The blizzard began to pick up again with a howl. Puffs of white escaped into the air with each breath Ash took. She leaned against the basement door, earning a chitter from Bernard.

“I’m okay,” she said. “Don’t worry, Bernard.”

It hadn’t been long since she left the room. After what happened, she never wanted to return to it. Some good had come from the venture, though. Everything she snagged fit perfectly into her satchel. She rummaged through it, withdrawing the mirror from within.

Whatever magic it held must’ve been powerful. The moment it settled down, the mirror shrunk until it fit in the palm of her hand. Why her mother had it in her possession, Ash wasn’t sure. If it had value, she could make a fortune selling it; the design was unique and intricate enough to warrant its worth. Until she found a place far away from here, she needed alternative income sources, just in case.

Now wasn’t the time for ponderings. The longer she stood still, the more her resolve wavered. This could be her only chance.

“Come on,” Ash opened the door, staring down the dark stairwell. The amount of times she went up and down these creaking steps, this would be the final time she descended them. “There’s only a few more things I need to pack before we go.”

She went down one step after the other. Each scathing screech gave an odd sense of comfort— her only safe haven in the entire palace. As wood transitioned to soot soddened floor, a sudden dread crept up her spine.

The room was small, windowless and warm. A weathered mattress sat upon the rusted frame against the wall, something that should’ve been discarded along with the rest of the old bedding the maids once rested on. This one was kept exclusively for Ash, so says Lady Rothwell. The blanket was thin and covered in patches, but it served its purpose well for what it’s worth.

An old iron furnace burned away in the far left corner. Every day and night, she poked at the coals, adding more each time. It was the only way to keep warm in this room. Not to mention, her stepfamily would throw fits if the temperature of the water was just a tad cold. There were still scars on her back from the times she neglected this particular duty.

None of that compared to the odds and ends that lay scattered across the floor. Colorful fabrics, shredded to bits. Lace trimmings laid in heaps, ripped from the hems of skirts and sleeves. Gossamer sashes and satin ribbons frayed in haphazard patterns, all with buttons and embroideries left unraveled and undone. Georgette and Willa’s signature cruelty.

No matter how small or outdated their clothes became, they only ever sent her the scraps. It was all she deserved in their mind— a petty display in hindsight.

She sighed. Such dark reminiscing was better off forgotten.

Ash plucked each torn article from the ground. For each ruined garment that was gathered, she dusted off and wrapped around her palm. Loop after loop, colorful strand after colorful strand. Pieces that were too large were cut into strips before being bound with the others; anything too thin was used to tie them together. Once every shred of cloth was wrapped, she placed them inside her satchel beside her sewing box.

They weren’t the best materials, but they might be enough. One always needed to be prepared.

She checked everything in her bag. There was enough room for an extra blanket and a spare set of clothes, but not enough for her water pouch.

“This is quite a dilemma,” she said, pulling out the cloak.

It was large enough to cover her frame but took up the most space out of everything else she packed. Ash thumbed the soft inner padding, its natural warmth pulsed against her fingertips. It was beautiful and well crafted, each stitch served a purpose.

Wonder if Father ever wore it?

With a swish, the cloak fell over her shoulders, tied together by golden strings. Somehow, it was a comfortable fit despite its size. Perfect insulation, light as a feather— enchanted winter wear was something else.

Bernard peeked through her locks, squeaking with a soft chitter.

“It is nice,” said Ash. “But it’s much too grand for me.”

The mouse rolled his eyes, head tilting to the side with another squeak.

“Don’t give me that. I mean, look at me,” Ash gestured to her ragged dress. “No one’s going to take a servant seriously.”

Another chitter, another squeak.

“Of course I’m not an actual servant. It’s just–”

“What will it take for you to finally act like royalty?”

Ash hadn’t thought of herself as a princess for a long time. Perhaps Lady Rothwell was right to chastise her.

Ash shook her head.

“Flake should be in the stable.” She packed the rest of her belongings before slipping the satchel over her shoulder, adjusting it to ensure its security. “Let’s get out of here.”

As she ascended the stairway for the final time, each step moaned until they faded out into silence. The door closed behind her with a soft click. Ash let out a breath, her hands shook. Not once did she look back, not until the cold air chilled her cheeks and the gentle crunch of snow delighted her ears did she dare one last glance.

The castle was dead as far as she was concerned. Its exterior could crumble at this very moment, though her earliest cherished memories would always remain in her heart. While it would be heavy for a while, it was for the best.

That day, when the snowfall was at its peak, the winds at their highest, Ash Sleet vanished without a trace.

☙ ♡ ❧