flax-golden

princesses

My mother is thrilled when I get the position at the castle, though a mother’s pride is likely the only thrill that accompanies a position as a castle maid. Of course, she will tell her friends that I work at the castle and leave the maid part out entirely.

On my first day the head maid takes me on a tour and it is somewhat thrilling. The castle itself is grand and sprawling and I can see why they need such a large staff. The head maid tells me as we walk that I will be assigned to certain rooms and I will likely never see much of the rest of the castle again. I will rarely, if ever, see the king.

The courtyards are lush and green, dotted with fountains and sculptures, and around the edges there are strange large urns, each painted a bright, cheerful color.

What are those? I ask my guide, moving to point but she grabs my hand and shakes her head, looking over her shoulder before leaning to whisper in my ear.

That’s where he puts the princesses when he’s finished with them.

I start to smile, thinking it a joke, but her expression stays serious and somber as we walk by urn after urn, yellow and purple and pink.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

ingredients for love

I assembled all the proper pieces, divided them into cups and jars so I could stay organized. I took my time and waited for the glue to dry even when I got impatient.

I used glitter and beads and added feathers to give it hope, then I bound it in a rainbow of ribbons to keep it safe and warm.

When it was finished, my love was a bright, sparkling love to outshine any construction-paper Valentine.

It was fantastic.

But I did it wrong.

I forgot to weigh it down with hard, heavy things to make it stronger. To add a pinch of salt to bring out the sweetness. I made it fanciful instead of real.

I shall have to try again.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

the sheep know all your secrets

“They seem expensive,” I said to the pink-haired girl running the booth who looked like she should be somewhere other than a craft show, or at least selling something more punk than small fuzzy sheep.

“They’re actually on sale today,” she told me. “Normally they’re thirteen but I knocked them down to nine since it’s the last day and there are so many left.”

“Still seems high for a sheep that doesn’t do anything.”

“Oh, they do something,” she said, half-giggling and tucking her hair behind her ear while she leaned closer to explain. “Each sheep knows a secret, that’s why I have to paint each mouth with a little x, so they won’t tell until after they’re paid for.”

“What kind of secrets?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure she was either joking or flirting with me or both.

“Some of them know those deep dark past secrets you think no one else knows and others know future stuff like the name of your one true love or the day of the month your life will change, things like that but each one is different.”

I bought six sheep including the one that was staring at me because I only had enough cash for six and I still thought she was just flirting with me since she tucked her pink hair behind her ear three different times while she was wrapping them, but she turned me down when I asked if she wanted to get a cup of coffee or something.

Once I got home and figured out how to get the sheep to tell me their secrets, I wished I’d bought more of them.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

waiting for the light

I moved my chair so I can see the lamppost through the window.

I know I would probably be able to see the light from anywhere in the room if the lamp were lit, but I like having a direct view. It makes me feel more secure, somehow, to be able to glance up from a book and see it, stalwart. Still dark.

It’s really quite clever, a lamp that only lights when you’re near.

Now I can’t stop checking it, even though it’s been dark for so long.

If it turns on again, I don’t want to miss it.

In case someday, somehow, you come back.

I’ll have a warning.

I just hope it will give me enough time to run.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

advanced security

There are dozens, perhaps hundreds of magical cabinets kept within the vault. Since locks and spells can be broken, those who require more than the standard security measures are forced to be creative.

One of the most legendary cabinets is guarded by a passel of enchanted pigs.

Three of these pigs sing loudly and off-key when anyone approaches the cabinet. Another bites toes. Two pigs ask riddles that are mostly calculus-based, though each has both an obvious answer that is, in fact, wrong and a more complex correct solution. Pigs of the flying variety swoop down from the rafters like bats and strike with their hooves.

Were these individual challenges, they might be surmountable.

But all of the pigs attack simultaneously.

No one actually knows what obscure secrets or priceless treasures are kept within that particular cabinet, because its original owner is long dead and no one else has yet been able to overcome the pigs.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

luck

I don’t believe in luck anymore.

Bad or good.

I used to believe in pennies and four-leaf clovers and horseshoes and rabbit feet, spilt salt and broken mirrors and Friday the 13ths.

I even kept a jar of Luck on a shelf to save for a day when I needed it most, though in retrospect I probably should have found a bottle that distinguished itself as the good sort.

It worked, in a way, which was impressive considering how little I paid for it.

But I changed my mind.

It’s not that simple. It’s all tied up in choices and chances and paths taken regardless of what kinds of cats cross them. Luck can only get you so far, good or bad.

Though I still believe fortune favors the bold, no matter what they keep in their jars.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.