MAARIT AND PICARD had barely covered half of the castle when they decided to stop for the day and return to the library. There was an unusual spring in the young woman's step as they made their way back. Her fingertips itched to glide over pages of books. It had been a while since she had had the time to sit down and read a book. At the castle, she had all the time in the world.

Legs trembling with excitement, she stepped onto one of the ladders and climbed to the very top. As she did so, she ran her fingers over the spines, her eyes skimming over the titles. The shelves were stocked with all different sorts of books, ranging from ancient to freshly printed. Maarit paused in her pursuit of a book to read first when she noticed strange writing on one of the spines. She frowned and tilted her head, surveying the script until she realized that she did not understand it because it was in Arabic.

"Alexander?" she called, leaning away from the ladder. She looked down at the floor, only to see Picard standing far below. "There's literature from the Middle East here? In Arabic?"

"Oh, yes," he said, nodding. "That is not all there is, though. Some of the literature is also Italian, Indian, Chinese, Russian..." He paused, tapping his chin in ponderation, before continuing. "Dutch, Norse, Latin, French and I believe even Croatian and Hebrew. There may be more, but my mind is drawing a blank at the moment..."

Her mouth fell open, delightful shock lifting her dark eyebrows to the ceiling. "No wonder there are so many books! Perhaps all the books in existence are in this very room." The hyperbole resounded hollowly through the library, echoing across the walls, the glass dome ceiling and the bookshelves.

"Do you know any other languages, Maarit?" Picard asked, gazing up at her as she swayed on the ladder. Curiosity crept into his voice.

"Hm... well, I do know some Latin. As you are very aware, enchantments are in Latin. I became curious as to what some of them translated to, so I started to teach myself the language about three years ago. I have also picked up some Hindi from my..." She stopped herself when she realized what she was saying, but cleared her throat to cover her momentary hesitation. "I picked it up from my parents, but I don't know too much of it. What about you?"

"I am quite fluent in Latin and French," said Picard.

"Interesting," she mused, plucking a random book from the shelf. "What languages does His Bitchiness speak?"

The warlock doubled over, overcome with laughter and clutching onto the nearest bookshelf for support. Maarit was soon laughing along with him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She felt more alive than she had felt since arriving at the castle.

"He speaks Latin and French as well," Picard told her once his laughter had ceased—but traces of it still remained in his eyes. The poor young man seemed like he had not gotten a good laugh in a decade.

"Right. Of course he does," Maarit replied. "Do you think he would care if I brought this to my room to read? I know that I cannot possibly be here all night because you have to supervise me, but I'd like to read it." She lifted a book up and showed the cover to Picard from the top of the ladder.

"I doubt one missing book would make a difference," said Picard, shrugging his shoulders. "You can always bring it back once you're finished and take a new one. The library will still be here tomorrow."

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.

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       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.