AN: Sorri about the update delay. Eeeep. I work full time now, and then i'm off to uni this week so it's been impossible to get any time to just post the chapter. Bleh. Even though it's already been previously written. Heh. It's so relieving to know that I've already written all of this fic before posting it, weeee, and thankyou to the awesome people who reviewed. I only take so long because I refuse to update without review responses, so i like to spend a bit of time on those. Heh. Hopefully that vaguely justifies me hehe.

Choc me: hopefully intense in a good way. Hehe.

Asiangal16: yayy. Mysterious is good. I think it's nearly every girls fantasy to meet a mysterious guy in a mask, -giggle-, hence the way i couldn't resist writing it. Hope you enjoy the chapter, mah lovely, and thanks for the review.

LIPS: pshaw. I don't mind that you took a while to pop along to read this, because your reviews are awesomeness and the point is that you eventually got here. Teehee. And nodnod. I've never been into fantasy myself, tbf, but then i don't think (i hope not, anyhow) that this is going to be your typical fantasy, per se. Like – it's my own twist on it, i guess, but it was essential to go for the fantasy genre because of certain bits in it like the wolves and later things that come in. And awwww, thankyou, i personally do feel that my writing has changed for this. I also think that it's something quite different for me, and i'm aiming to make it a lot more different. Like, with predator it was all confusing/symbolic metaphorness but with this I'm trying to make it more commercial and straight forward. I aim to be as less confusing as possible loll. And hmmm, polly's age... i'd say late teens probabli. Not any less than that. I'm not completely sure on the characters' ages atm because i haven't worked out the timeline for this ficcie properly yet (you'll get what i mean further on) but definitely somewhere in the late teens and no younger. And haha awww yep, to an extent I've got this finished. Like, it's a very longgg story divided into three parts, so the first part is finished bar the last chapter, and Part 1 is the length of Predator, if not longer. So in that sense yup, it's finished ishhh. There're 24 chapters already written and they get pretty long at the end. I need to begin work on the second part straight after i've finished editing part one, which is pretty messy in some bits. Heh. Thanks for the awesome reviews, mah lovely, and I hope you enjoy this one too!

superficialowl: glad you liked that. Hehe. A few more characters get introduced in this chapter, methinks, and then that's about it. This is going to be a pretty long fic, so there're a lot of characters to introduce, hence it is essential to make sure everyone remembers each of them.

Flower-in-the-night: yo yo sista. Thanks for the super intense fly review with all its intense deepness. A lot better than anisa's reviews. They were usually fat and ugly and so blatantly anisa. Wahaw. Go break her heart and tell her i've replaced her with you. Go on. Do it. Grrh. As for heath, he comes in way later in the story. Like part two later. Then we get to touch him some more (oh yes we do).

wildcrazychild: awww thankyou. And no worries about being clueless. I'm not planning to make this half as confusing as predator, so most things should be explained as soon as possible. Heh. That is zee aim.

Phyrellilie: take your time with the reading, m'dear. I'm going to email/text you properly later this week and update you, most likely as soon as I get to uni which will be on Sunday if not earlier. So no worries there. Don't think I've forgotten about you or anything, our love is one that is eternal wahahha.

-

.thieves of samurett

-

5

-

Silence.

In her hands she held a basket of flowers. Tulips. She looked into them, smiled faintly. There was a gold light above her, a wet sun, and she let it drench her. Polly walked into the field and her father was there, a blur sitting on a wooden chair. She swung the basket and her mother looked up from a stained cloth on the ground.

"Gwyntallia." She frowned. "You've been in the mud."

Polly blinked once, twice, then looked at her hands. Gooey brown dipped down her fingertips, straight into the soaking tulips. She held her fists tighter, looked around for Timothy. Where was Timothy?

"Gwyntallia." She looked to her mother. Her eyes were now hollow sockets lined with blood that scraped raw against white skin. "Stop getting mud in the basket."

She started screaming.

Her mother tipped back her bleeding head.

"Stop screaming."

It was muffled.

"I said –"

There was darkness around her.

"Stop screaming."

