Ashes to Glass

Ashes to Glass The Wickedly Grim Series Carmen Black Scarlet Lantern Publishing Copyright Copyright © 2022 by Carmen Black & Scarlet Lantern Publishing All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Epilogue Other Titles by Carmen Black About Carmen Black Chapter 1 “Help!” I shout, slamming my fists repeatedly against the door. I try the handle again, the metal cool in my hand as I twist it, but the door refuses to budge. Someone must have noticed my disappearance. Surely, someone will come. Yet, as time passes, my stomach twists with a dull ache. There’s a reason why I am down here and not upstairs with the others. There’s a reason why Stepmother demanded I gather several bottles of wine from the cellar rather than asking the other servants. I’m not wanted. And I have my suspicions about who closed this door. I release a long, frustrated sigh and look up at the ceiling, praying in vain for someone to unlock the door. Laughter trickles down through the floorboards, which move with each step Stepmother’s guests take. I frown, realizing by the sound of music seeping through the floorboards it’s a contra dance. I’ve been desperate to dance all night, and when I finally have a moment to enjoy myself, I’m sent away and locked in here, possibly for the rest of the night. The wine must have run out by now, I keep telling myself as a means to calm my worry. It won’t be long now. Cobwebs cling to the corners. A shudder ripples down my spine as I look for their creator. Wine bottles rest on the table behind me, where I left them after hearing the door slam closed. Several cabinets are squeezed together, pressed up close to the brick walls surrounding me. I run my hands up and down my arms, trying desperately to warm myself despite the chill prickling my skin. The bottles twinkle in the subtle moonlight cascading through the window to my right. Rain patters lightly against the glass. I pad toward it, wondering if anyone has gone to feed the horses. Perhaps they will notice me if I knock on the glass. I press up onto my tiptoes, craning my neck to see if I can see George’s balding scalp or Albert’s scrawny legs. However, a mist has settled over our lands, shrouding everything in the distance. I squint my eyes, hoping to make out anyone, but it’s raining, and, likely, everyone is inside. This is a special night, after all. The prince has returned from his studies in Elfisal. And he chose Glendhair Hall of all places to reside in on his return to the capital, Mhera. Glendhair Hall is my father’s manor, purchased long ago, shortly after he married my mother. On any typical day, Glendhair is glorious. It’s sturdy in a storm with its thick brick walls and yet cold during the winter. Each room has its own fireplace, one reason the servants have been so busy. The rains have finally come in, making the lands appear vibrantly green yet chilling the air. The poor servants have spent the entire day running back and forth between the kitchens and the quarters, trying to warm each chamber for the guests while decorating the halls with our best tapestries. Stepmother even demanded we use our finest china and have all the silver polished. And I have been trying to help as much as possible by finding said china and polishing the silver. At the same time, the servants cook, stoke the fires, chop the wood, feed the animals, de-feather the pheasant, and do all the other household tasks that usually must be done on top of preparing for this last-minute arrival. One would think a prince would give more notice than a mere couple of days to his arrival. One would think he would understand how discourteous it is to not give more notice. But, I suppose, this prince believed himself above all others. Most likely due to his wealth and spoiled upbringing. He probably never lifted his finger to do anything other than commanding his needs and wants. I’m sure he never heard the word “no.” But now is not the time to ruminate on what is and isn’t polite conduct. It’s not the prince’s fault I am stuck down here. It’s not his fault I cannot enjoy the contra dance or the minuet currently commencing. And unfortunately, I do not see Albert or George. With a defeated sigh, I turn away from the window, wondering how else I will get myself out of this mess. I must face the truth. No one is coming for me. Stepmother has kept them too busy, and likely they found Father’s brandy hidden in his study. Poor Father. I will see it replaced once I have time. For now, I can either drink the wine and sleep here until morning or use this table to bash against the door, hoping it opens. I wrinkle my nose while looking between said door and the table. That will likely not work, and why destroy such a lovely table? On my way toward the wooden chair, I swipe a bottle from the table and sit, resigning myself to this fate. A part of me wants to at least see the prince,