Now, though, the hallways were almost empty. The rug-covered floors, the walls with their somber tapestries, the narrow polished wooden benches—all were silent, making my footsteps sound louder and louder as I walked faster and faster.
Where was everyone?
I started opening doors as I went, glancing into bedrooms. Every last one was empty and neatly packed away. Why?
When I reached the corridor that branched toward my room, I hesitated, then turned sharply left and hurried down the hallway. I wanted to check on Twirtle, my canary. He would surely be fine—he was a bird; he would have no way of knowing he had slept longer than a single night—but I wanted to make sure. I wanted to lift him onto my finger, have him cock his head at me and chirp. He was a plain little thing, dull yellow with nondescript brown markings, but when he sang, the chirps and trills filled my room with music. Sometimes I could get him to perch on my shoulder while he sang.
I was smiling as I pushed open the door to my room. I felt the stretch in my cheeks, like my skin was cracking, and realized that this was the first time I had truly smiled since I woke up.
My room was only a bit smaller than Rosalin’s, and my furniture was just as ornate as hers—though I had a tendency to leave my clothes draped over everything, which gave a less elegant impression. My nightdress was still crumpled on my dresser, along with several pages of math and history lessons, and three pairs of shoes were strewn across the floor. I ignored all that, heading straight for the large golden cage near the far wall, with its dangling maple leaves and grape clusters and gold-embroidered cover and—
—and its open door.
I heard a cry, and didn’t realize it was my own until I stumbled across the room and the cry came with me.
The golden door swayed slightly on its hinges. The cage was empty. Well, not empty—Twirtle’s silver perches were there, and his gilded bath was full of water. But there was no small yellow bird, no flutter of feathers as he hopped down to his food container.
How could this be? The castle had been frozen in time during the spell, which meant there had been no one awake to open the cage. And even if someone had opened it, Twirtle would have been asleep….
I felt a draft of cool air on the back of my neck and realized that my window was open.
I started toward it, then stopped short. Thorn branches filled the window, a solid, gnarled, deadly wall. Twirtle couldn’t have gotten out that way.
But he might have tried, and…
Bile rose in my throat, thick and sour. I swallowed it and forced myself to walk to the window, braced for the sight of yellow feathers caught in those cruel thorns.
No, I thought. No, no, please no…
Tears filled my eyes when I reached the window. But there was no hint of yellow—of any bright color at all—in the gnarled brown branches.
I let my breath out in a choked gasp. Twirtle hadn’t gone out the window. Of course he hadn’t. He was too smart for that. He was in this castle somewhere, flying around, looking for me. Well, more likely looking for food. He had escaped before—most memorably, that time when the gardener had caught him. I just had to find him.
A long, slow hiss sounded from the window, like rough branches sliding against each other. I stepped back quickly and blinked the tears from my eyes.
Twirtle was probably in the kitchen. After all, that was where the food was. If he wasn’t there—or in the gardener’s workshop—then my parents would assign a maid to search for him. They had done it before, when they’d seen how upset I was.
Guilt niggled at me. I knew I should go to my parents first; they must be frantic by now. But they were probably in the royal sitting room, and the kitchen was practically on the way there. One quick stop wouldn’t hurt.
I headed determinedly for the door but paused next to my gold-framed mirror. I swiped the wetness from my lashes, then examined myself carefully, looking for signs that I was a hundred years older.
Rosalin was right—there was a stain on my dress. But I wasn’t sure how she had even noticed it, given the state of my hair. It was no longer than it had been a hundred years ago. It had, however, been flattened on one side while I slept, but only enough to keep it from standing straight out from my head, which was what it was doing on the other side.
Rosalin is prettier than me in every way, but the only thing I envy her is her hair. She has smooth, sleek, shiny black hair that glimmers like a waterfall every time she moves. If she does nothing to it, it falls straight and neat down her back. If she puts it up in braids, it behaves perfectly, making her look elegant and poised.
My hair is a color that’s hard to describe (“like mud that’s been stirred with bathwater” is how Rosalin once put it), and if I do nothing to it, it looks like “a mass of frizz that’s been hit by a lightning bolt” (also Rosalin). If I do something