Polly jolted awake, rigid, covers wrapped around cold flesh. She felt the hardness of her arms, the goose pimples that crumpled her pallid skin. At the foot of the bed stood a little girl, doll in hand. She was frowning.

"You're screaming," she informed her, and she climbed onto the bed, shoved the doll into Polly's face, "woke her up. You woke up the baby."

Polly blinked.

"Shame. Shame on you. You should feel so, so ashamed. You should feel—" A dramatic pause, "—compunctious."

Bemused, she creased her forehead.

"You heard me." The little girl tasted her words. "Damn compunctious."

"Anna!"

The little girl's expression froze, mouth forming an 'o', and there was the sudden creaking of a chair. Polly peered past her, took in her surroundings. The room was large, larger than her bedroom. Walls were panelled with wood and the floor was draped in a plush, beige carpet. The bed she sat on, a flimsy little thing, held up by wooden pillars which supported strips of twining fabric, was heaped in the corner, and she looked directly opposite her, to the source of light. There was a fireplace, flickering black embers and sparks of raucous orange, purple.

Before it sat an old man, rocking in a chair. His face was papery white, thin skin which looked as if it'd tear open with a single snip. The head was round, balding, and eyes were hollowed in like fat balls stuck on the face of a china doll. His features were delicate, thin lips, small ears and a snubbed nose. In one hand was a pipe, held softly by the little lips, and in the other hand was a book. He was bent over it, immersed, ball-like eyes rolling as they scoured the page.

Someone stood at the door, a boy with a mop of red hair. "What did Lex say about the 'D' word?"

She bit her bottom lip. "Caleb said –"

"What did Lex say about the 'D' word?"

"But she woke up the baby. She made me embittered. Caleb says that if someone pushes you, then you can't help but –"

"This is the last time I'm going to ask you, Anna." A deadly pause. "What did Lex say about the 'D' word?"

She looked into Polly's lap. "Only vulgar, fractious, ignoble excuses for homo sapiens say such words." Then she looked up, straight into Polly's face. "And I'm not an ignoble homo sapien."

"Yeah." The boy by the door scratched his head. "Something like that. Now get off the bed. Let the girl sleep."

"What time is it?" Polly suddenly spoke up, and then something more important pressed at the front of her mind, "And where am I?"

The boy by the door regarded her for a moment, expressionless, then he turned around and left. The little girl trotted after him, doll hanging in hand. Polly moved to get up only to find that her whole body trembled, and she collapsed back onto the bed. The two figures were a faint outline in the corridor, past the doorway. At once, they were gone, and she was left alone with the rocking old man.

"There's food on the table beside you, my dear. Eat it before you try to move." The voice was surprisingly rigid, low and strong, and he hadn't once looked up from his book. With a nimble finger, he turned the page.

She peered to the side and, indeed, there was a plate of bread, heaped with butter beside a glass of water.

"It's not much," said the old man, "but it won't do you good to eat too much at the moment. You'll just retch it all straight out. Not a pleasant image, I'm sure."

She took it, turned it over in her hands, and nibbled at the corner. Etiquette had her take small, measured bites and sip the water, not slosh it down. Her insides begged the opposite. Once done, her body felt better, if only slightly, and a wave of random thoughts pushed through her mind. She pressed most of them to the back, willed away the images, and blood only stained the corners, a trickling beast which begged entry from behind.

Her father.

She hadn't seen her father, not at the ball. That meant that he hadn't arrived there. Timothy had known about what had been about to happen, so maybe her father had known too – but how? After her conversation with Timothy in the morning, he'd vanished and she'd been far too busy with preparations to find him. That meant they were both alive. She was sure of it. Now all she had to do was find them, let them know that she was alive too. That way, they could all find her mother. She'd probably picked up that something was wrong and gotten out. Her mother was resourceful. She didn't miss minor details like that. They had all probably found each other, made some sort of back-up plan, and were now looking for her. But they didn't know where to look. She knew that it was up to her to find them.

She held the side of the bed, took in a deep breath, and swung her legs over. She tried to heave herself up, pushed at the balls of her feet, and for a moment she was balanced – then she toppled, straight back into the covers.

