Eyes like the cerulean sky of this morning flew open as a thundering crash descended upon her. Heart jumping through Helena’s chest as though it meant to fly right to the skies, she began to take to take in her surroundings.

Heavy sheets of lightning and rain descended onto the castle walls and windows like angry tears and thrashing arms.

There was no one else in the library. She had fallen asleep on the settee which was quickly becoming a habit that Helena had to quell before returning to the Goodlands.

Catching her uneasy breath by clutching the silver of her cross necklace, feeling the ridges press into her palm, “Good Lord.”

She rose from the settee, rubbing her eyes and fixing her ivory pajama dress, Helena meekly called out, “Ursula?”

As she sat in silence, Helena gently set down her book with open pages face down against the cushions. She began to drift beyond the shivering walls of the library.

The glass seemed to rattle like the hands of thousands of despondent ghosts thrattled against it. She could almost see the ridges of their finger pads on the thick glass. The storm raged on and on with the passing of melting candled drips. Arms crossed over her chest, she stuck her head into room after room in search of her host. The cold running shivers straight through her extremities.

“Ursula?” She called out once more.

“Helena?” A voice echoed back, “I am in the living room.”

“Ah there you are.” She sighed with relief. Ursula sat comfortably on another settee in the living room. A long, translucent black robe thrown over her with her hair tied back into a braid that cascaded down the length of her spine. Now, even though the lights were low in the castle, Helena could see the dips and details of Helena’s face. Like the freckle placed at the far edge of her jaw.

The salon was barer than the library, filled with many detailed paintings and a fireplace between two mirroring and crystal class windows. They were made made of coloured stained glass fitted together to make two separate scenes.

On the left was a face Helena did not recognize. Rigid body of a man with a thick beard who held up a similar chalice to that which Helena saw Ursula drinking out of the first morning after her arrival. The colour of his golden eyes was muted as the dark of the storm peered through his irises. The man’s body was adorned in a long cloak, cascading down his silver

“I did not want to wake you, you seemed so peaceful.” Helena only heard pulses and fractions of her words. The portrait on the right now under her curiosity. Freckles dotted the woman’s cheeks like comets. Chin held high, she clutched similar chalice to the man to her left. Neither one of them, Helena recognized, an enchanting beauty both of them were.

“Helena?” She called out once again but the second scene pulled Helena’s attention as though an invisible hand held her chin in place and in line with the pieces of

“Here, you’re shivering.” Ursula was suddenly inches from her, her own shoulder pressed into Helena’s scapula. Tenderly draping the fabric over her. Helena stood still, every lingering sense of sight or feeling or hearing except the suffocating lack of breath flowing out before her.

“Glarim.” Helena stuttered out a half-spoken or half-whispered thank you as she tugged the blanket tighter and tighter against herself.

“Your Taranqian is becoming better.” Ursula sat back in her original spot. There was no other seat than the one directly next to her.

A seat Helena took with only half-steps. The couch dipped under her weight, folding her into the warmth of the cushions. She could feel the wild breath of the fire pass over her knees and legs as she sat towards the inferno.

“Do you desire some tea? It is traditional Taranqian black tea?” The fire’s colouring shaded over Ursula’s ivory skin with vermillion and valencia, her eyebrow raised, beckoning Helena to respond. She gave a short nod and settled further down into the settee.

Ursula leaned over to the lilliputian tea table. The tea was housed in a still steaming and silver teapot. It’s long snout poured out a thin-ebony coloured tea. She filled it to the brim as the smell of aged tea leaves and a warm refreshing fragrance filled the salon air.

“Thank you so much.” The warmth of the porcelain tea cup passed through her palms and through to her lungs and limbs. Holding the mug in her hands she tips it upwards, feeling the steam rush over her face smoothly. It tastes of a sweetness and filled with spices she could not quite describe. “It is absolutely wonderful.”

“Taranqar loves their black tea. There are even poems about it.”

“Poetry. That’s interesting, we should try it.”

“You want to try writing poetry?” Ursula clarified. The smallest inches of her lips were upturned, mirroring the wrinkles at her black eyes.

“Why not?” Helena insisted softly, “They say nothing bares the fibres of one’s soul more than poetry. Perhaps you are a poetess and you simple never knew.”

“I have experienced much of what the world has to offer, let it be noted that I am skeptical.”

“Your skepticism is noted, but I still do plead that you try it.” Still, Ursula looked uneasy with the idea. In response, Helena allowed, “Here then I shall turn so you do not have to look me in the eyes as you write.” Helena switched positions, her back to Ursula’s side.

She could hear the small pops and cracks the fire emitted. The sweet smell of smoak from the burning ash and wood.

As time continued, Helena’s posture dipped until she felt the cold press of Ursula’s bones against hers. Tensing immediately she meant to pry herself away, but Ursula did not utter a single word.

Only the feeling of her similarly taut muscles speaking volumes between the pair.

Helena noted in her mind to update her journal once she retired to her bedroom later into the night. To fill the pages with new anecdotes and facts she might use once she returned home.