Chapter One

Monday, October 1st 1957

The only People who say waking up is a blessing are the rich—The Nobles and all of high society.

The poor hate it.

I hate it.

I don’t want to wake up anymore.

The redundant smell of herbs that churn my stomach every morning, my dusty bed whines underneath my weight when I try to sleep at night and the burning poison that sits on my nightstand staring at me rattles my bones before it damages my throat

My organs cry.

This isn’t the dream life I imagined to have 10 years ago.

But what can I do?

Turn back time?

Bring my parents back before moments of disaster.?

I can’t.

If I could, I would.

I swear it.

I lightly blow on the wet ink and it ripples subtly on the rough pages of my journal.

Raising my index finger, magic pulses from my soul into my veins, seizing my throat before emitting a faint, golden light at my finger tip. The journal levitates.

One.

Two.

Three.

I slowly point my finger to my three-legged nightstand behind me, making sure the ink doesn’t shift along the page. The journal rests its open cover beside the bottle of poison before I gasp for the herb-filled air.

My chest heaves and sweat beads glide down my temples quickly.

Oxygen leaves again, flying my eyes open as I slide off my creaking bed to swallow upright. Once I take the gulp of air, my body shivers with relief.

“Goodness…” I utter, maneuvering through the wooden crates of elixirs to my dusty mirror, where I hang my bag.

Nevertheless, no matter how cruel the world can be, I need to keep moving and being positive because there is some joy amidst the chaos.

Rat-a-tat.

Someone knocks on the door as I sling my crossbody sac across my torso. “Come in” I replied absently, pulling my curls over my pointy ears.

The door hinges whine loudly across from me as I inch to my bedside, grabbing the black ribbon on my pillow and tying off my braid.

“Oh, you’re ready?” Briella asks, crunching loudly on something, likely an ambrosia apple, her favourite.

I turn around.

Her light complexion is spotted with faint freckles along her low nosebridge while her cheeks and lips are rosy. Ginger hair that I braided back into a neat ponytail highlights her upturned, sage-green eyes.

“Mhm” She moans, shutting her eyes and smiling widely. “This apple is to die for. It would make such a good apple pie–-Oh! Or even an apple tart, Yum!”

I watch her spine press against the doorway, as she slides down to the floor, daydreaming about an expensive apple tart.

“Goodness Bri, You say that about every apple.” I walk to the doorway, and stand over her. She opens one eye. “I’m beginning to doubt you.”

“Help me up.” She extends a wet, apple-juiced hand to me and my face pinches. “Come on, Elena. My legs are tired from all the running I did last night.”

“No-one forced you to go to the castle. You made that choice yourself.”

She looks away for a moment as if something caught her eye but she just scoffs. “Just help me up. I don’t want your lecture.”

I roll my eyes, grabbing her hand reluctantly.

She beams happily as the juice slides onto my palms and down my wrists before I hoist her up. “Gross.” I wince, shaking my wet right hand but the revolting, sweet scent remains stubbornly on my palms.

I watch her take the final bites of her apple and then swallow the core.

Whole.

She licks her lips and my nostrils flare. “Curse you.” I walk past her, towards the squeaky staircase at the end of the dim, narrow halls, keeping my right hand away from my body.

“Yea, Yea, enough of your sulking. It’s just juice” Bri sighs, walking behind me but I don't dare turn as my ears perk up listening to her wet hand glide across the dirty, peeling walls.

Gag climbs my throat, the image of many germs on her sticky hand disturbing my mind.

I swallow the gag. Hard.

Because Briella’s revolting habit doesn’t spike my anxiety as much as what i’m about to do.

The autumn winds burst through the windows, filling the room with soul-soothing petrichor. Tall wood trees stand outside our shop. With the room being dark, the leaves shined bright orange, leaving me stunned at the end of the stairs.

“Elena…”

“Elena?”

“ELENA!”

A hand smacks the back of my head with might and it vibrates throughout my cranium, causing my temples to sting with pain. “Ugh!” I groan, walking off the last step, and snapping my gaze to Bri. “Don’t touch me with your dirty hands! I just washed my hair last night.”

Lie.

My head gets sensitive when I consume too much poison making it easier for migraines to occur but I won’t tell Bri such a thing—She’d kill me.

“Don’t block my way, idiot.” She walks past me with tense shoulders, and shut eyes that boil my blood.

I stomp my foot, yelling behind her “You could’ve walked around!” But Briella disappears into the light-flickering kitchen with a tight lip and I stand in silence with the chirping birds and a painful headache.