Wooden side rails snap and splinter as a crib crashes down the wide spiral staircase from the attic. “Accursed thing.” Mutters ?l?, stamping down the stairs after it, the skirt of her dark moss green dress hiked up above her knees by gold ribbon. “I will not have you do any of the sort to me.” She steps around the king-sized bedsheet she had placed at the bottom of the stairs, which the splinted crib now rests upon. She pulls the corners into the center, tying them together, encasing the hag-ridden furnishing in a makeshift sack.

  This was the only option; there was nothing else she could have done. She could not sell it; who would want it? a crib with someone else's family crest. ?l? drags the bag behind her downstairs to the ground floor, the carpet runner doing very little to dampen the impacts of the mangled crib within.

  Leaving the bag at the bottom of the stairs, she brushes her long flaxen hair back behind her ears and checks the door—locked, and she has the only set of keys. She takes the satchel she left at the front door upon her arrival into the parlor and begins setting up the fireplace.

  Taking the satchel into the parlor, she places it against the wall by the fireplace and begins wiping the ash and soot covering the sigil away. Once the sigil is completely clean, she removes the large wooden ring—a standard sigil fireplace starter she had taken from the main hall—from the satchel and lines it up; pulling the lever, a small piece of iron drops in, completing the outer ring, and the fire roars to life.

  She briefly warms her hands at the fire—the hollow home is cold, and Faerthryne’s breathing down the neck of Iania helps little—before returning to dragging the sack into the parlor. Pulling the knot apart, she begins hurriedly tossing pieces into the fire, only slowing when it grows too large. After nearly an hour, the bedsheet lies almost barren.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  She stares at the last piece, turning the walnut-stained end panel from the head of the crib in her hands, the gilded Dornytter family crest glistening in the firelight—she cannot burn it, but it’s still the crib. What if she does not burn it? what then? will the house be cursed? will the lingering existence of the crib be enough? But what if she does? what then? to burn the crest of the family she is to be married into? She should just bury it in the yard; no, no, no, she can’t—that symbolizes something awful; but it would not affect the candle’s prophecy—no, that’s worse.

  She feels awful—why did she do this? she will have to tell Dyder where the crib has gone—he will be understanding, she is sure of it; he always is. Should she give the crest to him? but what if this is the part that is cursed? then neither of them should have it.

  Yes, yes, that is it; cast it into the caldera with an offering to Aelura—Aelura will listen, Aelura will take care of it, Aelura will annul the curse. She will just tell Dyder she burned it with the rest of the crib if he even noticed it—hopefully not.

  After placing the fragment of the end panel into the satchel, she shakes out and partially folds the bedsheet—the fire, now languid, pulls her attention; she stares into the ashes of what was the crib; she regrets this all so much already, what if she's wrong? what then? has she gone and altered the prophecy? no, she could not have; she did what was right; this will all pass; she did what was right. She finishes folding the sheet and adds it to the satchel before heading back upstairs.

  She takes the broom and dustpan she had brought with her from Dyder’s room and retraces her steps, making sure to get every single wooden fragment she can find, wishing to cast them all into the fireplace.