"You need rest," commented the old man. "You've only slept for a few hours. You don't have the energy to stand up yet."

Polly peered at him through the rumpled sheets, watched his nimble fingers turn another page. Firelight danced at the edges of his features, sent a glow caving into the hollows of his cheeks like a pit of molten gold, amber. She didn't have time to be tired. She didn't have the time to rest or sleep or eat. She had to find her father. She had to find Timothy, and her mother. They had to know that she was alive, otherwise they'd worry. Worry like the worry that threatened to claw through her chest with every aching intake of breath.

Again, she readied herself. Then she swung her legs back to the floor, secure, and pushed herself up on the weight of both arms. Her legs trembled, her knees so weak she felt they would snap like toothpicks, splintered wood, shards shooting like glass through the air. She put a hand onto the table to steady herself, then breathed slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She relaxed her muscles, ignoring the aching constraint –the plea of her insides that screamed sleep, sleep.

"Where am I?" she asked again, this time to the old man.

He still didn't look at her, turned another page of the book. "Find out."

She took another step forward, let go of the table, and wavered, held out her arms and tried to balance. With every step her energy mounted, ever so slightly, and then she could manage a steady walk, past the old man to the corridor. As she made her way down it, she heard something – soft, high pitched. A piccolo. It wafted through air, a few sharp notes and then a steady melody that echoed around her, past her, and tinkled at the back of her mind. She stood, listening for a few moments, and then it was accompanied by a voice: a wavering tremor, which then heightened like garlands of flowers tossed straight into the air, roses that opened out their buds to the heaving sun. It was sweet, an angel's beating wings or the song of a skylark that drifted up. Higher. Higher. Tried to touch the heavens.

Polly followed the sound. It was calming and she grew closer. It became louder. The trill of the piccolo. A bridge. Passed two or three more doors, then there was one, wide open. Light spilled out in a path of trickling gold. She stood by the wall, closed her eyes, and listened to the girl's voice, every tremor like a rising angel. She stepped into the light.

Long blonde hair, two dangling plaits. She sat on a stool, white dress, porcelain skin – tall, beautiful, like some fallen angel. The black haired boy from the shop two days ago, Caleb, stood near her, leaning against the wall, a piccolo placed between parted lips. His fingers slid across its edge and the girl had her eyes closed, singing out to the stars and the moon and the bare white walls that sent her echoes trembling through the Manor.

Polly shifted by the doorway, watched them both: darkness and light. It intermingled so beautifully. She wanted to be a part of that, the twining ice, the breathing angels and the darkness that swathed it all in a heavy cloak. Protection. The girl suddenly opened her eyes and stood up, stopped singing. Caleb continued to play, faster now, watching her with an intensity that set the air alight. She began to twirl, laughing at every step. It tinkled like a music box or bells swinging in the hands of a child. Her body was snakelike, coiling and twisting and twirling with an almost feline agility.

Suddenly self conscious, Polly touched her waist, the side of her leg. Her fingers pressed into her dress, her skin, and she wondered at the girl's long, agile legs and the waist which dipped in, then dipped out. How could anyone be so perfect? She wanted to be like that, to dance like that, to sing like that, and do it in a way that seemed so effortless, just like the girl.

There was a harsh note, and the music stopped.

The girl stopped twirling and looked straight at Caleb. He was watching Polly, expression unfathomable. The girl followed his gaze. Caleb pushed himself off the wall, put the piccolo onto the stool, then took his place next to the girl with the blonde plaits. He put one arm round her waist, then whispered something quickly into her ear. She nodded, her gaze never faltering, and cocked her head to the side.

"You're the girl that they promised to protect." It was a statement.

Polly didn't answer.

"I don't think Caleb's going to talk to you," she carried on. "He's mad at you, so it's best not to provoke him, or else he'll say something hurtful." Caleb opened his mouth, about to retort, but the girl put a hand to his mouth. "My name is Trixie." She smiled at Polly. It made her face glow, made her look more beautiful, if that were possible. "Come inside. Why're you standing at the door?"

"I want to know where I am." Her voice was trembling slightly. The walk had made her energy falter and she hesitated before she spoke, tried to not let herself stumble, "Can you please tell me… where I am?"

