Путеводная звезда (перевод на английский)

MISTY PATH

Fairy tales can guide us like a shining thread

My Name’s Fox

by Lee Vixen

The moon was especially bright tonight. Its silvery saucer glowed with a pure white light that looked tinted with lapis blue if you squint your eyes a little.

Once upon a time, there was a fairy who wore a moonlight veil and a cloak of darkness…

A canopy of glittering stars shone in the midnight sky like a posse of fireflies. One star appeared much brighter than the rest, like a shard of moonstone on the velvet tapestry. Even though Hannah could stare at the starry sky for hours and learn all the constellations, she couldn’t recognize it now.

Should she ask her father? He knows the names of all the stars in the sky. The girl stirred in her warm, cozy crochet shawl and her father hugged her tighter.

«Aren’t you cold, cricket?» he asked. His coat smelled of horse sweat and smoke, and his skin was sun-kissed and salty from the sea wind. This time, Hannah begged to be on the boat, too, so that she could see the harbor town and the sea. The vast water fascinated her, but the sullen looks of the ship’s crew made the little girl cling to her father more than ever. However, when the ship docked, she found a lovely seashell flute and a couple of dried biscuits in her pockets.

«How far is it, father?»

«Don’t worry, kid. We’re almost there.»

There was a tension in his voice, and the trail they always took to cut across the forest now looked misty and strange.

Looking at the trees that surrounded them like a stockade of tall, gnarled trunks, Hannah remembered the old lullaby her nanny used to sing to her:

«Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?

My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;

My daughters by night their glad festival keep,

They’ll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.»

No longer did the forest seem so bright and welcoming as before, with green glades filled with bright sun and snow-white daisies. Hannah used to lie in the grass in a small grove behind their house, where she was allowed to go for a walk. She fell asleep to the sound of birdsong and the rustle of the wind in the leaves. But now…

The night was too dark. And that dead silence made it even scarier.

«Daddy, I’m hungry.»

«Me too, dear. I think I could eat a horse… Whoa, Ebony, don’t worry!» Father patted their pitch-black horse on the neck, but the stallion still backed up and started to spin around.

Hannah felt a chill and turned her head to see the patterned gate that had appeared out of nowhere, right in front of them. The curved iron stems intertwined into a delicate lace, each bud glowing in the dark with a soft, alluring radiance. For a moment, it seemed to the girl that cold, knobby hands with thin fingers were reaching out to her, each topped with a long silver claw… Hannah blinked, and the vision vanished.

But she still had that strange feeling. Something terrible was going to happen.

«Father, please! Don’t go there!»

«Don’t be afraid, little one. Let’s ask someone the way to the town. Maybe they’ll even let us stay the night. My, I was sure we were going the same way. Did I miss the turn or something?»

Then the rain started, urging them to shelter under the trimmed canopy of linden and pines. The crawling shadow of the fence trailed behind, leaving long sparkling traces on the gravel walk.

The castle loomed over them, a giant made of stone and shadow. Its tall spires pierced the pale foam of archways and covered passages, pointing skyward with their bony fingers. Grotesque stone sculptures were scattered here and there, among cracked walls. A lonely flicker of candlelight appeared in one window, then slowly moved to another — and went out. But before that Hannah could notice someone’s pale face behind the foggy glass.

«I could swear, it wasn’t here before.»

Ebony snorted again. The stallion clearly disliked the place. Hannah looked back at the gates that slowly creaked shut on their own.

What if this place belongs to a wicked fairy in the cloak of darkness?

«Good evening!»

A dark short figure leapt out from behind the nearby statue, startling the horse. Hannah’s father clenched her tightly and barely kept himself in the saddle.

«Oh, please forgive me, I didn’t mean to scare you!»

The silver bells on the tips of the richly-emproidered cap jingled softly as the jester bowed, nearly blending into the night’s shadows in his dark velvet coat. The moonlight cast strange, flickering shadows across his face — no, more like a mask, which portrayed a welcoming smile. A painted eye managed a mischievous wink at Hannah.

«Welcome, dear guests. I’ve been waiting for you!»

Gravel crunched beneath their feet, forming a winding serpentine path right to the marble staircase with an intricate balustrade. Father cast a cautious glance around.

«Don’t worry about the horse,» the jester whistled gently and Ebony obediently trotted toward the stables. «Come inside! We’ve got a warm bed and a cup of hot chocolate for your little lady.»

Suddenly, a downpour burst from heaven, and they all hurried onto the porch, seeking cover.

«Don’t — don’t — don’t go there!» the raindrops echoed as they danced across the gravel path.

A silhouette of a marble fountain emerged in the rain, an elaborate white sculpture of a rider in a flowing cloak and his pack of ghostly-white hounds.

The floor in the vestibule was laid with black-and-white tiles, resembling an enormous chessboard. The ivory and dark wood sculptures scattered throughout the hall only deepened the resemblance. Father sometimes taught Hannah to play, yet she could never quite grasp the intricate strategies and simply moved the pieces across the board.

The jester showed them into a living room.

A blazing fireplace was crackling warmly, flanked by two cozy armchairs draped with plush blankets. An enormous vase brimming with fresh fruits stood nearby, on an elegant carved table. Hannah’s attention was immediately drawn to a tray with delicate pastries and most delicious cakes imaginable.

It seemed as if they’d been expected here.

«Are we alone here?» father asked. The jester grinned and quickly changed his mask to a thoughtful one with just a click of his long fingers.

«A man is never truly alone; their shadow is always with them.» While he was saying it, his shadow suddenly grew bigger, almost enormous. Or was it just a trick of mind?

«And good servants should never be seen or heard, right?» The man bowed and left.

The fire was so warm and comfy, and the honey milk was even tastier than one the nanny made every night. They didn’t hear the doors close; a lock clicked ominously in the distance.

The trap was sealed.

JESTER'S MASKS

Cleaning the fireplaces was a chore that offered no pleasure. Afterward, Hannah’s hands and apron were all dirty, and a faint taste of ash lingered on her lips.

Sort out a plate of lentils and beans from ash, only then will you be able to attend the ball!

«Move it, you stupid little mouse!» A jester seemed to appear out of thin air, his velvet coat shifting colors — blue, ash gray and black, blending into the shadows. «If you keep on being lazy like that, you’ll gather dust yourself!»

Day after day, he kept teasing her, deliberately hanging cobwebs over her hair and shoulders, which Hanna feared more than anything. Recently, his temper had soured, perhaps because new visitors hadn’t come in ages, leaving the house eerily silent and abandoned.

The scent of nocturnal flowers drifted through the air, mingling with the distant chime of crystal bells. Hearing them, the jester noticeably turned pale, even though his skin was already powder-white. Hannah felt a shiver of fear too, yet there was a strange joy in her heart: the mistress won’t let him hurt her little guest. Brushing away sticky threads from her hair, Hannah continued to polish the enormous stone globe in the library. In his study, her father had a smaller one, made of red wood. She loved tracing the curved borders with her finger, listening to his stories of faraway journeys. He also promised to take her with him, when she turned as many years old as there were months in a year.

She would turn twelve in just a week, but she would never leave this place, trapped in a cold, lifeless fairy tale with no end and no beginning.

The girl ran her hand over the polished, icy-smooth surface of the globe. A mosaic of red, brown, and yellow pieces resembled a patchwork quilt. So many lands lay unknown under her fingers… After gazing at the globe, she had to climb a ladder to wipe every single shelf; there were three hundred and sixty-five of them — one for each day of the year, and each day stretched out long and slow, as if it was an entire year.

Luckily, her father taught her to read; he also used to say that she could travel the whole world without leaving her room if she had imagination. Sometimes she could sit for hours and hours, her mind drifting to the scorching African coasts, to a distant continent where trees offer no shade, or to a cozy farm where she could smell the scent of freshly cut hay and milk. She forgot being all alone in this dark place. And what happened to her father, too.

***

That night, the room was filled with the scent of flowers — so sweet and overwhelming that Hannah sneezed a couple of times before she finally awoke. It was a gloomy morning outside. The armchair by the fireplace was empty, the fire long extinguished. And her father wasn’t seen anywhere.

The front door was tightly locked, secured with a heavy bolt. It didn’t shift a bit when Hannah pressed her entire weight against it. Only at dawn, when she cried her eyes out, the jester found her in one of the many rooms.

