She descended to the domain of the cook. The woman was busily frying potatoes and beef slices. Just the sizzling sounds of it were enough to make Monica extremely hungry. And that smell. It was intolerable.

"Good afternoon," she said, beginning a search in the cupboard.

The cook seemed in a terrible mood. "Just make yer meal and get out."

Monica sighed a sigh that echoed around the confines of the cabinet and pulled out a yellowed head of lettuce. Salad. It was better than fish, but only barely. "Did breakfast go badly or anything? How are my sisters?" she asked as she briskly chopped the leaves.

The cook snarled, throwing the meat and tubers about in the pan ferociously. "Yer sisters are as beautiful and polite as always. Allonica spilled some tea on the floor, but ever'thing went good besides that."

Having gotten a single answer without being abused, Monica decided that was good enough and ceased all attempts at pleasant communication. She arranged the wispy, dying leaves artistically on her plate and ate them.

"MONICA! DARLING!!!"

She jerked, almost dropping her plate on the hard floor, and looked up. Yovica, one of her older sisters, grabbed her in a giant hug. Monica could never remember just how old Yovica was, or where she placed in the timeline of princess births.

She tried to smile at her sister. "Hi, Yovica."

Yovica favored her with an immense smile of gleaming white teeth. She was pretty, in a flashy, obvious way. Her brown hair hung in curls at her shoulders, and she had huge, nut-brown eyes with long eyelashes. She was rather noisy as well. Despite the fact that she could visit Monica whenever she liked, and never did, she always acted like she was dying to see her "little darling." "Baby girl, how are you??"

"Fine," Monica said. There was little point in sharing troubles with her sister. Yovica would just gossip about it to anyone who would listen later on. 

"You don't look fine, honey blossom." Yovica pouted. "Can't you tell your LOVING big sis what's wrong?"

"If I could trust that it wouldn't go all over in the castle in three minutes, I might," Monica said tersely around a mouthful of lettuce.

Her sister's eyes widened, and she turned to the cook in feigned shock. "Cookie, darling, did you hear that? Moni thinks I would tell her little secrets!!!"

"Ingratitude if I ever heard it," the cook growled. She fanned herself with a fat hand uselessly. "Just leave her to sulk."

A hue and cry arose from the dining room, and Yovica dashed off to see what it was. She did not even say goodbye to her "little darling." Stolidly, Monica finished her lettuce and got up. "You should talk. You're sulking all the time," she added as a parting shot to the cook, and went outside.

Normally, after a meeting with a sister, she would go to the Crevasse and bury herself in her story. Monica paused on the path. In the bright afternoon sunlight, the memory of the dragon rising out of the ravine seemed ethereal and silly. She had imagined it all, likely. And her story in its claws? Just another figment of her brain. All silliness. So with a firm step, she set off down the path. She needed somewhere to think, anyway.

What was she going to do? How was she ever going to escape from the castle? She briefly imagined herself running away in the night, but dismissed it with a sigh. She would not make it a mile before she would have to turn back. She was a princess, not a wood-cutter's daughter. She did NOT know how to provide for herself, and the servants did not want to teach her. She needed a prince. And her only method of acquiring one had just been savagely shot down. 

I...I could write another story. One that isn't..TRASH, she thought bitterly, the king's note stinging her still. The thought of starting all over again, and the long, long years while she wrote it seemed very dismal. But then again, when had her life been cheerful? Her story and the chance of a prince had been the one bright spot in her life.

She paused, looking out at the glade, and...the Crevasse. Her deer friends were at the edge of the woods, grazing nervously. Her heart thumped as she approached the edge of the chasm, though she told herself there was nothing to be afraid of. A spot of white lying beside the canyon caught her attention. White, with a small strand of red. She sucked in her breath raggedly. Her story. The pile of papers lay, weighted down with a rock, and retied together with the ribbon, by the edge of the pit.

Monica swallowed. There was absolutely no way that her story could have gotten out of the pit on its own. There was equally no way that the dragon could exist. Therefore, there had to be an explanation. Perhaps...the papers had blown up out of the chasm with a very strong gust of wind, and a nearby farmer had found them and tied them up. And left them by the Crevasse, the place townspeople feared the most? No, clearly not. She played nervously with the ends of her hair, her eyes fixed on her story.

No one could possibly know she came here. If they had seen her name signed to the manuscript, they would have brought it to the castle. Unless they could not. Monica frowned. What if a passing criminal found her story and wanted to help her, but could not take it to the castle for fear of arrest? Yes! And he of course would be unaware of the rumors about the Crevasse! 

Why would a criminal especially care about us or our story, enough to go and put it back together? a sensible part of her asked, but Monica ignored it. She had satisfied herself, or enough of herself, with that explanation. She stepped forward cautiously and bent down, retrieving her story lovingly. It was just as she had left it. Monica sighed. She sat down and loosed the ribbon from around it, preparing to give it her most brutal criticism ever. She read swiftly, mouthing the words to herself as she read them. Where was this fatal flaw that so possessed the king to refuse it flatly? The dialogue was fresh, and some parts made her giggle. The characters, while they were not all fully developed, were fairly true to life.

She got into the dialogue, voicing some of the most dramatic parts out loud. 

"NOOOOOO!! She will be- MINE!!!!" she proclaimed with a horrible shriek as the villain perished. 

The ending, which was of course a wedding, gave her some pain. She had hoped for her own wedding so soon after she finished writing the one for her characters. She leafed through the pages, partially skimming through it again, but mostly thinking. What was so wrong with it? It just seemed like innocent, fun writing.

"Why did you throw it away?" a deep, deep voice said from next to her and a warm, warm breath brushed her arm.

Monica shrieked as loudly as the story's dying villain, jumping up and whirling all at once. There, not five feet from where she had sat, was the dragon. Its head was resting on the edge of the chasm, while its neck curved down in a graceful arc into the canyon below, where the rest of its body was presumably clinging to the pit wall.

"AHHH!" she repeated, having not quite gotten over her shock. She did not run, however, and the dragon cocked its scaled head.

"You cried," it said.

Monica tried not to scream again. "Wh-whaat?" she stuttered.

"When you threw it away, you cried. Why?"