Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
“Maybe I can make a ladder and find a way out through the roof.”
“You weigh three times more than that table,” I pointed out, biting back a laugh as he balanced one foot on the wobbly chair.
“I’m agile,” he replied.
“You’re an orc.”
He fell, crashing to the floor.
And this morning? He’s rambling about stacked furniture and talking to the roots.
“You and I both know she doesn’t belong here,” he mutters, crouched in front of the gnarled floor where my hair merges with the wood.
He’s dressed in his leather pants and the shirt I stitched back together, now a charming blend of rugged brown fabric and dainty flower print. And somehow, he still looks edible.
“You’re bargaining with sentient hair now?” I ask, arms crossed.
He looks up, unbothered. “It’s worth a shot.”
“Did it talk back?”
“It twitched.”
“That might’ve been me sneezing.”
He sighs and stands. “I’m running out of ideas.”
The kettle hisses on the stove, and Brannock crosses to make us both tea. He moves with surprising grace for someone so massive. I watch him lean against the wall as the water boils, arms crossed over his chest, foot braced casually behind him.
My breath catches.
He’s unfairly attractive. Tall and broad and scarred and green. He should be terrifying. But when he looks at me, he feels like safety.
I glance away, flustered, only to notice the roots curling along the base of the wall. They move slowly. Rhythmically.
Like breath.
Like…
“Pulsing,” I whisper.
Brannock shifts, looking guilty. His hand darts to the front of his pants. “Pardon?”
“The roots,” I say, already walking toward them. “They’re pulsing. Like a heartbeat.”
I kneel and press my hand against one thick coil of root. It twitches beneath my palm, alive and warm. Not like a plant. Not like something separate.
Like an extension of myself.
My other hand flies to my chest, fingers splayed over my sternum. I hold my breath… and feel it.
The thrum of my heartbeat matches the pulse in the root.
“They're synced with me,” I breathe. “My hair... It’s not just connected to the tower. It is the tower. The roots are growing from me.”
Brannock crouches beside the root, frowning. “I’ve never seen magic like this.”
I have. Bits and pieces. Little clues I didn’t want to fit together. The way my hair tangles when I’m upset. How the roots swell and writhe when I’m lonely. The way the floorboards creak and tremble when I cry.
All this time…
“Oh, gods,” I whisper. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
Chapter 8
Rapunzel
I pace, arms wrapped tight around myself as I piece everything together. A thousand little memories cascade through me. Every time I felt tired for no reason. Every day I sat by the window, listless and aching. Every time Gothel told me it was normal, that magic was supposed to feel like that. All the questions she never answered and the distractions she put in front of me.
“I swallowed every one of her lies,” I whisper. “I should’ve asked more questions. I knew I was tethered, but—” I reach out with a trembling hand and touch the wall. “This is my prison. My hair is the anchor. The roots are the shackles. And my loneliness is the lock. This whole tower… It’s not a building. It’s a body. Mine.”
Dear gods, who am I? What am I?
Brannock steps toward me. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have,” I say fiercely. “I should’ve questioned it. I felt the pull. Saw the signs. But I believed her… believed when she said she was protecting me. Keeping me safe. That she chose me. That I was loved.” I start pacing again. “I have to leave. I have to cut my hair. Burn it. Anything.”
Brannock reaches for me as I pass. His arms come around me, strong and warm, and I collapse against his chest, tears pouring down my face.
“We’ll find a way out, Rapunzel,” he promises, tilting my face up and brushing away my tears with his enormous thumbs. “Together.”
“Will we?” I ask, desperately wanting to believe him, but how can I? My body is a temple, imprisoning me. And the person who swore she was protecting me likely whispered my pain into existence.
“On my life, I swear it,” he vows, and I almost believe him. “When will Gothel come?”
“Three more days.”
He nods. “We need to be prepared. She won’t be expecting me. We need a plan,” he says, moving away, all steely resolve now. “If she climbs in, I want you behind me. If she stays below, we control the window.”
“Control the window,” I echo dryly, gesturing at the living wall of hair that does whatever it wants. “By all means.”
“First, we clear the floor.” He starts shifting furniture: table to the wall, chair under the mirror, my basket tucked behind the stove. He moves like a general going into battle but thinks like a strategist, making paths, testing angles, checking for places where roots could burst through. I trail after him with a broom, mostly for moral support.