They both shared a look, then Trixie looked back to her. "I'll take you back to the room. You need rest."

"No!" Polly held the doorframe for support. "Look, I – please. I really need to know where I am. My mother and father are probably looking for me," she tried to explain herself. "I really don't mean to be rude, and I apologise if I come off as such, but you must understand my urgency. If they think I'm," a deep breath, "dead, then they'll worry."

Caleb spoke up. "You're not entitled to know where you are."

She bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said," he replied, calmly. "Simply put, we don't know you. We don't know about your habits, your inclinations; we don't know anything about you and, as that's the case, we can't trust you."

"What Caleb means," Trixie interceded, "is that you've had a long night, and…there are rules – promises to be kept. Obligations. But it's too early to explain all of that because you're tired, and it'll probably go over your head." She offered her a smile. "Now, why don't you just go back to bed? We'll take you there and then when you wake up you can eat some more and regain your energy. Then we'll explain things to you."

"What about my parents?"

Caleb ran a hand through his hair, obviously frustrated. Trixie put a hand on his shoulder. They shared another look, as one might when speaking to a child. Polly caught it and was momentarily irritated, desperate to say something so that they wouldn't think of her in that way. She wanted them to understand and at the same time she wanted to shout at them so they wouldn't patronise her. That wouldn't work, though. She needed to use soft words and a sweet tongue, otherwise these people might get irritated. Then what would they do? She didn't know.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but was cut off.

"I don't like you."

Silence.

Trixie hit him.

"No." He ignored it. "I really don't like you. You aggravate me. What Trixie's telling you to do – it's for you. For your own good. It doesn't make a difference to us. But you're not listening. We're trying to help you, and you're just being an ungrateful b –"

"I think you're just tired," Trixie cut him off again. "Now, please…" she made a movement forward, "let me put you to bed."

She wasn't a child.

"I don't care that I aggravate you," she bit out. "I don't care about what you think about me, or whether you think I have bad habits or that I'm ungrateful. I don't know what's going on. I've had a really bad night and I'm all alone and I want to find my parents. There's nothing wrong or evil or selfish or unreasonable about that. You're the one being unreasonable. What you're doing, I'd never do that to you –" She was beginning to raise her voice. "I would take you back to your parents. I wouldn't make you be alone. I'd try and understand." She collapsed then, knees completely giving way, but she couldn't stop shouting, couldn't stop the twisting knife and the gash that bled straight out her mouth. "I need to know that they're alive. I need them to know that I'm alive. I need to find them." She wouldn't let herself cry. "I need to find my parents."

Trixie stepped forward. "Let me help you up –"

"No!" she shrieked. "I can get up. I will get up, and I'll find my parents on my own." She had her hands pressed to the ground, remembered how her mother had told her that they couldn't see her in weakness. She had to listen to her mother. She had to cling to that, because her mother knew; and with that thought in mind she heaved her body up with the palms of her hands. Her legs shook, trembled, banged against one another and she felt her face heat up with the embarrassment.

The girl, Trixie, made her way forward and tried to help her up but she shook her off. She could do this on her own. She would do this on her own. They weren't going to help her. They just wanted her to sleep and forget and she didn't know what else but they didn't want her to find her parents. That was what was best for her – finding her parents and her home and the comfort of her mother's hands holding a candlestick placed softly in the centre of a table. The wading light, and the figures, one by one, settling into their chairs. The routine. Her father, stepping through the towering door, wooden panels, the flickering flame and the candle-lit dinners that no longer stank of romance or rarity but routine. The candles were a routine, just like the torches and the dresses and the banquets and the portraits. For the first time in her life she wanted to be turned into a portrait, forever immortal, her parents standing rigid beside her.

She collapsed again, panting. Then she pushed her body upright and tried to move all her energy into her legs. Eyes closed, another heaving, panting push and the girl didn't try to help her this time, knew she would be brushed off. Her whole body shook, racked with fatigue, and she clenched the carpet, watched the spindly white of her knuckles glitter in the pulsing light.

