Sometimes she would waste the hours observing a single spot of sunlight slowly moving across the room and up the wall before disappearing
She slept a lot.
Lady Astrid, a second cousin from somewhere on her father’s side, was one of the few nobles who noticed her complete dropping out of even the tiny and desperate life those in the castle led.
The short, plump woman showed up at her door in the middle of one of the many endless afternoons with a needle and a frame and a look of steely determination.
“Your Royal Highness, I think maybe some useful work would help you cheer up and pass the time constructively.”
“Mmmfh mmmng mmmmbr,” Aurora said into her pillow. She didn’t have to get up for a lady.
“I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”
“Thank you, but not today, Lady Astrid. I’m not feeling up to it.”
“Your Highness,” Astrid said through clenched teeth. “I do believe this is for your own good. Prithee get up off that bed and start acting like a princess and not a lazy, spoiled brat.”
Aurora sat up at that, shocked.
“If the queen’s servants heard you speaking to me that way, they would throw you into the dungeon.”
“Fat lot of difference that would make around here,” the older lady said pleasantly. “And there aren’t any around. Thank heaven for small miracles. Now, are you coming? There’s no seat in here comfortable enough for my robust, aging backside.”
And Aurora, whose basic mode of being was to not do anything—or to do whatever she was told for want of any good reason to do otherwise, followed Lady Astrid meekly to the closest study.
It was a slightly more interesting way to spend time than staring into space—despite the little pricks of blood on the cloth, the countless times she had to squint and rethread the needle, and the general mess she made of the piece. Fortunately it was just a sampler, nothing fancy.
Eventually, she got into a groove and made little rows of knots that weren’t too terrible.
“You do this every day?” Aurora asked, frowning at where the needle was stuck on the backside of her cloth.
“Every afternoon,” Lady Astrid said briskly. She sat in a larger, more comfortable chair, closer to the fire. Her brows furrowed as she did a tricky bit, beautiful arched brows above her plump and sagging face. “After lunch, before the nones—my midafternoon prayers.”
“You have a schedule?”
“Of course. You have to keep a mind and body busy. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings. Rise, dress, stretch, matins, breakfast, a brisk walk around the castle for digestion, lauds, midmorning snack if it’s available, a visit with some of the older residents—or laundry inspection, mending, et cetera—terces, perhaps a little liturgical discussion with Lady Carlisle or the Marquis Belloq, lunch, say a quick prayer for those precious souls we have lost since our confinement here, review of the stores or, alternately, review of the servants, a tour of the lamentable remaining greenery in the courtyard, see if there’s anything for arranging or decorating…”
“Goodness,” the princess said. “You have every minute of the day planned.”
“I would go mad if I didn’t,” the lady said, half under her breath. “And more people would do better if they did,” she added pointedly.
The princess paused in her work and bit her lip, regarding the funny little woman. Some of the nobles—like Brodeur—had fallen into strange excesses during the confinement—which everyone tried to keep Aurora from hearing about. Here was a plain Jane sensible old lady who, despite being a little boring and plenty judgmental, had adapted to life in the Thorn Castle as best she could and made herself useful wherever she could. Levelheaded.
Aurora fingered the little pouch on her chatelaine. She had decided not to tell anyone about the feather since the incident with Brodeur. But this prudent—and low-profile—woman didn’t seem like the type of person who would make a fuss. Like Brodeur.
After a moment, she came to a decision and pulled out the feather.
“What…Lady Astrid…what do you think of this?”
And for once, the lady looked astonished.
Her face softened when she saw it, crumpling into something like wonder.
“It looks…fresh,” she said softly. “Not years and years old. And it’s too…imperfect to be magic. It looks like it’s from Outs—”
She started to reach out her hand for it and then curled up her fingers at the last moment.
“Where did you get it?”
“I’m not sure I can say,” Aurora admitted, thinking about Brodeur’s reaction. “Do you know what kind of feather it is? What bird it’s from?”
“Do I seem like some sort of expert on animals—on birds and other winged things?” Astrid asked sharply, regaining her composure. “Since it…cannot be…from the Outside…I’m going to assume it’s from a pigeon or one of those other flying rats that haunt the bailey.”
She went back to her work.
Aurora looked at the feather glumly.
“I wouldn’t talk to anyone else…inside the castle about the feather, Your Highness,” the lady added quietly after a moment. “If you ask me, people are a little tense and stir-crazy…and the walls have ears. Your—blessèd—aunt has saved us all, but she gets very touchy about anything having to do with the Outside. For good reason, I suppose. I’ll keep your secret….There are others who wouldn’t.”
The princess nodded—again, glumly. She wished she had spoken to Astrid before the last ball. Was Count Brodeur already telling everyone her secret? Or worse, would he tell her aunt? Aurora wouldn’t get in trouble, most likely, but the poor minstrel…Right now he was enduring her wrath for his public drunkenness. How much worse could it be for him if her aunt found out he went Outside?
Aurora put the feather away and went back to sewing.
It was better, she supposed, than doing nothing at all.
The days leading up to the ball were particularly grim.
Though sometimes days were hard to count, with little sun and no moon and clocks that didn’t keep hours in any way that made sense.
But even with the world changed, seasons run amok, the moon gone, and the protective vines keeping the castle dwellers safe from the unnatural world that raged Outside…there were still some markers of the course of time.
At the beginning of each year of their confinement, for instance, a strange bell would toll across the land. Once or twice a day for several days it would strike, its reverberations lasting for hours at a time, gradually increasing and echoing in the corridors until everyone was fairly shaken and crazed. Everyone from the lowest peasant to Aurora herself stuffed their ears with wool and cowered under their pillows trying to escape the sound. Even Maleficent seemed to be gritting her teeth and on edge.
The passing of weeks could be observed by keeping careful track—or observing how the queen herself waxed and waned. By the end of each ball she was healthy, energetic, and her magic was at its most powerful: for many days after, meals were interesting and fantastic, new diversions were summoned, clothing was refreshed, and the stores all restocked. Everyone rejoiced, and life in the Thorn Castle was bearable for a time.