«You?! How did you−" and he went straight to swearing in a language which was unknown to her. Now, in the daylight, with a smudged makeup and no mask, he looked like an ordinary old man, plump and bald-headed.

«Why are you still here?»

«I’m looking for my father!» Hannah cried. The jester grimaced and clapped his hands to his ears. When he turned around, the girl noticed a cylindrical leather case hanging from his belt.

Tarnished copper with a slight greenish hue around the ornate spirals of the tube, a twisted leather strap — father had it fixed specially for Hannah who often took his spying glass to watch the birds or look at stars.

Of course, she recognized it immediately.

«Stop whining!» the jester muttered with a squeamish smirk, yawning and scratching his unshaven cheek. «Go home, there’s nothing for you here.» Without much ceremony, he yanked her by the collar, dragging the girl outside like an erring puppy. The air was damp after yesterday’s rain, and Hannah stepped into a cold puddle with her shoe a couple of times.

«Bothering with kids is the last thing I need,» the man said and pushed Hannah towards the gates. And that was when the bells were heard for the first time.

Hannah thought it was ringing in her ears, but the jester froze in place, releasing her hand. The carved latch on the gate slid back into position, and a sudden gust of wind made the tree branches sway.

No, I won’t let her go.

So she stayed in the castle, either a servant or a guest. At first, the jester was constantly finding faults with her, giving Hannah so much work she could barely make it to her bed in the evening. She never saw her father again, not even in her dreams.

The days stretched endlessly, and she felt ensnared, like a tiny midge trapped in sticky syrup. Gradually, Hannah got familiar with the echoing maze of galleries, and even discovered a vast, welcoming kitchen on the first floor. The air was rich with the scent of smoked sausages and hams hanging from the walls, bunches of onions, baskets brimming with dried fruits, and jars of candied berries. The boxes with candies seemed to never get empty, and she never once felt a toothache. Every year in winter, a magnificent cake appeared on the kitchen table, adorned with fluffy whipped cream and flickering candles. Hannah would try to sneak into the kitchen before the jester — not to get the first piece of it, but to make a single wish, hoping it might come true.

She wanted to get back home.

Did Yul Tompten read her letters, which Hannah carefully strung up on the fireplace grate alongside a sugar pretzel from the kitchen? Or was he afraid to visit her in the enchanted castle? Perhaps, the pretzels were enchanted, too. With every bite and every passing year, Hannah’s memories seemed to fade. The clicking knitting needles in nanny’s hands, the sweet aroma of almond cookies and apple pies, and the sharp ink smell from her father’s cluttered desk.

After the library, Hannah moved into the corridor. The marble floor was covered with thick dust, and the carved furniture she spent half a day waxing was no more than yesterday’s memory. It seemed that only the kitchen remained clean, as if an invisible hand dusted and polished the copper ladles.

Useless.

Hannah glared at stained tiles with disdain. No tears!

The mistress hated crying children, the jester told her once. But she loved flowers, especially the translucent bluebells with silvery edges, which grew in the garden next to the fence. Hannah plucked a big bouquet, adding some of the puff-white cotton grass. Passing by the gate, she habitually tugged the carved latch — locked, as ever.

Inside, the flowers started to ring, louder and louder, eagerly stretching their tiny heads. The dark door at the corridor’s end; all others are carved from red wood, but this one is pitch-black, adorned with shimmering mother-of-pearl inlay.

Inside, a faint light flickered — though Hannah saw no candles. The windows were draped, with no furniture or paintings. The décor was a sculpture of a woman — made of snow-white marble, with full lips and shaven head, its thin long arms and legs look astonishingly beautiful yet terrifying.

Like a spider, poised to cast its web.

Hannah never dared to meet the mistress’s blank eyes and avoided touching its cold hand when placing flowers in marble palm. Yesterday’s bouquet was still fresh. Hannah dropped it on the floor where it instantly dissolved, woven into a dark malachite pattern. The bouquets brought by the jester turned to dust as soon as they touched the marble pedestal, but Hannah’s flowers continued to grow beneath the stone.

Overwhelmed, Hannah dashed out of the room and slammed the heavy door behind her. The jester was there, sitting on the windowsill and flicking a blue petal from his sleeve. His face was beet-red and swollen from wine, and he lazily plucked at the strings of his lute.

«Running again?» he asked with a smirk. «Just you wait, soon there will be nowhere to run!»

The mask strap snapped from his belt and went chasing Hannah, cackling wickedly, as she rushed down the gallery. The chime of bells echoed through the hall like someone’s mocking laughter.

STONE TRACES

The bed in her room was so big that Hannah usually huddled in the farthest corner and covered herself with a heavy brocade blanket. The tapestry was decorated with images of lilies, and each time she noticed new buds on the shoots that had stretched out overnight. The girl did her best to believe it was the way it should be and squeezed her eyes shut when the silk lilies opened their petals to wish her good morning.

If you don’t see it, it doesn’t see you.

For her shoes, on the contrary, she had to keep an eye as they were always hiding under the table, lying on the windowsill or hanging on the fender, changing the colour as they pleased.

But the worst thing was with the hair. Hannah’s nanny used to comb her long wheat-blond strands for a long time, making them into two thick braids. And now, every morning, the girl woke up wrapped in a waterfall of shiny curls.

Who made their way into her room at night? Hannah never forgot to turn the key and even slid the heavy dresser against the door. Come morning, it was right in its place, and the key still jutted from the lock, yet the air was filled with vanilla perfume and the whispers of fairy tales.

The furniture she had carefully wiped down during the day got dusty again at night, and the fireplaces were always full of still-hot ashes, as if invisible tenants woke up after midnight and invaded the empty rooms. Hannah would gladly believe in fairies, rather than think that the feather fans, gloves, beer mugs and smoking pipes left on the dressing tables belonged to the disturbed ghosts of those who had ever decided to stay overnight.

Every night, the thick fog covered the courtyard, and the lanterns along the alley lit all by themselves. The castle was waiting for new guests.

Every time she tried to shout and warn them to turn back, but all in vain.

Once, the guests managed to find their way to them long before dusk. A man and a woman. Hannah’s windows overlooked the main entrance, so she immediately heard the clop of hooves on stone slabs.

She rushed to the corridor, but the doors slammed shut so quickly that they almost pinched her nose. Hannah darted back to the window, banging on the glass. It seems that the woman noticed her and said something to her companion. But they didn’t slow down. The jester was already dancing towards the visitors. Even without looking, you could tell that his mask was grinning from ear to ear.

Hannah didn’t have time to break the glass with a heavy candlestick — the curtain fell by itself, blocking the view from her. The fabric of the curtains was too thick and wouldn’t budge. And in the end, the girl’s fingers suddenly ran over the plaster, as a floral mural stretched across the entire wall, replacing the window.

Hannah stayed awake through the long, restless night, slapping her cheeks in a desperate bid to stay alert. Outside, silence reigned, broken only by the delicate strumming of the jester’s lute and the soft, melodic laughter of the woman. As dawn approached, exhaustion claimed her, and the girl finally surrendered to sleep.

The next morning, the door swung open on its own. The window glass was as clear as the first light of dawn. But the guests were already gone. Only icy footprints traced a ghostly path across the gleaming parquet. In some places, the frost had begun to yield, exposing dark stone beneath.

«You’d better hurry. It may be hard to scrub it later,» the jester whispered in her ear, making Hannah recoil. The cheerful mask was tucked into his belt, and a jet-black one with embroidered silver tears covered his face.

«Look what they did to me yesterday,» he whimpered, turning up his slashed sleeve. There was a long red stripe running from wrist to elbow. «I’ve been entertaining them all night, and that’s how they’ve paid me. Who’s going to sew it up now, huh?»

Without saying a word, Hannah turned her back on him. The annoyed fool retaliated by throwing an orange at her, which crumbled into an armful of snow halfway through, sprinkling frosty dust on the girl’s shoulder. The air smelled warningly spicy, making the man cough and sneeze.

Hannah squeezed her eyes shut when she stumbled upon two new sculptures in the gallery. The man stood composed, his thin lips pursed in silent resolve, one hand clutching a rapier as if ready to strike. Beside him, the woman cried with marble tears, as if left by a skillful chisel. The cloak fluttered around her slender figure in wide folds. She seemed to turn around abruptly and froze.

But you should never look back in a fairy world. Ever.

