The Stepsister's Tale. Tracy Barrett

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       Prologue

      The house—it was too small to be called a palace—sat at the top of a hill, overlooking thick woods and a river. At a distance, it appeared to be the same as when Mamma was a girl: stately, welcoming, a place of parties and balls, where visitors came to spend long weeks, where Mamma and Papa had danced until dawn the night of their wedding. But once a traveler drew near, changes appeared. Holes gaped in the roof; some of the windows lacked glass, and most were bare of the curtains that would have softened their black emptiness. The few remaining shutters dangled unevenly and banged when a high wind blew.

      Inside, the grand stairway swept up in huge curves, gaps and broken boards making the going treacherous. Once upstairs, a curious visitor who tapped the breastplate of the suit of armor would raise twittering from the nests in the beams high above. The corridors were streaked with white bird droppings and were so dark that you never saw the faces in the portraits that hung crookedly on the walls, their frames riddled with wormholes, until you were almost upon them. And even then, they didn’t look back. Within their grimy outlines the faces of beautiful ladies and handsome gentlemen stared out blindly but still proudly at the few who passed by in the dim halls.

      And for many years, only two people had walked through those dark corridors: descendants of the proud women and men depicted in the portraits, the last of their line—Lady Margaret’s daughters, Jane and Maude Montjoy.