17th December (?)
I am never without servants, I don’t think. It seems there is always something being pressed into my hands, be it food or drink or warming furs, though I stopped being cold the moment I stepped into the faerie palace, which is how I knew for certain that I was sealed up in the enchantments that bind their world.
Naturally, I have made several attempts at escape. I try to be systematic about it, which is not easy when your mind is being constantly muddled by magic. But I cling to my coin at all times, which helps, as does writing in this journal.
First I tried simply walking through the gates—not because I thought it would be so simple, but out of a desire for thoroughness, to exhaust all possibilities. As soon as I did so, I found myself in my chamber again, and not only that but seated in a hot spring bath that had not been there before, scooped out of the floor in a series of broad steps paved in seashells. Two faerie women were seated beside me, one weaving strands of opalescent seaweed into my hair, which undulated like snakes, the other prattling on about arrogant bards teaching the snow to sing their songs, which it did now at all hours. My muscles were limp, as if I had been there a long time.
I tried asking my servants to take me into the mountains, or the forest— anywhere that wasn’t the palace. They never protested, but I have no recollection of them obeying me; it seemed that no sooner had I made the request than I found myself in a bath again, or at breakfast with the king while he merrily recounted his progress in making improvements to the palace.
The king sends a steady stream of craftspeople my way in preparation for our wedding. I was questioned about the menu by two harried Folk who smelled of cake and had icicles spiking their beards—whether I preferred, for instance, star-brewed wine or ale spiced with salt from the sea beneath the sea, and similar nonsensical queries.
I maintained my equanimity as best as I could, knowing that panic was the surest way of losing one’s mind in any faerie realm, but I admit that I lost patience a few times.
“I despise wine,” I snapped at one of the poor faerie chefs, who leaned back from me as if I’d breathed fire at him. “You will serve beer from barley that grows only during the new moon, which has been brewed together with the bones of singing fish fed a diet solely consisting of honey.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the faerie whispered over and over, bowing low, and went away weeping. I refused to speak to the dressmakers who swept into the room after he left and ordered them away before they could even take my measurements.