SURPRISE

That morning, the jester moved with an unsettling stillness, his usual exuberance replaced by a strange, drooping posture. He gazed at Hannah with an ingratiating look, eyes flickering with an unspoken tension. Gone were the mischievous laughs, the playful tricks — only a hollow silence remained. Was he afraid of her?

All these years Hannah had spent within the castle’s shadowed walls, she had never truly understood him. His name remained a mystery. The fool never saw fit to reveal it or ask the girl’s name, addressing her only with dismissive calls — «hey, you!» or «hey, mouse!» — like a stray dog. He would pursue her with frantic energy, only to suddenly freeze, rooted to the ground, his gaze locking onto her as if for the very first time. In those rare moments, it seemed as though genuine, unhidden tears streamed silently beneath his mask.

«You must be exhausted, dear,» he said softly, his sympathetic mask slipping into a gentle smile, eyes drifting to her worn hands. «Go to your room. Rest for an hour or two. And rub your palms with the ointment I left — you’ll feel better.»

There was some tenderness in his voice, unfamiliar and almost fragile. Hannah paused, caught off guard. This wasn’t like him at all. Never before had he spoken to her like that before.

Hannah moved through the house like a shadow, each step echoing ominously in the tense silence. The air was thick with anticipation, and she could sense the presence of eyes unseen, the silent witnesses — mirrored surfaces, frozen statues — gleaming with silent judgment. The house felt alive, watching her every move, as if it was a grand stage awaiting its next act. When she finally reached her room, her heart quickened: someone had been here.

And they left a surprise.

The dress was new, a vision of satin that shimmered with blood-red and ivory hues, embroidered with delicate silk poppies in white and black. Ruffles of rustling taffeta cascaded down to her knees, while puffy sleeves sparkled with silver brocade diamonds. The crisscross pearl threads shimmered like the beads on the Christmas tree Hannah and her father used to decorate each winter. A slender, twisted belt cinched her waist, complemented by elegant gloves and a tall lace collar that framed her transformation.

Over four years spent in the castle, mirrors revealed her metamorphosis: the once delicate, plump-cheeked girl faded into an awkward teenager, her limbs thin as knobby poles, her thin face thin and delicate with huge grey eyes and eternally haunted gaze. No one ever cared what she ate, where she slept, or what she wore. So where did this gift come from, and why now, after all this time?

Hannah approached the mirror, clutching the dress to her chest. The delicate fabric shimmered against the tattered rags she wore, making a stark contrast, though she had chosen the finest gown from the creaking wardrobe, warm and made of pale-yellow wool. Now, it looked coarse and stained.

She hadn’t even had time to wash her hands. What if she soiled her precious gift? And she knew not how long the jester’s cheerful smile would last before his mask fell.

With a heavy sigh, Hannah cast a final glance at her reflection, pulling on a worn apron and tying her hair up with a strip of cloth.

Today was no day for elegance or illusion. She had to climb a dozen treacherous stairs and wash the floors in the library. The air grew crisper after that, free from the suffocating scent of flowers. Hannah hoped to spend this evening with a book, hiding in a secluded corner nestled between the bookstands.

A sharp cry escaped her lips as she accidentally touched her temple. How painful! She turned to the mirror to see it.

Where had that bruise come from? A faint, almost invisible blue streak marred her pale skin, feeling unnervingly cold and hard to the touch. Her fingers trembled as she lightly pressed it. Her eyes widened in horror.

It was stone, not a bruise. Cold, smooth, and terribly real. Her nails now resembled icy scales, too.

But she just held the fabric in her hands. What if she had succumbed to temptation and decided to try that dress on?

«That’s how they freeze. Do you see now?»

The fool leaned close to Hannah’s ear, not taking his eyes off her terrified reflection.

«Their life pours out. Slowly, drop by drop. Someone resists to the last — which’s a hundred times more painful. It’s much easier just to give up. That’s what I tell them, but they never listen.»

The stone had not moved any further, but the girl’s entire body was frozen in icy terror. Would she turn into a statue, just like all the others?

«What a beautiful dress. Why don’t you wear it?» a gloved hand casually touched the silver beaded fringe of the dress. «Do you remember what day it is, Hannah?»

It wasn’t his voice. Now, the jester sounded like… a woman. That deep, resonant voice made Hannah startle.

«Happy birthday, Hannah!» The masks on his puffy face shifted all by themselves, like moving pictures on a praxinoscope. With exaggerated grace, he stepped back into a theatrical bow, eyes twinkling with mock solemnity. «You’ve grown up,» he declared, voice tinged with a dark jest. «From now on, we’ll welcome the guests together, just as she commanded.»

«No, I don’t want to!»

Hannah’s voice trembled with defiance. She frantically began to rub her hands and face, desperately trying to wipe away the ominous marks that now marred her skin. The terrible whiteness under her skin halted and didn’t creep further. But how much time did she have?

«Think carefully, girl. You’re helping me from now on, or else… You don’t want to decorate the gallery, do you? However,» the mask winced in disgust, «then at least you’ll stop whimpering. I can’t stand it kids’ tears — they make me sick!»

With a sharp click of his tongue, he hurried out of the room, bells jangling from his cap and embroidered collar. Hannah’s face and hands burned with redness, yet the icy marks stubbornly remained.

«Three days!» The man howled ominously from behind the door. His words dissolved into a chilling chorus of ghostly voices, echoing in the darkness. «Three days — and if you don’t come to your senses by then, you’ll turn into a stone yourself!»

TWINKLING STARS

There were countless fountains in the garden, exquisite, decorated with snow-white marble figures. Yet they were all without a drop of water. The first time, Hannah wandered around the castle grounds for hours before she finally discovered a single source of water: a small, circular pool nestled in the courtyard.

There were countless fountains in the garden, exquisite, decorated with snow-white marble figures. Yet they were all without a drop of water. The first time, Hannah wandered around the castle grounds for hours before she finally discovered a single source of water: a small, circular pool nestled in the courtyard. She used to like looking at water; it was emerald-green at noon and at dusk sapphire lights flickered and dispersed in its depths like an ancient mirror.

But there was no time for wonder now. Her time was literally slipping through her fingers, when she tried to wipe the traces of the stone from her hands. She used up all the soap and rubbed her skin till it bled.

No use.

As dusk settled over the ancient stones, shadows grew thicker. Hanna tilted her head back, gazing upward as the sky’s transparent azure deepened into a brocade of dark blue, reminiscent of opulent curtains at the entrance to the secret chamber. A whisper seemed to echo: «You’ll never leave, you’ll stay forever — lurking within these walls, luring the unwary into their deadly embrace.

The water’s gentle countdown echoed through the silence, and Hannah leaned over the stone ledge, her reflection shimmering in the mosaic-lined basin — some fragments still gleaming white amid mossy patches, and some dark, almost black, like the shimmering backs of beetles. The girl’s face appeared ghostly, as if powdered with ash, a cold gleam marking her temple like delicate makeup, her hair — once naturally blonde — now radiated with a chilling silver hue. It was as if she was destined to grow old within these haunted halls, forever part of this castle’s silent, eternal vigil.

Hannah let down her hair and plunged her head right into the pool. May this sweet fragrant smell, this castle, and its secrets disappear! The cold water seeped into her bones, igniting a dull ache in her neck, yet within the darkness, there was a strange peace — serene, silent, and calming, as if the stars themselves whispered lullabies of night.

«Are you crazy?»

The jester’s voice cut through the stillness as he seized her, soaked and trembling, dragging her away from the water’s edge with frantic urgency. His rough hands shook her, slapping her cheeks to rouse her from her trance. Hannah coughed and cried.

«You’re such a fool,» he muttered, sitting down next to her. His wig had slipped off, and his face was a messy portrait of waterlogged makeup. Even his eyes, usually piercing-black, now seemed light brown, quite human in color.

«A little fool,» he repeated, looking at his torn stocking with great annoyance.

«Let me go,» Hannah whispered, her voice fragile. But the jester only turned away with a strange, jerking motion.

«Do you think I haven’t tried it myself?» he hissed through clenched teeth. «There’s no escape from here unless she lets go.»

And how could she ever leave if her father was still here? She found his sculpture, too, among the others. The girl used to sit at his feet for hours and hours, till one day the sculpture disappeared. She searched the whole castle, yet in vain.

The jester leapt up suddenly, forcing her back against the wall. He straightened his crumpled frill, drew a gilded mask from his belt, and held it to his nose with a theatrical flourish.

