The Labyrinth

He stops at a red door riddled with green vines, which Pink blossoms sprout from. I see Emily reach a curious finger towards one.

I grab her wrist—they seem too beautiful to be safe.

He takes the rusting ornate handle and clears his throat awkwardly. He turns it and pushes; the vines retract towards the ceiling. I follow them cautiously as they slither above our heads and then rest so that the blooms look down on us innocently.

He leads us into a much dimmer room, but the change from the harsh lighting is welcoming. Five beds stand along each wall—golden bed frames that wind into ornate head boards, and red and purple duvets decorated with designs of golden thread. