Heart of the Moors

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“Once upon a time, there was a wicked faerie called Maleficent, named for both her malice and her magnificence. Her lips were the red of freshly spilled blood, her cheekbones as sharp as the pain of lost love. And her heart was as cold as the deepest part of the ocean.”

The storyteller stood on a cobbled street near the castle, watching with satisfaction as a crowd formed. Children peered up at him openmouthed, henwives stopped in the middle of their shopping, and tradespeople drew close.

Among them was a woman shrouded in a hooded cloak. She stood slightly apart, and even though he couldn’t see her face, something about her drew his eye.

The storyteller had crossed into the kingdom of Perceforest just two days before, and his tale had gotten a good reception in the previous town. Not only had he made a pocketful of copper, but he had been stood a supper at the second-best inn and offered a place by the fire that night. Surely, so near the castle, where there was bound to be more coin, his tale would earn him even greater rewards.

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