«Boo!» he sneered, as moonlight caught the powder that had fallen from his costume, casting silvered intricate shadows behind his mask. Then he hobbled away, spitting malicious triplets about a girl bold enough to kick him in the knee.

The jester leapt up suddenly, forcing her back against the wall. He straightened his crumpled frill, drew a gilded mask from his belt, and held it to his nose with a theatrical flourish.

«Boo!» he sneered, as moonlight caught the powder that had fallen from his costume, casting silvered intricate shadows behind his mask. Then he hobbled away, spitting malicious triplets about a girl bold enough to kick him in the knee.

her stomach rumbling at the thought of a simple pleasure — hot tea and a piece of pretzel — unless, of course, the meals in the kitchen had grown wild with flowers or transformed into something unrecognizable while she was gone.

Meanwhile, the clock struck midnight, its steady chime echoed through the castle. Hannah quickened her pace. She had never stayed so late before. The castle, now cloaked in darkness, felt even more deserted; every floorboard creaked ominously beneath her, and the statues lined up along the corridors seemed to watch her with unblinking eyes. The girl walked through the shadows like a ghost in a crypt, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.

Suddenly, a distant chime echoed ahead — faint, yet unmistakable. The blurry silhouette at the end of the gallery began to shift, morphing into a recognizable form. Hannah’s eyes widened in disbelief — but who else could be wandering the empty halls at this hour?

It was her.

Hannah had to bring her fresh flowers every day, although the pale marble eyes never once glanced at them. Each time, the statue appeared in different images. One day she could be wearing luxurious clothes of the empress, her gown shimmering with intricate embroidery and ribbons; the next day bundles of multicolored beads hung from her shoulders, and sometimes the pope’s tiara or an exquisite hat, as if plucked straight from a royal wardrobe, was on her head. At the same time, there was neither a wardrobe nor a chest in the room. Where did all the outfits come from? Who was dressing the statue, after all?

Only if… No, it couldn’t be!

However, she was walking down the hallway with an ethereal grace, her form seeming to hover just above the ground, the jingling of her jewelry echoing like a lullaby — the one Hannah had heard countless sleepless nights. Under the moon’s cold glow, the statue’s face appeared almost alive, veins of icy blue pulsating beneath the marble surface. In the moonlight, the statue’s face seemed almost alive, with bluish veins beating under the marble skin. Her flowing silk garments, weightless and translucent like dragonfly wings, shimmered with embedded stones that traced her limbs from neck to ankles.

Suddenly, the statue stopped, just in front of the curtain, behind which the girl was hiding. The mistress tilted her head gracefully, her stone eyelids sealed, a subtle smile playing on her lips. She extended her hand, beckoning Hannah to come closer.

The girl gasped and sprinted down the dim corridor, each step growing heavier with every heartbeat. She could barely breathe when she finally reached her room. Hannah managed to slam the door shut and turned the lock, her hearts pounding in the suffocating silence.

GUST OF STORM

In the morning, Hannah woke up in her bed. The linen smelled faintly of lavender fresh. In all her years, she had never dared to sleep on the silk sheets — they seemed too cold, too slick, and the lingering scent of mold refused to fade, no matter how hard she washed them in the backyard vat. The shoes, oddly placed in front of the bed, were new and shining with wax, while her bare feet basked in the gentle warmth of a flannel-wrapped heating pad.

But something was strange.

A sense of foreboding pricked her like ice. Hannah stirred from beneath the feather duvet, as if falling into a snowdrift, a delicate braid with a silver-blue ribbon accents slipping onto her chest. Yet her fingers refused to touch it, half-frozen and petrified.

Rushing around the room with a scream, Hannah stumbled upon the mannequin — she recoiled, at first mistaking it for the statue. The already familiar dress fit it perfectly, complemented by thin lace gloves. And the mask, neatly strapped to the belt, looked so delicate and weightless. Someone was intent on reminding her about her duty.

She knew she had to run, to escape this nightmare as far as possible.

Hannah’s memory was a blur as she found herself at the door in the main hall, the garden’s biting wind greeting her with icy claws. The gates, as always, remained firmly shut — impossible to open or climb.

She crouched, biting her palm. No tears! «You can’t drown your sorrow in tears,» her nanny used to say. She couldn’t just give in. There had to be another way.

Meanwhile, a rustling noise disturbed the dry leaves beside her. Then a rat burst forth, causing the girl to scream and recoil in terror.

Where did it come from?

The palace stood eerily deserted, webs draping the silence, yet no spider or bird dared to show itself. Even a fly couldn’t be found there. How had the rat appeared from nowhere in this forsaken place?

«Hey, wait up!»

The sneaky rat dashed toward the fence with reckless speed. And suddenly, the iron lattice dissolved, right in front of Hannah’s stunned gaze. Heart pounding, she hurried forward, eyes darting, as she examined the space. There was a gap — an opening in the cast-iron lace, barely a handful of inches from the ground. Large enough for a nimble creature to squeeze through, yet too small for her. Frayed threads of rusted metal clung to the edges, crumbling at her touch, and as soon as Hannah reached out, the grate snapped back into place, almost pinching her fingers.

Was she imagining things?

Hannah stared at the gate intently, repeatedly. The area where the gap had been was slightly different — a faint shimmer, like new metal, catching the light in a way that seemed almost unreal.

«There is a grass of thieves in the world. Whoever claims it becomes capable of unlocking any obstacle with just a tiny branch,» nanny’s story came back to her mind. But it was just a fairy tale!

Or was it?

Hanna’s gaze darted into the dense, tangled grass and thorny bushes — nothing shimmered there. But who knew what could be hidden in all those neglected flower beds. Could it be that the key to her salvation had been lying right before her eyes all along?

«Here’s our lovely girl,» a whisper of amusement lingered in the jester’s voice as he slipped from the shadows behind her, his soft velvet shoes barely making a sound. Over the past few days, a strange weariness had marked his face, as if time had cruelly etched a decade onto his features. His eyes fixated on Hannah’s marble fingers.

«Of course, the mistress no longer needs me,» he murmured with a bitter chuckle. «Young blood is much better.» His mask twisted into a cruel sneer, the mouth contorting with contempt. A spat echoed in the silence, but the ground beneath him had already frozen, a silent warning between them.

Never mind him.

Hannah continued looking. Could a rat have slipped into the cellar? Or perhaps it had found the magic grass in one of the rooms? Maybe she should search for it in the greenhouse?

«What are you looking for?» the man asked, suspicion flickering in his eyes as he kept his distance. Ignoring him, Hannah moved with relentless purpose, inspecting every abandoned flower bed, peering beneath every bush. So engrossed in her search, she failed to notice the sky darkening ominously overhead. Cold rain began pounding on the leaves, getting stronger any minute.

«What are you looking for?» the man asked, suspicion flickering in his eyes as he kept his distance. Ignoring him, Hannah moved with relentless purpose, inspecting every abandoned flower bed, peering beneath every bush. So engrossed in her search, she failed to notice the sky darkening ominously overhead. Cold rain began pounding on the leaves, getting stronger any minute.

«What are you doing?» jester’s voice called out, frantic. «Run into the house — don’t provoke her!» The man lunged, grasping Hannah’s arm, but a gust of wind caused him to stumble. Hannah jerked away and ran. Low tree branches whipped at her like whips, and she stumbled repeatedly, catching herself on jagged roots that jutted from the earth like dark serpents. Thunder rumbled furiously overhead as icy rain sliced through the air. Somehow, blinded by snow and bloodied hands, they managed to get inside. The door slammed shut behind them with a thunderous bang, the bolt rattling ominously. Outside, the storm continued to rage for hours, relentless and wild.

Yet, now Hannah had a faint glimmer of hope.

WISHING WELL

Hannah didn’t sleep a wink all night, remembering the places in the castle that could be suitable for plants. At home, her nanny kept pots of earth on the windowsill and grew fragrant herbs for soup. There is also a wooden box in the kitchen. In the spring, purple sprouts of primroses burst out of it, their sweet scent promising warmth of the sunny days.

She woke up early, eager to seek the elusive plant in the garden — and discovered the heavy doors sealed shut. The weather was menacingly gloomy and it had been snowing since early morning. The jester, gloomy as well and really sleepy, trailed her with a murmur of discontent.

Armed with a brush to divert his gaze, Hannah traversed the whole grand east wing of the palace. She couldn’t find a trace of a plant, either silver or ordinary one, though. Finally she reached the neglected western wing where the ceiling had crumbled long ago, letting cold drafts swirl among piles of dry leaves. Clutching her shawl tightly, the girl pushed open a creaky door with stained-glass panels.