Someone heaved a sigh – Caleb – and in a movement he was beside her. She saw his feet, black buckles, and the bottom of a swishing coat. She didn't look at him, kept her gaze to the ground, and managed to get onto her knees. Then she vomited, straight onto his shoes – heaving, gasping retches and her whole body trembled and shook. Dizziness overcame her and in moments he'd swept her up, flung her over his shoulder.

Polly wanted to scream, shriek, flail, and prove to him that she could get up, that she would find her parents all on her own, but the dizziness and the coughing overcame her. There was no energy. In moments she was back in the main room, body slumped over a black clad shoulder. Below her, she watched swirling beige. It went round in circles, like a whirlpool, like dancing skirts or jangling bracelets swung in circles by an annoying little girl, first ball, new rings. She knew that kind. She remembered Catherine, and Jayne, and – and she shook her head, tried to stop or fathom or somehow comprehend the swirling carpet, but nothing. She was flung back on the twining bed and three words registered, vaguely, at the back of her mind:

"Go to sleep."

She didn't need to be told. She'd already drifted off.

-

Legs swung, forward, back, forward, and then she watched them stop, freeze. She willed time to stop, just like this moment which she held onto by her hands and her feet. Raven hair was a blanket. She watched the moving shadows. They weren't stopping.

She swung her legs again.

"Leila." He was knocking on the door, ever so gently. "Leila, are you ready?" He knocked, harder this time, and she didn't answer.

She watched the window opposite her, a hollow gash in the wall. No glass. Wooden boards. She craved the shudder of pearl white on crystal. She used to watch it at dawn, trickle across the window panes like water or milk or golden blood – no, not blood, but light. There was only light.

He opened the door, then let out a sigh.

"You're not ready."

The Lady shook her head. "Not today." White skin was taut. The hollows watched him. "Inform them that I am ill, or otherwise –" She shrugged. "Something."

"This is the third time this month."

"Goodbye," she said, "Master Heath."

He visibly flinched. "You're making this difficult."

"It has always been difficult."

"The people are not comfortable," he explained, "when their Lady is not amongst the negotiations. They feel that –"

"–do not try to teach me what –"

"Don't try to argue with me, Leila." His voice was cold. "And do not act as if this was solely my decision."

This time, she flinched.

"I only made the suggestions," he carried on. "They were your actions. Now live with the consequences and stop acting as if this isn't what you wanted."

She inhaled, whispered, "It isn't."

"I'll be waiting outside."

He was right. She nodded. He left. When the door closed, there was a momentary loss of light. Then the lanterns flickered on, one by one, a fire in each corner. She wished she could touch it and was tempted to test it but knew that her hand would meet air. The fire would die. Something flickered, and there was a bumping sound. Something chirping. Her eyes went to the boarded up window and there was azure light dancing in the gaps. It bounced against the sides, a ball of blue, and then there were dots of red and green and lilac. The lilac buzzed out, into the air, and twirled in the firelight, little somersaults. It was followed by the green which sent a whiff of eerie smoke trailing at its feet. The lilac then bounced away, straight toward her, and landed on the book at the desk.

It toed the pages, and beady little eyes watched her imploringly.

"I don't want to start the story," she informed it, then she looked back over her shoulder. He was gone. She pressed a finger to her lips, "Shh. He can't know you're here."

It fluttered its wings, annoyed, then the lilac bounced toward her, landed next to it. Two sets of eyes watched her.

She picked up the quill. "Must I go through this again?"

They were still watching her, waiting.

Let us help you.

She sighed.

It's the only way.

She started writing.

-

When Polly fully awoke, light no longer beamed out the window. Fire kept the room from darkness but its trickles were only faint. The old man still sat before it, now hunched over in sleep, the book hanging off the edge of his lap. A single shift, and it would topple. She remembered waking up in her sleep, faint moments of consciousness, and the blonde girl beside her, urging her to eat. She had. There was more food there now on the little table by the bed. Polly reached for it, no longer trembling. She was fully awake, alert, and her body no longer felt weak. It was best to eat the food, though. If everything went according to plan, then who knew how long it would take her to find her parents? And she had no money, no means to get food. It was best to be as full as possible before hand.

