The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XXII | CONSTERNATION

She smirked and cradled the book to her chest before making her way down the ladder. "Oh, how I would love to stay here all day and all night."

"What kind of books do you read?" the warlock questioned her.

Maarit suspected he was trying to make conversation to get to know her, and she appreciated the effort immensely. "All kinds," she answered. "I particularly love fantasy and poetry. Whenever I used to have a vision, I would somehow be able to weave the words so that they sounded like poetry, and then I would write them down. It became almost involuntary to recite them in the form of poetry. And they flowed beautifully; even I must admit that. That kind of writing expertise can only be gained through reading and being inspired by what you read."

She pursed her lips and flipped open the book, lifting it to her dainty nose. She took a whiff of the smell of the parchment and sighed pleasantly.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

       BY SUNSET, MAARIT had finished two cups of tea and read about half of the book she had taken from the library. She had also found a silk nightgown in one of the drawers and had promptly changed into it. Despite what she had gone through in the past few days, she felt completely liberated. To add onto her feeling of ease, she had not seen King Theodoracius again all day.

It was still relatively light outside—the sun was still up, but was gradually floating down towards the horizon, where it would soon disappear to make room for the moon. Maarit was exhausted and decided that she needed some sleep.

Picard was still standing outside her door, waiting for her to tell him that she was going to sleep. She knew that he was making sure that she did not escape, but she liked to think that they were perhaps on the path to becoming friends. She was all alone there and she needed to have someone on her side.

Her eyes fell on a door that she had somehow failed to notice earlier—it was no wonder she had not seen it because there was simply an overwhelming amount of things to lay eyes on in this guest room. She placed the book down on the duvet of her bed—it had been remade by servants since the morning. Spirit of inquiry drew her towards the door and she wondered what she would find on the other side. Was it a closet?

Or was it a room that would reveal some of the castle's secrets that the king had spoken of earlier?

She turned the doorknob and opened the door inwards. It was not a closet or a secret room, but rather a very opulent bathroom. There was a tub in the very middle. It looked rather inviting, but she was so tired and somewhat disappointed that she decided she would bathe the following morning.

With the bed calling to her, inviting her with silk sheets and a heavy duvet, she pulled the bathroom door closed behind her. She called to Picard, telling him that she was tired. In response, he opened the door and stuck his head inside the room.

"You will not be able to open the door until I arrive in the morning," he informed her. "I am placing an enchantment upon it that will prevent only you from opening it—I'm sorry, Maarit, it's just His Majesty's orders," he added upon seeing her outraged expression. "That way, if he needs to enter, or if I do, we will be able to."

"Fine," said Maarit, reminding herself that Picard had no free will and did not make these decisions himself. "Goodnight, Alexander."

He hesitated, sighed and then closed the door. She heard him mutter the enchantment, putting it in place. Her fingers groped for the book and she grabbed it, gently placing it on the floor. Then she lifted the duvet up to her chin, the smooth silk of the sheets rubbing against the bare skin of her legs. The pillows she rested against instantly cradled her head.

Within mere minutes, eyelids fluttered shut over deep brown eyes and the embrace of slumber pulled her in.

Though it seemed like two seconds later that she was awakening, she knew that it could not have been because the room was pitch black and swirling with the darkness of nightfall. It was not a dream or a nightmare, or any other conjuring of her own mind that had awoken her.

It was a sound.

The sounds of a turning doorknob and a male whisper pierced the stygian quietude.

Heart beating in her throat, she looked towards the bedroom door and saw a sliver of moonlight trickled into the room slowly at first—but the sliver was growing larger as light from the corridors poured like a river into an ocean.

She did not know why—perhaps her fright and paranoia was magnified in the dead of night, as all fears generally happened to be in the dark. Nevertheless, she found herself retreating backwards until her head hit the wooden headboard. Consternation seeped into her muscles and bones, rendering her limbs malleable. Cheeks aflame, a bead of sweat trickling down her back, she gripped at the sheets, wishing for nothing more than for the mattress to swallow her whole.

Someone was opening the door, and she could not for the life of her figure out why.