A sharp, spicy aroma mingled with the damp, stagnant air of the greenhouse. Perhaps raindrops seeped through the cracked glass or secret gutters carried water in unseen whispers. The plants thrived so wildly they resembled a hidden jungle rather than a refined winter garden, their verdant tendrils spilling over pots and long chains suspended in midair.

Hannah spent the rest of the day, wandering through the lush, enchanted orangery. Her father’s stories of India and Africa echoed in her mind: bright-toed earrings of akalifa, tiny heart-shaped jambu fruits, and the striking blooms of protea — each detail more vivid than the last.

At the heart of this green sanctuary stood a majestic tree, its trunk transformed into an intricate staircase, inviting her to run her fingers along the cast-iron curls. Delicate creatures with transparent wings, shaggy monkeys crowned with flowers, and multi-armed beings seemed to dance on the edge of myth and reality. Overhead, the glass ceiling resembled delicate dragonfly wings, casting a dappled light over the green carpet below, streaked with crimson gravel paths. The pond, shimmering with lotus blossoms, made the space feel boundless— a stark contrast to the shadowy palace corridors.

The jester settled onto the swing with a lazy hum, his voice weaving nonsense into the still air.

«Why can’t you sit still?» he yawned, squinting at Hannah with one eye, a mask of laziness adorning his swollen nose. «If you finished cleaning, there’s still a dungeon, dark and scary,» he howled foolishly.

A dungeon?

Hannah’s heart sank as she remembered a damp corridor and the staircase that vanished into darkness. She had never descended into the dungeon before, but if there was even a sliver of hope remaining, she would seize it.

The jester suddenly grew nervous, blocking her path as she struggled to push the rusty latch open.

«No, don’t go there,» he warned, voice trembling. «There are mice! And rats — huge rats — they’ll devour you!»

Well, if one of those rats had left the enchanted castle before, then Hannah knew she had no choice but to go downstairs.

«Look, the mistress is here!» As the jester turned away, Hannah seized one of his masks and swiftly pressed it to his face. The playful grin on the man’s face twisted into a capricious grimace before he stuck out his tongue in a teasing gesture. Laughing, he suddenly broke into a wild, carefree dance, forgetting Hanna’s presence. She quickly slipped behind the door and hurried downstairs, her steps cautious on the worn stairs, risking a slip.

Please, please…

As the girl’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out the outline of a wishing well right in the middle of the basement. The curved handle gleamed with polished silver, and Hannah was surprised by such waste, untill she got closer. That wasn’t any metal at all! Those were yesterday’s flowers — the buds opened as soon as she touched them, and the handle wrapped in stems crumbled into rusty crumbs. Hanging, the silver garlands touched the water — and the girl gasped when she saw the stars in the well!

“Where are you, mouse?”

Jester’s voice echoed gloomily in the shadows. Carrying a burning torch, he descended slowly, muttering curses with each step. But Hannah remained entranced, staring at the water. Above her, a dark masonry vault loomed, its shadows swallowing the gloom, yet the water in the well shimmered as if it had absorbed the very essence of moonlight. Finally, snapping back to reality, the girl swiftly plucked a slender, twisted whip with a translucent bud at its tip.

Just in time.

“Where are you hiding?”

When the jester saw the flowers, he began tearing off the delicate petals, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Only when all the silver shoots on the well’s collar vanished did he pick up torch and listen intently.

Silence.

If that girl was hiding somewhere, let her remain forever in the underground!

But when the man finally climbed upstairs, he could see the door had been locked inside. Knocking furiously on the door, the jester let his fury erupt.

«Open up! Open up, I say!» he growled fiercely into the darkness, as the torch had flown downstairs into the damp gloom. «Locked me up? That’s not plucky!»

Meanwhile, the flowers on the gate began to move, sensing the approach of a new guest.…

STRANGER

Enchanted by winter’s silent majesty, the forest stood draped in a pristine, snow-white gown. The delicate lace of frost rivaled that of the finest needlework his mother’s ladies-in-waiting were capable of. Crafted in a single night by the icy hand of winter sorceress, it transformed weary aspens and birches into shimmering sculptures.

Beneath the shining sun, everything seemed like a frosty fairy tale. But as dusk fell, the forest darkened. Somewhere in the shadows, a song of the cold was born: a barely audible mournful melody, as if an icy bride lamented her lost lover, echoing through the silent, frozen woods.

Two travelers on horseback emerged onto a clearing, their breath forming icy clouds in the crisp air, their cheeks flushed from the biting cold.

«Well, it’s really freezing here!» one person said, clapping his hands in huge fur-lined mittens to get warm. «Can we turn back now, Your Highness?»

Prince Svane didn’t answer. They’d been riding for many hours but didn’t catch a mouse. Apparently, the hares and partridges had been hiding from the relentless frost deep in thick snow. And the frost only grew fiercer with each passing moment.

«What are we looking for, my lord?»

If only he knew that…

It was terribly stifling in the palace. And not just because the fire was burning day and night in the hearths to keep the icy chambers warm. An unbearable boredom hung in the air, making everyone drowsy. Driven by a restless need to escape, Svane ventured out on a hunt, secretly, taking only one servant along. Here, alone with nature, amidst the icy splendor, he finally found a fleeting breath of relief.

His companion blew his nose with a thunderous sound that shattered the silence like a gunshot, breaking the solemnity of the moment. Svane shot him a reproachful glance.

«Can we turn back now, my prince? It’s getting dark… And your mother must be worrying sick.»

Svane halted, adjusting his thick woolen scarf, now soaked from his breath and glazed with shimmering frost. That didn’t feel right at all, but it was still better than the humiliation of later revealing his frostbitten nose and cheeks to the court ladies.

«There’s a hunting lodge nearby; we could spend the night there and head back at dawn.»

«As we wish, my lord.»

A faint note of relief echoed in the servant’s voice. Surely the guy had already regretted a hundred times that he got involved with the spoilt royal son. Other servants were now sipping punch, gathered in the warmth of the palace kitchen, playing cards and sharing boasting stories.

«Hey, boy, easy!»

A wolf’s mournful howl echoed nearby, causing the horses to snort and rear in alarm. The prince desperately tried to calm his steed, but it reared and dashed through the bushes, frantic. Behind him, Lars shouted something, but the prince couldn’t hear, struggling to dodge the looming branches. His right cheek was soon torn and bleeding, and he lost his hat in the chaos. Minutes felt like an eternity until he finally burst onto a clearing.

«Lars? Where are you?»

His frost-dusted eyelashes were frozen, perhaps the reason he missed the right turn. The cold forest loomed like a wall, enclosing him in icy silence. The relentless snowstorm diligently erased his tracks behind.

Where on earth was he?

The snowdrifts reached knee-high, but deep beneath the blanket of snow, a faint trail seemed to whisper of a hidden path — so perilously tight that only a court dance master in delicate ballet shoes could tread it without faltering.

Perhaps the trail will lead him to a shelter.

Dismounting, Svane began to stumble through the snow. His horse was slowly tracing behind. It wasn’t until he hit the ice for the third time that the prince realized he was making his way along the bed of a frozen stream that carried him deeper and deeper into the forest.

Something crimson flickered beneath his feet. As he cleared the snow away, he knelt down to the icy surface, and there, buried in the frozen depths, he glimpsed several vivid scarlet apples, scattered and eerily frozen in time.

An elderly tradeswoman had fallen through the ice weeks ago, her flowing white hair and wrinkled skin tinged with silver, creating a haunting image of winter’s touch. Around her, frozen apples from her basket clung to the ice like crimson chicks huddling beneath their mother. She was displayed for public amusement, a spectacle of the cold, as the royal family arrived, stepping delicately onto a red carpet placed over the icy stage. The prince’s mother sobbed quietly, praying, while his father commanded the court artist to immortalize the old woman in a portrait of Winter itself, to join the halls of Spring, Summer, and Autumn.

Yet now, that frozen face seemed to gaze directly at him, sending icy shivers through his spine. Her empty eyes did not see him, but with a bony hand the trader beckoned him closer, the apples shimmering like sinister jewels.

“Eat the apple, my dear...” a voice echoed, haunting and cold, as fear’s grip tightened around his neck.

