Posted in Posted by Martha Finley

  Drip.....drip.....drip, drip, drip..... fell the water from the roof of the library. A hole, no larger then a grown human's thumb, allowed the tiny droplets from outside to sneak their wet selves inside. The dripping sound it made began to drive the red headed girl, who was sitting by a little candlelit table , crazy. Perhaps even insane. She grimaced as it kept repeating, only two feet from where she now was reading.

  Steadily turning the brown books leafy page, yellow and old from time, her finger slipped. Down it went, slicing against the edge of the page, and causing a horrible pain to reach her nerves.

  "Ow!" she yelped in distress. Blood droplets, as big as the rain droplets were, slid down her finger and onto the wooden oak desk. Drip, drip, drip.

 The nearest piece of cloth to her was the brown dress she wore. She wrapped her finger in the folds of the scratchy material, pressing it hard to stop the red stream.

  She held it that way while standing up. With no free hand, she could not close the book that layed on the table. Rushing out of the room,she ran down some back wooden stairs, up some stone stairs, and into the warmth of the bustling castle kitchen.

  Not to alarm anyone, she walked up slowly to her friend Breeanne. Her thin white hand reached out to touch the sleeve of the brown hair girl, who was stirring some stew in a large pot by the spitting fire. It's flames caused her face to glow the same orange color, and her face was covered in sweat. But though she looked to be suffering, a smile remained on her lips, and she faithfully did her work.

  When the tug of her sleeve made her turn around, Valina, the red hair girl, held her finger up to show the wound.It was still gushing sticky red droplets. Breeanne hung the spoon on a peg hanging on the wall. She grabbed Valina's wrist, and pulled her out of the kitchen. No words were spoken, but Valina knew the exact place they were now heading to.

  In a quiet like voice, Breeanne called through a tiny stone door at the end of the hallway, staright from the kitchen.

  "Chess? Are you in there?" She opened the door, and dragged Valina behind.

  Valina began to tremble in fear."Now Breeanne, you know I despise the thought of having my skin sewn back together.....and I am sure it just needs someone to wrap it so my dress can stop turning from brown to red." She made a gesture to show the red stain in her dress.

  "Back here!" called a voice from further in the room. Sure enough, there sat Princess, or Chess as everyone called her as to not confuse her with the real Princess. Seeing the two figures step into the light where shesewed tiny vine designs on a silken white dress, she dropped her kneedle. Then shr saw the blood.

  "Oh dear!" she exclaimed." What ever has happened to poor Valina?" she smiled a mean little grin.

  Valina rolled her eyes, ignored 'Pin Prin', and waited for Breanne to speak.

  Breeanne spoke little, and now was no different from any time. She made her way to the scrap material pile, and bent down to look through. Ignoring the silk, despising the sack, she finally found a thick piece of material made of cotton. It looked like the material from a servants apron, and Valina smiled to herself while happily thinking of how funny it was that Chess had to sew servant's aprons and dresses. The same dresses that she wore.

  Breeanne asked Chess something, too quietly for Valina to hear what it was. Chess agreed, and sat down to return to her stitching.

  Breeanne placed the material around Valina's finger, making a bandage. The bleeding had stopped some, which relieved Valina.

   When finished tying a knot to hold it in place, Breeanne waved goodbye to Chess, then she waved goodbye to Valina. Smiling as she usually does, she moved back through the door, up the hall, and vanished into the kitchen.

  Not wanting to be left alone with Chess, Valina nodded to the other girl, as is required, then half ran through the door and shut it as loud as she could behind her. No matter how much Chess picked on her status, she would never give her the saisfaction that 'Pin Prin', a seamstress, was better then her.

  GOD bless,

Martha Finley