You shake off Red Maggie's sudden change in personality, choosing to focus instead on the prospect of a shower and a nights sleep in what has turned out to be a pretty comfy bed. You shed your clothes and debate trying to wash them in the sink, but ultimately decide just to drape them around the bathroom and hope a good steaming helps. You think about taking your necklace off, and decide against it, unsure why. The products in the shower are unlabeled, but feel luxurious and smell like mint and rosemary. You reluctantly put your clothes back on, and decide to head downstairs.

You shake off Red Maggie's sudden change in personality, choosing to focus instead on the prospect of a shower and a nights sleep in what has turned out to be a pretty comfy bed. You shed your clothes and debate trying to wash them in the sink, but ultimately decide just to drape them around the bathroom and hope a good steaming helps. You think about taking your necklace off, and decide against it, unsure why. The products in the shower are unlabeled, but feel luxurious and smell like mint and rosemary. You reluctantly put your clothes back on, and decide to head downstairs.

The lobby is lit by wall sconces. Red Maggie is now where to be seen. You head into what you think is probably the parlor- the room with the small book shelf and a couple of chairs. You head over to the bookshelf, but don't recognize any of the titles. They seem to be mostly fiction, in particular, fantasy and fairy tales. A book with a black cover and shining silver letters on the spine catches your eye, The Synthetic Princess. Some kind of steam-punk thing maybe? You decide to pick it up and choose a faded blue armchair next to the fireplace, now hosting a timid fire. Before you start reading you heard a whisper from behind you and, jump a bit before you see that it's just Maggie. She's carrying a ceramic bowl that she hands to you without a word, the silver ring on her left hand. You notice her noticing the book in your lap but, back to her old self, she has no reaction. She crosses the lobby and walks through the simple door on the other side of the room, opposite to you.

The bowl contains some kind of grain, maybe barley, with wilted spinach, roasted beets and something that might be turnips. It looks like something that would be called an "Autumn Harvest Bowl" and cost $20.00 at a chain lunch spot. You balance the bowl on your leg and take a bite- the grains are chewy and nutty, in a way almost gamey, and the vegetables are the best you've ever tasted. You can feel the nutrients instantly hit your blood stream. Chewing, you pick up the book with your other hand and start to read.

It turns out to be a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a young King who grew frustrated with his kingdom. The land was peaceful but dull, and its people content to the point of lethargy. None of his subjects wanted for anything, and the King could not understand it. He felt that all he ever did was want, although he could not have said just what it was he felt he lacked. The land had no gods; nevertheless, at sunset the King went the barrow of his forebears and knelt to pray. "My people seem happy, but this cannot be so. They have become apathetic, as I have been before now. I am called to make a great change, to raise my people and myself from our middling complacency. And yet, how can I disturb my people when it seems that all is well? You who have fed the land that feeds this kingdom, I beg use of the wisdom gained by this dissolution and entreat you thusly."

Soon, the King heard a voice whisper nearby. Nothing moved or made a sound, not scuttling creatures of night or twilight birds that hunt them in the darkness. Then there was a shadow on the barrow, barely visible and then only because there was nothing to cast it. It moved like leaves in a breeze, and whispered again, telling the King what he must do.

The next day the King announced that his destined bride ruled over a kingdom across the sea, and he was away to woo or war, as needed. He called twenty-two willing men into a brigade, although they had no weapons. One, a fisherman, agreed to bear him over the water. He hoisted a red sail, on it a golden sun with three flaming arms. When the King arrived over the sea it was under a gleaming moon. No angry knights met them on the shore, nor as the band approached the castle on the hill, surely where the Queen must be. A bright blue river ringed the castle, but the drawbridge was down and the portcullis up. The King and his men crossed the boundary and entered.

The Queen was seated on a throne of gold so pale it was nearly white, a gleaming crown of the same material on her head. Twenty-two ladies attended her. None moved or spoke as the brigade fell back and the King approached alone. He called to her,

"Moon-queen, I have been told there's husbandry in heaven, if you will take me."

The Queen gazed deep, her face calm and still. "King of the Sun," her voice was dipped low and long as a owl's, "I will submit to thee."

There was a celebration for thirty-three days among the two kingdoms and their people. The twenty-two men of the King's Brigade were raised to high rank, and by happenstance each married one of the Queen's ladies during the festivities. A silver moon was added to encircle the King's three-tounged sun, and the fisherman's sail was hoisted as the flag of the newly joined kingdom. A site was chosen for a new castle of molten gold and dripping silver, and there a princess was born with deep red hair and moon white skin.

And they lived happily ever after.

That was cute little story, you think, closing the book and yawning. The fire is nearly out, and your bowl is empty. You look around for Maggie, but she's no where to be found. You place The Synthetic Princess back on the shelf, put your bowl on the front desk, and head up the stairs. You catch a glimpse of a full moon out of the window before falling asleep in your clothes, barely making it under the covers.

Later, a sound drifts to you like petals falling on the ground in a lover's path. You follow, down the stairs, and through the plain door near the potted plant. You go through, and find that the petals lead to two small, hinged wooden doors angling out of the ground. A cellar. You continue down and hear the sound, whispers, soft and implacable. As you go down they grow louder, although you can never quite make out the words. Red Maggie stands on a dirt floor, barefoot, in a whisp of a nightgown. You hesitate on the stair but she does not turn. You see thrown shadows around the room, and realize that the ring you traded is being held on top of a pedestal, in a way that catches the rushing moonlight. The shadows gather and form, you think, into the shape of tall man, broad shouldered, with hair curling around his ears and over his eyes. He holds a glass that makes you think of the word goblet. Some kind of plant seems to wind out of the shadows, around the goblet and simultaneously down to the ground toward Maggie. You fancy that the reach is eager but hesitant, like leaning in for a first kiss.

Maggie holds a wine glass with reddish pink liquid up to the figure. The man holds his goblet in turn. A dark tendril makes a jump toward Maggie, twining up her leg, over her shoulder, and down her arm. Maggie holds her arm up and her empty hand open palm up. A sharp leaf of shadow slices and she does not flinch. She turns her palm over the man's goblet, exuding a viscous, golden drop of blood before adding a drop to her own glass. The air smells like honey and rust. Maggie holds up her dripping palm up to the shadow, as if in greeting or goodbye, curling her fingers over the wound and drinking deep from her glass. The man drinks down his goblet, holding his other hand out to Maggie as if asking her to take it, and knowing that she can't. Slowly, the moon moves, and the shadows disperse. Only then does Maggie turn, completely unsurprised to see you on the stairs.

She tells you without a hitch in her dark voice, "When you start out perfect there's nowhere to go but down."

You wake with a gasp, sun streaming through your window. A dream, a dream, obviously. Despite how active your imagine was during the night, you feel amazing. You head down the stairs, looking to say goodbye to Maggie, but she's not at the desk. You think of leaving her a thank-you note but the only thing you could write on is one of the books, and anyway you don't have a pen. You step out of the Red Berry Inn and on to Quicksilver's main street. Time to figure out what to do next.