He screamed to break the silence and struck the ice with a powerful, relentless blow. Then he took off running, abandoning his horse, his hands bloodied from the jagged reeds that grew along the bank.

Please, help! Don’t let him die alone in this cold trap!

A clear child’s voice replied from behind the fence, shimmering through the snow-lashed trees. Lost in the raging blizzard, Svane didn’t even realize he had been walking in circles near a castle, which grew in the middle of the forest as if touched by the flick of a magic wand.

The gates swung open welcoming him in, and the prince gazed in awe at the snow-dusted towers stretching into the sky. He had never heard of this place before — definitely, that wasn’t not his father’s domain. How had this castle found its way into their royal forest then?

«No, don’t come any closer!»

A thin girl in rags looks more like a beggar than a servant. She was runing toward him with all her might, her arms flailing wildly.

«Step back! If you go in, they’ll never let you go!»

He retreated, but the gates slammed shut with a ferocious screech, nearly pinching the folds of his cloak in a deadly grip. There wasn’t a single sould nearby, though. What the hell was going on?

«Who are you? Did your master hurt you?»

«No time to explain!»

With her tiny hands, the girl struggled to open the lock — no, more likely, she was trying to bend the bars of the fence. Svane rubbed his eyes, questioning if it was his imagination or if the iron bars had actually yielded, parting beneath those little fingers.

«Don’t you have the key?»

«There is no key!» she snappped at him, tossing back her tousled hair. «Don’t you see? This place is magic!»

«Did you try to deceive me, you little rat?»

The castle doors exploded open with a deafening roar, and from afar, the irresistible aroma of grilled meat and steaming wine spilled into the cold air. A peculiar figure, wearing a jester’s cap, hobbled along the snow-covered path, his face twisted in fury, refusing to don the cheerful mask that stretched into a wide, insincere grin.

«That’s him,» the girl sighed, her face turning pale. «We ned to run, now!»

The bars finally gave way beneath her delicate, trembling hands. One rod shattered like a broken string, splitting into two halves, while a second shoot tumbled to the girl’s feet, showering with carved petals. Instantly, new sprouts erupted from each fallen fragment, pushing up from the ground. Meanwhile, a stubborn tendril, adorned with thorny leaves, snaked toward Svane’s cloak, reaching out with silent menace.

It felt like a bad dream.

«Where are you going, my lord? Won’t you stay for dinner?» the jester was coming closer, slowly, enjoying the moment as the helpless victim had nowhere to run.

«Here, take this!»

A girl slipped something into his hand — a shimmering, serpent-like object. Svane, teetering, dropped the gleaming stem, which clattered onto the iron grate; the metal recoiled from the flower, shattering it into rusty fragments.

«What are you waiting for? Run!»

Somehow, the prince managed to squeeze through the narrow gap between the bars, leaving scraps of his clothing there. The jester, rushing forward, tried to grab him, but he was just a moment too late.

The mouse escape its trap this time.

The man slapped the girl so hard in the face that she would not have stood on her feet if her tight cast-iron rings had not held her down. It seemed that the jester had hit her again, and again, but Svane could no longer see it — the gate seemed to come to life, advancing on him with a clanking mass of flexible branches. As he backed away, someone’s hands grabbed him by the shoulders.

«Don’t be afraid, my lord. It’s me.» Lars was holding him tight. Two horses were seen nearby.

«You’ve ventured quite far, prince. I’ve struggled to find you. Come, there’s a log cabin nearby.»

«But a girl… she needs help!» Svane’s lips wouldn’t obey, and for some reason the ground was falling out from under his feet.

«What girl?»

Lars stared in bewilderment at the spot pointed to by the trembling finger of the prince. Before them stretched an empty field — no castle, no girl, no terrifying jester — just the haunting wail of the blizzard echoing through the silence.

«It seems to me you’re freezing too much,» the servant muttered, as he hoisted the master onto his horse. «Some hot wine and a hgood sleep — that’s all you need now!»

However, amidst the howling wind, he faintly heard a soft sobbing, barely audible. The horses cast wary glances in that direction, sensing unease. Spitting, Lars clenched a small pouch of salt in his palm to ward off misfortune and hurried away from the cursed place.

CRYSTAL TEARS

Yesterday, the snow was falling softly all day, and today, fragrant apple blossom petals danced wildly in the air. No spring, just another spell cast upon the palace.

Hannah settled onto a wide windowsill and spent the entire day there, lost in thought. Her new hands gleamed like pure snow, radiant and flawless. Her face — delicate and exquisite — was a beauty Hannah had only seen in toy shops, where porcelain dolls sat in a row, dressed in shimmering, airy garments.

She tore the gifted dress to shreds — but only to see a new one adorning the mannequin the next morning. This time it was made of deep blue silk, black lace, and a mask stitched with silver glass beads was frowning fiercely with silent defiance among the heavy folds.

The porcelain fingers, surprisingly, felt the silkiness of the fabric far better than the roughened hands, scarred and calloused from endless toil. Yet Hannah hesitated to don her gown. Fear held her back, knowing that once she agreed, there would be no turning back.

Hope still flickered somewhere deep within her chest, urging her to look out the window each day — could that young man return, bringing help with him? But the blue flowers whispered otherwise: he wouldn’t come back. Now, the walls were overgrown with them, every plank of the polished floor, every shelf in the library — everything was covered in blooms.

The flower scent tightened in her throat. But she wasn’t able to open the window since her new eyes — large and bright blue, just as Hannah had always dreamed — no longer distinguished familiar things. Instead of the window latch, the girl imagined a slender, scaly tail. Hannah had always been afraid of snakes, so she meekly abandoned any attempt to escape, not even daring to approach the front door, which now seemed like a massive wasp’s nest.

The objects around her shifted their forms at their own will: a window could transform into a mirror, a mirror into a doorframe, behind which semi-transparent figures prepared for yet another celebration every evening. When they saw Hannah, shadows gathered around her in a dense ring, whispering and chuckling at her tattered skirts, their voices faint and indistinct, like the rustling of dry leaves or the chirping of crickets in the night.

«Do you see them now?»

The jester seemed to never part from his beloved flask of wine ever since he’d missed the guest. A paper ribbon now adorned his ear, curled into a makeshift pipe, which he blew into and turned into a bright lollipop on a stick. «Soon, you’ll be just like them,» he whispered with a crooked smile.

Who would have thought he could look so miserable? Hannah looks at the man with a pity, unable to believe that once the jester seemed so enormous and terrifying to her, and his voice’s sounds made her want to cover her ears. He was growing paler and more gaunt with each passing day, yet he held on. He still tried to swagger, but his attempt were nothing but pitiful.

Hanne couldn’t care less anymore. The stone isn’t afraid of pinprick stings, right? She turned her back on the man with indifference, letting him hiss and curse as much as he wanted. Nothing he did could hurt her anyway.

In her dreams, every night she saw the same scene: a vast field of flowers, blue poppies mingling with white ones, stretching endlessly beneath a clear sky. The green silk of the grass shimmered beneath her feet as the warm wind tousled her hair. She was never alone — her mother was always nearby, wrapped in a warm shawl with tassels and wearing a checkered apron. The girl would nestle close, inhaling the familiar scent, only to recoil when a cold marble hand touched her face…

Moon milk glimmered on the parquet floor and a shining star ignites directly above Hanna’s head. Bright with a bluish halo, could it be that very star that led her to this castle all those years ago?

A girl breathed on the glass, her marble-nail scratching delicate curls into its surface. Even her tears now felt cold, like the glass itself. And her eyelids had grown noticeably heavier. Closing her eyes plunges her into an endless night, even if the world around her is bathed in sunlight. So calm and peacefully quiet.

No, she wouldn’t fall asleep. She would look at the stars — at least for now, while it was still permitted.

The stars twinkled indifferently, so distant and beautiful. And utterly free. She gradually began to hate them, especially that one bright, who’d been shining all the way to the palace. Yet still, she kept looking at them through tears.

«Please, someone, help me,» she whispered with trembling lips.

On the fogged glass, a delicate frost pattern emerged, spiraling silver filigree. Hannah watched passively as a transparent tendril appeared from the leaves, their petals edged with the finest hairs unfolding before her eyes…

No, this is not a dream.

Marble-like skin began to crack, sending a tingling sensation through her as if dozens of ants were crawling over her hands. Unable to resist, Hannah started to rub her itching skin, which then crumbled into stone pieces. When she tore the flower free, the mask fused to her face shattered into two halves, dispersing into porcelain shards upon hitting the parquet floor.

