Penelope always asked for favors. If she had forgotten her stuffed bear in the other room, she asked Maren to retrieve it for her so that they could continue playing house. When Penelope and Maren journeyed to the marketplace together in the Highmore carriage, Penelope would hide behind the other young girl as they waltzed past vendors, whispering her requests in her friend's ear since she was too shy to do it herself. At times, young Penelope even let Maren try her beverages and sweets first to discern if the goodies were tasteful or not before she had a sip or nibble.

That was at the tender age of seven, when children were children and favors were done out of love. As the seasons passed them by, Penelope continued to follow Maren wherever she went, wanting to play a game or tell her a story. On stormy nights she pestered Maren to let her have a slumber party in Maren's bedroom which was only a few doors down from Penelope's. They would brush one another's hair and build fortresses of blankets, pillows, and pins. They would make paper crowns and sneak the last of the night's desserts from supper into their hideouts.

So many giggles and hugs and promises were exchanged on those nights as they would lay on their backs and stare at their makeshift blanket ceiling to discuss all the places they would go and all the people they would meet. Maren said she wanted to move to another part of the kingdom and become an adventurer. Penelope said that she wanted to purchase the finest house in her village and marry the King's son. They drew pictures of their futures, and in every drawing there were two stick figure children within them holding hands; one fair with yellow-crayoned hair and the other brown with darker hair. Because that is what they promised to be--together, forever.

They kept their pact even when Mrs. Highmore caught onto their antics. When it rained, the older woman knew to come to Maren's room to find her daughter fantasizing about the wonders of being a child. With a single command, she would send Penelope back to her room and ask Maren to clean up the fortress.

On their trips to the market, Mrs. Highmore grabbed her daughter's hand to prevent her from hiding behind Maren.

"Young ladies are not to cower," she had said. "You are a Highmore."

She watched grudgingly as Penelope still held Maren's hand even while holding her mother's. The shopping days went on that way for a time, too.

Maren never minded, as Penelope was always preferred by their parents. In fact, it never occurred to her that their treatment could be different even when Penelope began home schooling while Maren had been kept from lessons and the tutor. The young girl would notice Penelope's absence at her shoulder, would overhear the murmuring of language and history in another room, would tiptoe to the door and press her ear to the wood to listen until Mrs. Highmore cleared her throat and said, "Maren. Away."

She would return to her room and wait the hours for her sister to be released, smiling every time the little princess would show up at her doorstep with a new book and some fact that she took away.  They would chatter and ask one another questions until Juniper called Penelope and Maren away for dinner.

All of it was routine and nice until Penelope went away for the weekend.

Maren scoured the empty house for the other little girl, her father, and her mother. They were nowhere to be found. However, Lady Juniper kept Maren company and decided to assign her tasks in the meantime until their return. Juniper taught her how to hem clothes, how to wash dishes, how to sweep and mop the wooden floors to keep them looking polished. When Maren grew tired of those assignments, Juniper still demanded that she do them, even threatening to tell the Highmores about her insurgency if she did not complete the miniature task list assigned at the dark hours of morning.

Not only did her daily tasks change, but so did her appearance. The gowns and shoes the Highmores had bought for her were taken away, replaced with more humble designs and muted colors. Juniper instructed her to wear her hair in a tight bun and to stop putting ribbons around it as well. The last thing she had was still her bedroom, where she'd sit and stare through the window onto the city streets where people bustled below. And when she spotted the Highmore carriage finally returning to the front door, she sprinted through the halls and down the stairs despite Juniper's yelling to throw the door open and dash to her beloved sister.

However, Penelope did not run to her. She stood, awkwardly, wincing as Maren wrapped her arms around her neck and pressed their cheeks together. It was the last time they would hug for a few years. It was also the beginning of learning societal roles; having adults explain that Maren was not a Highmore by blood but another child brought up to keep Penelope supervised and waited on.

Maren learned to walk behind others, to speak when spoken to, to keep meals warm, to be engaged in conversation yet absentminded, to style someone else's ensembles, to not look her lady in the eye unless directly addressed, to clean up after others, to put herself on a shelf, to not scream too loud when she received punishment for fear of waking up the hosts of the house.

They introduced her to a spectrum of beauty from birth and stole it from under her nose.

They even, finally, took away her bedroom and placed her in a smaller chamber near the kitchen where the heat of the oven kept her warm and the lack of windows left her in the dark.

This was hardly different.

Maren stared at the tapestries on her ceiling. The apple-scented breeze blew through the uncombed strands of her hair. It smelled of sugar and soil. And it was so warm in her room that she stayed completely still to keep from sweating.

