In the dim light of the candelabrums set into the walls around him, Lenard could just barely see the mortar between the rows of dirty dark bricks. There were thirty-two rows. Lenard knew. He’d been staring at the same walls for three days now. His eyesight had slowly adjusted to the dim light, but the fluttering candlelight played with his eyes and every so often, when he was bored and the woman was not questioning him at the moment, he’d recount them — again. He wasn’t ever certain there were thirty-two rows except for right after he’d finished counting them again. After the number of rows of red bricks had been once again secured in his mind, he’d turn his eyes to the wooden door — the only way out of the tiny room. He’d spend the next few hours (in between questioning sessions) trying to find pictures in the wooden grain of the door.
Besides the fact that he new there were thirty-two rows of bricks, he knew there were twenty planks of floorboards. There were twenty panels in the roof too — but they were running in the opposite direction of the floorboards.
The woman was here again. Agatha, Lenard thought her name was, but he didn’t really care. She didn’t use the door, she never did. Well, since the first time he saw her come through it. It was the only time he’d seen what was beyond his confinement; and it wasn’t very comforting. Ever since then, she just melted out of what seemed to be the deepest shadows — the ones in the corner along the same wall as the door, opposite the side of the door with the brass handle.
She stepped out from the semi-darkness and pulled back her hood — for effect as always. Lenard was getting bored with it. He had gasped the first time she’d done it, but since then he realized everything she did was for effect, and most were simple magic illusions. Like her multiple shades of grey hair and the long, oozing scar which ran from her temple to her jaw line. Her voice cracked as she asked, “Will you give it to me yet?”
Lenard shook his head. “If you want it so bad why don’t you take it?” he said as always with monotonous sarcasm.
“I think I just might try this time!” she said in a hissing voice now. He started as she leaped at him, claws appearing on the ends of her fingers. She grasped his chin and turned it so that his left ear was upraised — a single, teardrop earring laying gracefully from his ear onto his neck. The amber glow that was not a reflection of the candlelight shone from it and bounced back out of her piercing glare.
She reached for the earring with her other hand as Lenor scrambled to climb over his shackled hands behind him and put some space between him and the woman. “Get away you old witch!” he said, with some fear but more wisdom in his voice.
“No! I’ll have it this time, whether you’ll give it to me freely or not!” With that, she touched the fiery stone.
She let out a throaty hiss, and withdrew her hands quickly; but that was the only sign she made that the stone had burned her fingers. But Lenard had known it was going to do that, even before the stone had protested at being touched and scorched not only the woman’s hand but his neck as well where it touched him.
“Strike two,” he said spitting blood out of his mouth from where he’d bit his tongue to keep from yelping. He could still feel the bruise on his back from “strike one” on the first day he’d arrived in the red cell.
She laughed, her head shaking. “Oh, and what are you going to do on the third strike?” she mocked, holding one hand to her chest.
“Oh, it’s not what I’ll do,” he said simply, and turned his head to the left so that the woman couldn’t see the earring any more.
“Go away,” he said at the wall. She scowled at him, but was compelled to do as he ordered.
Three days later she came in through the door again. His jaw tightened, then he worked it left and right to relax it, and sat up straighter.
She had a knife with her; that was the first thing Lenard noticed. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked with humor.
“No,” she said, but put her knife to his throat any way. He felt her unlock his manacles, and seize his right wrist.
Hand tightly clenched around his wrist, she slid the knife away from his throat, and walked around him until he could see her. She crouched in front of him and placed his hand on the wooden floor, the blade now against his palm. “Take it out yourself,” she told him, her voice barely heard above the sputtering candles.
He looked straight into her eyes; they were at level with his because she was crouching, sandwiching his hand between the floor and the knife. “No,” he said equally quietly.
She slid the knife quickly across his hand, and a shallow red cut blossomed. He closed his eyes tightly, and, with clenched teeth, said, “Three.”
The earring on his left exploded, and wispy creatures with wings flew out of it. Five or so dove straight at the woman, and, passing right through her, laughed distantly like wind. She said, “Oh!” and fell over, not breathing.
The creatures swooped back to Lenard and stood on his arms and chest, he found he must have fallen backwards when the gem exploded. “Thank you,” he said weakly. The winged things looked at him fondly, and then dove into his freely bleeding hand. He looked at the wooden door, the only exit from his cage, feet from his body. His eyes blinked once, then remained open.