Hannah froze still, sensing an eerie silence had fallen over the house. Yet, her reflection in the mirror showed her own face, wide-eyed and familiar.

Back then, the jester contemptuously cast aside the remaining sprout of the miracle herb far beyond the fence, and the entrance to the underground vanished, revealing nothing more than a painted scene on a canvas. But now in her hand shimmered a key, capable of opening any door, even one guarded by the darkest magic.

There was no need to wait until dawn — she had to run. Run now!

A whirlwind of blossoms burst into the room the moment she barely nudged the door open. Hannah almost suffocated beneath the overwhelming flood of light and music that shook the entire castle to its core. The painted walls, alive with trees and leaves, seemed to breathe and take root, their branches stretching out into the air and pushing her into a swirling vortex of colorful tinsel, where crowds of dancing, laughing guests raised glasses of sparkling wine in her honor.

And at the center of the hall she saw a figure in a plain dress, with flaxen curls spilling from beneath a straw cap with green ribbons. The woman was dressed in an apron they once used for playing chess, challenging each other with acorns and pinecones as pieces.

Mom…

Next to her mother stood a tall man in a dark tailcoat. Though his face was obscured from a distance, Hannah’s heart pounded in her chest as she took a step forward…

Could it be?..

Suddenly, the glass door behind her shattered with a loud crack. A gust of wind dulled the gilded elegance of the surroundings. Hannah’s eyes caught a fleeting glimpse — where her father should have been, a hunched figure in a cap appeared, and the faces behind masks darkened with a ghostly pallor.

It was only an illusion. Everything here was a deception.

Run, Hannah!

In the fluttering curtains, lurking shadows seemed to hide within the folds. A gust of wind nearly knocked her off balance, yet it also held back the crowd gathered at the door. Behind her, the jester cursed loudly, slipping on shattered glass.

The trees in the garden moved their branches sluggishly, as if caught in a half-dream, allowing Hannah to reach the gates unimpeded. This time, the girl didn’t touch the bars; instead, she flicked a blade of grass to the ground, where it instantly took root, winding around the stiff iron lilies.

Come on… Faster, please!

If everything falls apart again, there won’t be another chance.

The gates melted away like sugar poured over boiling water. The jester, limping and wiping blood from his cheek, was already very close, stretching his arm to catch her.

Hannah didn’t wait for the opening to widen. Leaving behind a couple of tattered scraps and painfully scraping her shoulder, she squeezed between the bars and tumbled into a snowdrift.

Was she free?

The chime in the castle stroke midnight. Struggling through the snow, Hannah crawled farther away. But when she looked back, she saw nothing but a stone statue. A sinister grin on old jester’s face, the fresh scratches shimmered with ice. One leg with a silk stocking garter remained frozen in the air, as if about to take a final step. A twig of silvery grass wrapped around his outstretched hand, and beneath it, the marble skin shriveled and puffed with old age veins.

The music had fallen silent, and so did the guests, who’d been watching them from countless windows and balconies. The palace now seemed utterly empty. Not a single light, not even a leaf stirring. Just like the day she and her father went through the cursed gates.

Now all the horrors were left behind.

At least, Hannah desperately wanted to believe so.

SNOW LULLABY

In an old tale told, three wise men followed a star. Maybe, the very same star was shining overhead now, surrounded by rainbow-colored halos. Hannah struggled through the snowdrifts, weaving between sleeping trees. She occasionally heard distant howls, and sometimes the bark on the trunks was torn in ragged strips, as if clawed by some fierce beast. Yet, the ominous trail of the castle still seemed to cling to her like a dark afterthought, and Hannah dared not look back.

Better to perish deep in the forest at the teeth of wolves than to return to that dreadful place!

Her shoes kept getting stuck in the loose snow, and the cold seeped into her bones. It was a shame she hadn’t thought to bring a cloak or shawl — there was no time to think about that.

«Are you freezing, little child?»

Hannah recoiled. It seemed as if a jester’s voice echoed suddenly near her ear, but the laughter that shattered the night’s silence was neither male nor female.

«You’ll freeze, you’ll freeze to death» it whispered, chilling to the bone. «Frozen stiff, just like us!» The trees seemed to sneer and snap mockingly, whispering and swaying as she, trembling from the icy touches, desperately tried to escape the moonlit clearing. Ice elves — whose legends adorned the whole shelf in the palace library with intricate, frost-patterned covers — seemed to mock her, swirling around like a swarm of snow flies. They were believed to coax travelers into the woods where they spun in circles, leaving delicate tracks on the snow as if traced by a feather’s light touch. Their ringing voices filled the air; skin on her hands and cheeks first flushed red, then paled under invisible hands. Finally, she fell down, unable to take another step.

Above her head, the blizzard began to swirl, wrapping her in a snowy quilt. A discordant chorus in the branches sang a soft lullaby.

No, don’t fall asleep!

Two tiny lights descended beside her, tickling her face with their gentle glow. They felt so warm…

Hannah managed to open her eyes and saw the darkening cabin on the clearing. With her last strength, she crawled forward. Then managed to stand, wobbling, and stumbled the rest of the way from one tree to another, until she reached the hut. The door, made from rough-hewn logs, was frozen shut and resisted for a long time, but finally Hannah squeezed through the gap. There was no latch, but the door was so heavy that the blizzard couldn’t get inside and was left howling at the threshold.

The snow spirits that’d managed to sneak inside began buzzing around her head in frustration, but quickly darted into the chimney as soon as a spark ignited at the hearth. The damp firewood refused to ignite easily, but in the corner, Hannah found a woolen blanket sprinkled with pine needles. The fabric looked gray from dust, but at least was warm enough for the girl to stop trembling. Once the fire roared in the hearth, the mournful songs of the snowstorm faded behind the cheerful crackling. The frost had decorated the shutters with icy stains, yet the snow elves dared not venture inside. Warmed by the fire, Hannah settled into a crooked chair with her legs tucked up, not even noticing when someone gently draped a knitted shawl over her shoulders.

STRAWBERRY TEA

Outside, the crowing of a rooster shattered the silence. The jester, too, dressed in painted feathers, used to strut through the corridors, crowing loudly. Hannah woke up, her heart pounding as she reached for the door, nearly stumbling over the leg of a chair in her haste.

Nobody was outside.

The girl let out a sigh of relief and looked around.

An unfamiliar house. A roughly assembled table, a couple of benches, a extinguished hearth. On her shoulders, she wore a shawl — feather-light and as white as the dove’s fearthers. Outside the window, a new day was beginning, free from enchantments and the ominous room with its floral fresco.

It’s all over, Hannah.

The rooster crowed again — probably, the village was very close. Only now did Hannah realize how desperately hungry she was. She longed for a simple, hot meal. A baked potato casserole with meat or some meatballs would be lovely. Even pickled herring, which she used to despise, now seemed a real delicacy.

with help from people, she could return home soon. The girl imagined the surprise on the nanny’s face; the old woman probably thought Hannah and her father had been gone forever.

Hanna’s hand brushed against the twisted leather strap. She had stolen the spyglass the moment she had the chance, and the fool hadn’t even noticed. For Hannah, that was the only precious memory of her father.

Tightening her shawl with a sense of reluctance — it was pretty uncomfortable to take what didn’t belong to her, yet stepping out into the cold in a light dress was no better option — Hannah pushed the door open and peeked outside. The snow had hardened overnight into a slick ice crust. Luckily, in the corner of the hut, she found a pair of skis — clunky, with broad, roughly carved tips. Walking in them was a struggle, but it was still better than sinking knee-deep into the snowdrift.

First houses appeared across the icy river, their outlines faint in the cold winter haze. Smoke billowed from chimney stacks, and distant barking of dogs echoed through the air. Yet, the shimmering spire of the church, where they used to go every Sunday, was nowhere to be seen.

Alas, that wasn’t her native town. That was why Hannah hesitated before knocking on the darkened doors. Hidden behind bushes or peering from behind a crooked fence, she watched silently. Someone chopped firewood, another hurried to the local shop, returning with a bundle of tied-up parcels. The trees near the homes were decorated with colorful flags — much plainer than the vibrant banners lining the streets of her hometown.