A tear rolled from the side of her eye down to the white sheets beneath her head while she pondered if she hated beauty or if she hated the fact that whenever she experienced it, some part of it was taken away.

Crackling firewood and rustling leaves filled her ears, all of it so loud.

If she had not been listening so intently, she would not have heard the soft footfalls right outside her window. She also might not have paid attention to the way the gossamer drapes parted to reveal a male silhouette on the balcony. Cautiously he entered, one hand behind his back.

Softly, Namjoon said, "His Highness asks that you join him and the other ladies for lunch this afternoon."

Maren did not move. She did not even look at him.

"Go to Hell."

"You must eat something," he urged politely.

She ignored him, settling for wondering and considering and imagining instead.

Namjoon glared, all the poise of an advisor seeming to hold him together. As the drapes swayed in the wind, they covered his shadow. The next time they blew into her room, he was gone.

Emberlynn redressed bandages in a way that made Maren want to fall asleep. An herbal salve coated the small scratches on her legs underneath the adhesive; left over cuts from when she could not completely clear a log during her run or missed a step. Cool water swimming with multicolored crystals made a bath for her sore, calloused feet. It was all the attendant could do for her since the girl refused to stand, walk, or move.

She simply stayed in bed avoiding eye contact and speech unless she wanted to indulge.

Another visitor haunted the hallway during specific hours or morning and evening. They would knock incessantly, giving up after two attempts each. Sometimes, there was a third try as if this time someone would answer. But Maren stared at her tapestry, unwilling to greet them.

The sun rose and set and rose again.

Two days had passed.

The knocking was too persistent to be ignored. That, or Maren had finally found enough fury within her to sit up and pay attention.

The girl slid off her bed, gasping as her feet hit the floor for the first time in a while. Dark spots clouded her vision, one hand grasping the covers at her back to keep her steady while her consciousness spun in circles. The top of her was light, the bottom half of her was too heavy. Still, she managed to place one foot in front of the other again and again until she opened the door.

Lyra's eyebrows arched in concern, her hands wrapping around Maren's shoulders in a one-sided hug. She sniffled into the sleeve of Maren's nightgown, burrowing her head deeper into the girl as though she'd disappear if she let go. "Oh, thank heavens you're alright. I'm so glad you're alright."

Maren looked to the ceiling again. It was all she could do to not shimmy out of the nice girl's grasp.

"I'm fine," she rasped.

"But are you really? Please don't lie to me," Lyra said, her bottom lip wavering. "They told us you had suddenly contracted an illness that kept you bedridden. I've been trying to come and see you, but you must have been so exhausted."

Maren blinked. "That was you?"

"Yes! I wanted to check on you and see if there was anything I could do to help." Lyra let Maren go, but remained unable to stand still. "Is there anything I can do?"

Maren knew of one thing to ask. "Where is Vernice?"

Lyra grabbed at the black mass of her ponytail, twirling the dark strands around her finger. "His Highness sent her home a while ago. Don't you remember? Though, it makes sense if you didn't know because you got sick around the time the news spread."

"I see," said Maren. "Thank you, Lyra."

"For what?"

"Coming to me. Thank you."

Lyra smiled, nodding fervently. "Anytime. I miss seeing you. I wanted to make sure you were well."

"You're a good friend," Maren said. She hugged Lyra back this time even though she felt weak and closed the door behind her as she left.

She turned to embrace her bed again--and stopped at another soft rap on her door. Sighing, she expected Lyra to offer more condolences or hugs. Instead, the man over her threshold stood there proudly, so much thrill in his eyes that it seemed as though he were smirking even if he wasn't. It took him a second for that glimpse of unbridled glee to pass over his expression, but when it did, his full lips tugged into a sweet smile.

"So this is where you are," he said.

She scowled, memories of the Solstice pouring into her mind like hot lava. Without his regalia, he was just as handsome, his black hair as dark as his jet black button up. When he placed his hands in his pockets, she caught sight of the black feathers sewn to the shoulders. Truly, that color alone made her ball her fists.

"Faeries are not welcome here," she spat.

"Can I be the exception?" Jimin tilted his head.

She glared daggers.  "High Princes get no exceptions."

"I'm no High Prince," he admitted. "The title and honor escaped me."

"It escaped all of you," she blurted.

Jimin chuckled. A pretty, dark thing. "You are the perfect accessory for the fire kingdom. So angry," he teased, crinkling his nose just to mock her.