After eating, she slipped off the bed, bare feet landing softly on the carpet. She made to the window and gently tested the latch. It made a sound as she lifted it and she hesitated. It wasn't too loud, not loud enough to penetrate the walls and alert the rest of the household, but… she looked to the old man. It was loud enough to wake him up and, if he woke up, he'd realise that she'd escaped. Polly looked to the door, weighed up her options. If she escaped through the door, though, they'd catch her more easily. She didn't know her way around the house, so she could easily get lost. It was quicker and more practical to go through the window, which would lead directly into the street.

Polly considered. Then she had an idea.

She made to the door, gently eased it open, and took in a deep breath. It was all about timing. If she didn't get the timing right, then this wouldn't work. She counted in her head. One…two…three – she slammed the door shut. The old man shook and she bolted for the bed, dived under it and scrunched up her body as to not be seen. She watched his feet as they landed on the floor, the push of a chair. He made his way to the bed, his feet pressed directly before her vision and she held her breath. Then he turned, body angled to the door.

He muttered something about her still being in the house, then he left through the door. It closed firmly behind him and she heard his rigid voice, cries of Caleb and Dez – probably the red haired boy, she surmised – and Lex. He was waking them all up now. She had to move fast. Polly rolled out from under the bed and made to the window. She pried open the latch and it opened with a creak. She lifted the window, and it exhaled icy air. Polly jumped up, flung her legs onto the ledge, over the side. She closed her eyes, then jumped out. Once firmly on the ground, she gently closed the window behind her. It emitted a noise, but it wasn't too loud. At least, she hoped it wasn't.

Before her was a stone pathway, skirting along the edge of the house. Around her was woodland, acres and acres of trees that twisted off into the darkness. The only way was forward, along the path. Hesitantly, she kept to the side, eyes scouring the darkness, leeching in any light as to make sense of her surroundings. Her movements were quiet, agile, but she made sure to maintain speed. She couldn't be slow. That way, they'd easily catch her. It didn't take long for her to reach the corner and she stepped out before the house. There was a small stretch of land, and then more woodland. She was surrounded. Polly heard voices, shuffling sounds, and then she backed up against the wall.

Three figures emerged: Caleb, Trixie and the boy from earlier. They were in a triangle, talking about something in hushed tones and she caught her name, went still. They were looking for her. Polly slowly backed away, back along the path. There was no point in going forward. They'd see her, or otherwise she'd be right behind them and if they turned back…

She went back far enough, then went straight into the woods. Eventually, if she kept going forward, they would end. She was sure of it. That way she would find civilisation – people who could lead her back to the main town so that she could find survivors. Polly considered. It was probably best to find the servants first. If she looked for her old servants, they could tell her where Timothy was. Once she found Timothy, everything would be okay. She was sure of it.

Around her, darkness stretched on but moonlight was strangely stark – a rip of white light that looked down at her from hollow craters. Sounds fumbled around her: chirping crickets, wet, rumpling leaves where little creatures folded themselves into the corners, the occasional owl, its howl echoing across the darkness like the voice of a child. A cry in the night. Time wore on and crunching twigs that snapped, snap, beneath her feet felt like a separate plane of existence where sound and light and water and air all intermingled – and then there was Gwyntallia, Gwynnie, Tal, Lia, Poll, Polly, in her tattered cerulean dress like a blue spectre that floated above it, and then among it all, if only for a few moments. Moon-light rippled across her path. She was awake. So was the night. Her dress made a trail, and then there was a howl. A different howl. Something harsher, louder, stronger, something so much more beautiful than the wailing child, its silent screaming. It was music, light, like the piccolo from earlier, like birds in the morning that perched atop the burning gargoyle. She wanted it to surround her, to carry her, and at the same time, it chilled her. She felt that it signalled something wary, a hint of something, trepidation, crushed instincts. One word.

Run.

Around her, the wind wailed. There was a rush of leaves that escalated in a whirlpool of darkened green, then settled. The trees shook, and a twig snapped. Polly froze. Something broke through the darkness, a shot of white and a feral growl. Before her stood a white wolf, teeth bared, ready to pounce.

Then she ran.

-