Summoning her courage, Hannah was about to step into the nearest courtyard where a woman in a white apron was feeding the chickens when suddenly, a well-aimed snowball shattered against the wall right above her head. Behind the corner of the closest house, a gang of children crouched in the shadows. Armed with broken icicles and sticks, they stared at her with mischievous determination. «Beggar!» they shouted, their voices echoing through the cold air as they prepared for their next attack. «Go away!»

Hannah retreated hastily, then discarded her skis and sprinted away, slipping on the icy trail. A woman in an apron stopped throwing grain, her eyes fixed on their direction. Hannah was far away now, but the chunks of snow flew faster and more painfully than before. She nearly fell a couple of times and accidentally veered off course. The bridge over the river was long behind her, along with the other structures, yet her pursuers kept closing in. It seemed they relished this game.

«We don’t like beggars here!» came the shouts, whistles, and laughter after her. Without a clear path, Hannah darted into someone’s garden, leaping over snow-covered beds.

A covered earth hut appeared behind a few sparse trees, its roof slanting with a single window. The old lady with a humped back stood motionless in the doorway.

«Ah, guests have arrived,» she croaked, her sharp gaze sweeping over the stunned Hannah from head to toe. A sparrow chirped discontentedly from the warm folds of her woolen shawl, while a large earring shaped like a curled lizard glinted behind streaks of silver-white hair. Seeing the knotted cane in the woman’s hand, the children darted away in fear. Hannah, too, wished she could follow their example, but terror held her in place.

«Come in, then,» the old woman slightly stepped aside, holding the door open. «Don’t be afraid. I’m no witch, I don’t eat children.»

It was hard to believe, though, when you looked at her long, hooked nose and an ugly wart in the corner of her mouth. But the warmth and the smell of freshly baked bread made Hannah’s feet instinctively cross the threshold.

In fairytales such old woman’s house was always filled with cats — one, two, or even a dozen. But in this hut, there were only dried herbs; their fragrant bundles hung from the walls, lay spread out on the bench, and stood in a chipped clay jug. The honeyed aroma gently made her head spin — once again. But this time the scent was warm, cozy, and soothing. Not a single bellflower was visible among the dried flowers.

«Eat and drink since you’ve come,» the woman said, placing a wooden mug and a cup with two large steaming potatoes in front of her. Hannah blew on the charred skin, then sank her teeth into the yellowish flesh. Burning hot, sprinkled with salt and bits of dill — after all the magical sweets, this simple food now felt like a real treat.

An old woman sat quietly across from her, sipping on a fragrant honeyed tea. Her skin was dark and weathered, resembling the gnarled bark of an ancient tree. A sparrow had slipped out of her shawl and now hopped across the table, pecking at crumbs. One of its legs was a wooden spigot, carved from a matchstick.

The tea was rich with aroma and delightfully flavorful, the tiny teapot itself decorated with swirling strawberry patterns. Hannah thought that each berry seemed to shimmer with dew, and when she reached out her hand, a sweet, damp droplet fell into her palm and silently vanished onto her tongue.

«Tell me your story» the old woman prompted. Hannah began to speak, though her body, warmed and drowsy, yearned more for sleep than a long conversation. She told the woman about the castle, her father’s statue, and the ghost with the face of a foreign beauty that haunted her every step. The old woman listened silently, without interruption. And somehow, Hannah felt she had heard this story before.

DOLL

A reed hut in a godforsaken place, far away on the Golden Continent — that was where he decided to search for help. He personally commissioned a couple of ships, sacrificing a significant part of his inheritance. One frigate never returned, wrecked off the coast of Ivory. But the second brought him here, in the land of strange creatures, mysterious customs, and the power of magic.

Akka was the name of the mistress of the hut, a name that needed no deciphering of numerology or other subtle arts to feel the ancient power embedded in each letter. He didn’t understand the local language, but the witch sensed everything nonetheless. With gestures, she invited the guest inside and pointed to a spot by the hearth. Akka herself seated opposite, resembling a dark wooden statue with plump lips, broad nose, and her earlobes stretched to the shoulders with inserted wooden plates. People could do crazy things to look beautiful, indeed. His own wife would apply a thick mask of lead-white paint to her face and allow her maids to tighten her corset to the utmost. Was that why Angelica was born so fragile?

Removing a drum from the wall, the witch began to sing a slow, haunting melody. Behind her, two embroidered halves of a rug fluttered — one black, one red — mirroring the intricate pattern that adorned clay cups. Everything was mirror-like, reflecting the very essence of the mistress’s name. Even the insects on the wall seemed to be arranged in a precise, deliberate order. The air in the room was thick with the scent of incense, and the deep chime of heavy wooden and bone pendants on Akka’s neck echoed melodiously.

Suddenly, the old woman reached out her hand — passing straight through the flames, which shrank back, daring not to touch her skin.

What did she want from him?

Harald removed a purse from his belt, filled with gold, but the witch shook her head: not that. She then nodded towards a pendant, within which he kept a blond lock of his daughter’s hair.

Giving up what was most precious — was that the price?

If it could save Angelika’s life, then so be it. Yet, a troubling ache stirred in his chest as rough dark fingers greedily tangled in the silky strands. Tossing a handful of herbs into the fire, Akkas swayed in a mystical trance. Silently, she motioned for him to wait outside. Harald was eager to breathe fresh air again, almost gasping at the burning heat that engulfed him once he stepped out into the blazing sun.

In the distance, beyond a few sparse trees, a flock of girls could be seen. Barefoot, with lush bosoms barely covered by colorful fabric, they gazed at him — an exotic white stranger — with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and wonder.

Should he return to the dark, cold estate, really?

A whispering voice behind him warned, as if in a dream, «Beware the owl’s cry and don’t let your wife wear the trousers in your house». A witch silently approached, offering him a narrow wooden box. Like a coffin, he thought.

«Give this to your daughter. The rest is not your decision. Hurry, you have little time.»

An old woman still spoke in her guttural dialect, yet somehow he understood every single word. Then Harald awoke on the shoreline, in a boat, feeling utterly lost. What or who brought him here?

Only on the ship did he dare to open the silk-wrapped gift. It was a doll — its face carved from white ivory, lips painted a vivid red. During the journey, it changed clothes several times and mysteriously grew out of its box when the ship finally reached his homeland.

Everything will be fine, Harald kept repeating to himself, trembling in the carriage.

Everything will be fine, he muttered before the family tomb, where a marble angel with Angélica’s curls and his wife’s mournful gaze spread its wings over two fresh graves.

«Fine… fine…» he whispered, smashing family silverware, tearing portraits of ancestors and velvet curtains. Soon, the servants fled, spreading the word that their master had lost his mind. The house decayed and became wild. No one could enter the once-rich estate anymore; every road was shrouded in thick fog. Only Harald wandered the cold, empty halls, wearing a mask of madness, while a distant owl hooted somewhere in the deep forest.

***

«You should never beckon the dark forces. That always ends in someone’s doom,» the old woman said, shaking her head as she tossed a few more logs into the hearth. They crackled loudly, as if agreeing with her words. The sparrow finally stopped hopping around and nestled comfortably in Hannah’s lap.

«The doll was made to be a child’s nanny, to protect her and be loved in return. That’s why she chose you instead of the master’s daughter. But its care turned to be suffocatingly overwhelming.»

Later, sitting in a massive tub filled to the brim with hot water, Hannah tried to imagine herself as the lost girl. She could have let a stone doll take care of her — and in return, acquire a cold heart. She could have stayed and lived in luxury, never leaving the palace walls again.

But сould you really call that life?

Deep in sleep, she did not see the old woman pick up her rags in the corner. The skirt was heavily torn, and the rest seemed worn-out but thick enough. The dress likely belonged to a servant once. It could still be useful, if not for the sickly sweet scent of fear and dark magic emanating from the dress.

Marna tossed it into the hearth and carefully wiped her hands on her apron. The last sparks of enchantment burst into a fleeting blaze before vanishing. Two bluish flames appeared and flickered softly beside the old woman’s staff.

«Don’t worry,» she said. «That curse won’t reach us here. And thank you both for your work, you kept the poor girl from freezing in the forest at night.»

Marna settled by the hearth and smoothed out the folds of her dress. The rough homespun fabric seemed infused with every possible pattern in the world. The knitted shawl Hannah brought from the forest now rested cozily on the old woman’s lap. Gently blowing, she smoothed out the snowy woolen pattern — and it merged with the fabric, like a delicate web stretching among faded goose feet and mismatched polka dots.

«Maybe it’ll come in handy for someone else,» the old woman smiled and dozed off in her chair.