"I'm no accessory--,"

"Excuse me."

Maren stood straight at the voice, a murderous cold washing over her shoulders as the other creature in the hallway elegantly strode into view next to Jimin. His Highness regarded her indifferently, that normally polite face ever so disappointed.

"I would like to have a word with Maren. Alone," said the Prince.

Jimin glanced from her to him and back to the girl, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. "Of course," he said, concealing a smile as he went about his way.

Seokjin stepped into her room, not bothering to spare her a glance as Namjoon closed the door behind him. He sauntered to the fireplace, his gaze transfixed on the hearth as he settled into a hostile silence. A silence not created by him, for he was solely focused on the movements of the elements. A silence created by her, who could not focus on him without her blood boiling.

"Damn you," she said suddenly. "Damn you, your kingdom, and your country. Filthy liars. All of you."

His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. "What do you think of Lyra?"

She craned her neck back, not sure if he'd heard her. "Excuse me?"

"Lyra," he repeated, scratching the back of his neck. "What do you think of her?"

Her hands trembled, her jaw clenching so hard so that she felt the pressure in her ears. She could not blink, she barely even breathed.

"I will not let you ignore me."

He closed his eyes as though growing impatient.

It infuriated her to the point of no longer caring. 

"Listen to me, you bastard! What did you do to me?" She held up her hand, wishing she could do more than scream. "What did you do to my ring?"

Seokjin's voice was gentle. Unwilling to give fuel to her fire. "I do not know who you are, but let my willingness to still ask for help be an early sign of my forgiveness towards your actions. It is all I will say on the matter."

She seethed. "I will not offer anything until you tell me about my ring. Turn it back!"

"That is not within my power," he said, leaning over until his face shimmered with a golden glow from the flames at his feet. He embraced it as one would embrace smelling daisies.

"Kim Seokjin--,"

"Please," he interrupted, wincing like she'd burned him. "I would prefer that you not use my name when I know nothing of yours."

Before she could hurl another insult, he stood and glanced at her sidelong. "The ring is his doing, therefore it is his to undo. He used a binding spell. So long as you have on that piece of jewelry, you are not allowed to leave Neverin. An attempt at the border again will burn you alive. I believe you felt the effects of the paralysis as you dared your last escape."

She did not want to give him the satisfaction of studying her ring or even trying to pull it off. But she did feel her palms begin to sweat, and she felt her inability to stand still.

She ran her hands over her face. "But he and you are one in the same. There is no one without the other."

"Your ignorance of my realm will not help you understand."

"So, that's just it? I'm your prisoner," she muttered.

"However you prefer to phrase it." No longer finding solace in the fireplace, he leaned on the edge of her bed, crossing his arms. "It never had to be this way."

What other way could it have been? Of course it could only be this way. She was sent to steal, not befriend. She had a home, a life, and a love. Nothing here would fulfill her. Not even if it were coated in gold and gems. Not even if she were shivering cold and a bundle of fire were the only thing that could save her life.

He disregarded her confusion, deciding instead to address her as a kind stranger would. "Tell me who you are, and please do not lie to me."

"I owe you nothing," she grumbled.

"Do you get tired of being so temperamental?"

Her face twisted into rage, a slick retort coming to her lips like a breath of fire until he cut her off diplomatically.

"Listen. I will not judge you for taking from my palace.  If you would have told me of your need, I would have given to you generously. Whatever you requested. It is your bold action of taking the mirror that catalyzed all of this. It is the only artifact I cannot part with. I know what it is to think selfishly and to serve one's own interests. For that, I do not find fault. However, I do find fault in my own foolishness for trusting you. The folly rests on my behalf. So, tell me who you are. I would not like to make the same mistake."

His delivery was too soft. Too genuine. The kindness of it cut Maren the most, and in her shame she could not help but feel like he had won. Like he managed to spin his promise of hay into golden thread.

She would never be that gentle. She would never abuse the word forgiveness like that. She would never forgive the Beast Prince that had done this to her--that promenaded through halls overflowing with sunlight and magic by day and haunted halls of ash-stained death by nightfall. For every good thing he made her feel and think, she wanted to hurt him. She wanted him to bleed.

"My name is Maren. I am a lady's maid sent in place of a woman that also holds contempt for you. I hate this palace. I hate you. You are an animal, and any animal that pretends to be a savior is a liar to himself and to the women he imprisons here. Lyra is a beautiful human being. She is the only pure thing in this forest. And she deserves far better than to be caged by your side."

