do to dwell on the past. It’s been just the two of us and the books for seventeen years.”

Seventeen! Lenore shuddered—seventeen blank pages.

“Come, give your grandmother a hand. It’s late and we should go to bed.”

Grandmother? She did have family. This woman must have raised her. Lenore longed to throw her arms around her; instead, she put down her cup and offered her hand. The blank book slid from the chair where she had placed it.

“Is that my book?” The woman’s eyes sharpened. “I’m so clumsy. Give it here, child.”

“No, Grandmother, it’s one of mine. Yours is here on the table.” Lenore picked up her grandmother’s book and glanced at the title—The Chronicles of Wyrmwood Hall. “I’ve never read this one. Is it good?”

Her grandmother snatched the slim volume from her hand. “No, no, it’s dry as dust. You wouldn’t like it.”

Lenore’s eyebrows drew down at the brusque response, certain her grandmother’s book didn’t contain blank pages. Was she hiding something?

“I use it to fall asleep.” Her grandmother laughed and tried to make light of it while tucking the book away in a pocket of her skirt. “Although I’m sure that’s not what the author intended.”

Once on her feet, her grandmother seemed to have no trouble walking. Lenore picked up her own book and followed her up the staircase. At the top, they turned right, and her grandmother opened the first door.

Lenore peered inside. This must be her room.

“Change into your bedclothes and give me that shift. I’ll get out my sewing patterns tomorrow morning and see what can be done with it.”

A set of proper nightclothes lay folded neatly on the bed, high-necked, long-sleeved, ankle-length white linen, prim and proper. Lenore blushed as she gazed at her own garb. Bare shoulders, arms, and calves, and the covered parts were worse. The thin, see-through silk clung to her body, emphasizing every curve and shadow. Lenore grabbed the nightclothes and ducked behind a changing screen. What must her grandmother think of her? She stripped off the dress, careful not to touch or look at the dark spots. “Grandmother, there are two large… ink stains on the bottom. I don’t know how I got them. Can you cut that part off?”

“I’ll work around them. I may not have enough for a scarf then, but I’ll make something.”

Lenore held out the rumpled material.

“Good night, Lenore. I’ll see you for breakfast in the morning.” She left, shutting the door behind her.

Lenore took a spill from a small vase on the fireplace mantel, held it in the fire, and lit the lamp on her night table. The lamplight cheered the room, banishing shadows. Satisfied that no strange eyes lurked behind the drapes, in the wardrobe, or under the bed, Lenore yawned and slipped beneath the coverlet.

She plumped the down pillows and sank into the featherbed, but sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, plagued by fears and doubts. Perhaps she should check under the mattress for a pea. She laughed at the idea. That’s what she needed, a distraction—a bedtime story. But there were no bookshelves in this room. Without them, it seemed empty and lonely. She’d even welcome the mocking voice that had followed her from the study. But he remained silent. Perhaps the stairs were a barrier he couldn’t cross.

One book lay on the nightstand, the old, battered book she’d taken from the library. She reached for it. Hugging it, like a child might clutch a cloth doll, she whispered, “If only your pages weren’t blank. I hunger for words.”

There were words! Had they been there before? The pages were blank, but embossed on the worn spine was a title. Cracked and faded, she held it nearer the lamp to make it out—Thorn of the Rosewood. How odd. She ran her index finger over the spine. Who would bind blank pages together with a title? As she flipped through the pages again, something fell out. A pressed flower—pale pink and so thin, she feared it would crumble as she picked it up. The small five-petaled bloom filled the room with the intoxicating scent of roses. The book slid from her hands, and she drifted to sleep on an ocean of pink petals.