I've always watched her from afar--not her specifically, just the castle mostly, but she was always there gazing wistfully at the world outside those ivory walls. I never thought I would be a part of that world, of her world, but my life turned in all kind of unexpected directions after I died.
Truth be told, being a vampire has some perks. Everything about me improved. The scars from years of strenuous labor and countless lashes had faded, replaced with smooth, shockingly white skin. I wasn't sure if I looked beautiful or terrifying.
My skin was one matter, but my hair was another. Mother used to tell me that my hair was brown like the soil from which we worked. She said that just as the soil nursed plants to life, someday I would nurse a family to life or become someone important who's name would be written in the history books she had never learned to read. She used to tell me that one day, I could show her my name in the paper. Or, she would joke, on a wanted poster in pretty black ink. Sure, it was just Mother's way of crushing one of the many insecurities I had about my appearance, but I had grown to love my brown hair because of her.
Now it's black. Like a night with no moon. Like the ink in the papers. The purest of darkness, the color of death. On anyone else, I would have considered the haunting contrast between my skin and my hair striking, possibly even attractive, but not on me. I no longer looked like myself, I no longer was myself, and I no longer knew what it meant to be "Ivy." Could I even call myself that anymore? I was a beast brought to life from death, to bring death, and cursed to never feel the hand of death upon me again.
But that wasn't my biggest concern. I was dead--or undead. Whatever. And the witch wanted something from me as payment for bringing me back to life. She wanted me to kill the king.