As disgusting as it was, Maren raised her chin, proud of herself but tired at the same time. That would make him think twice about ever calling her a companion again.

Her stomach's growl dashed the tension in the air.

The Prince stood from her bed, head downcast as he wandered past her shaking frame.

"If you are hungry, you are free to join me for dinner."

Astonished, Maren hid her shock by training her face into neutrality. "I won't."

"The palace is also yours to roam from dawn to dusk and every hour in between," he said. Without another word, he left the room.

Vernice clasped her cloak around her neck with a hand, tripping over her own two feet as she sprinted through the village. The morning sun shimmered uselessly over the apartment buildings and cottages, all of the colors of the town dreary in the human world. The sky appeared grey. The buildings were the color of stains. The people were sallow and ghastly. The foggy air reeked of manure, waste, and sweat with an uppercut of perfume from passing carriages. It made her nauseous as she leapt and bound through the crowded masses.

Finding the address was not easy, but surprisingly enough, the family she was searching for carried a weight to their name. The townspeople responded well to her probing questions. They even offered their own unsolicited two cents about what they were doing during the season and how prosperous they had recently been. Something about a marriage. Whispers about a misfortune.

Vernice sidestepped before a clydesdale could step on her tired feet. The large horse galloped away, his wide carriage sluggishly following his old gait. She could not catch a peek of who was in the carriage, but she did not need to. As soon as it passed, her eyes lit up as she found the only house marked with a bronze Highmore label. It was a townhome. A skinny but well-kept artifice in the middle of a sleepy village street. Without hesitating, she marched to the front door and knocked with cold hands.

At the lack of an answer, she knocked again, harder this time around.

The door opened to a thin, redheaded girl with doe eyes in an apron and navy blue gown. She appeared to be no older than sixteen, the innocence in her expression still there... still supple. For some reason, Vernice's heart strings pulled at the memory of the willowy girl a few years older in the palace. The one with lovely brown skin and darker hair that was likely just as sheltered at one time. Just as certain that nothing terrible could ever happen to her, nothing that she had not already conquered.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"I would like to speak with Penelope, if she's here," said Vernice.

"My lady is not available at this hour," answered the girl.

"Tell me," said Vernice, "when did you become a maid here?"

The girl took a step back, the caution in her gaze overwhelming. "I--"

Vernice rolled her eyes. "It's a simple question. Answer me."

"I am newly appointed. A replacement, my lady told me."

"Clara," called a feminine voice from upstairs. "Who are you speaking with?" A young woman with blond hair and blue eyes tiptoed down the steps clad in a silk robe and slippers. She stopped halfway when she spotted Vernice. At her back was a young man, his sandy hair tousled and his blouse partially unbuttoned. On both of their fingers were wedding rings. On hers was an amethyst.

Vernice ignored the rush of emotion, deciding instead to use logic first. "Your name is Penelope?"

The woman drew her robe tighter around her. "And you are?"

"A friend of Maren's. She's in trouble."

The man wore his surprise, taking an extra step down. "Maren? Is she alright?"

Penelope grimaced, turning her head to him. "Nathaniel, please."

"What has happened to her?" he asked anyway to the woman's dismay. "She's alive?"

Vernice nodded. "I know where she is, but she isn't safe. She needs help! As much of it as she can get. The Fire Prince is strong, but if we are smart enough we can get her back."

The man, Nathaniel, hesitated upon glancing at the woman's face. Penelope had him frozen, her glacial stare warning him against speaking out of turn again. Then, she paid the rest of her attention to Vernice, a diplomatic grin smoothing over her charming features.

"I apologize. You must be mistaken in coming here."

Vernice scoffed, already understanding why this moment felt so cold, why when she met the eyes of Penelope she knew the answer to her call before it left her lips. But she did not believe it to be true. She believed in the love of Maren. She wanted so badly to believe that her friend in that palace knew the conditions of her old master's heart.

"You're lying," Vernice muttered.

Penelope laughed absentmindedly. "No, but I wish I was. I do not know anyone by that name."

(A/N)

My beloved Fae friends,

I think every day I spend at least one minute squealing because you are reading. I beg you to understand that you warm my heart to the deepest degree. You are so special, and the funniest thing is that I am not even only grateful for your read but genuinely happy that you are you.

A publishing schedule was requested, and it shall be given! I planned on making one, but my finishing finals prohibited me from getting a clear estimate, and sadly, I can't update three times a week like I want to. Or maybe I can?

Either way, I'll update frequently unless I have prior engagements.

I love, love, love you!

Next release: 12/10 December 10th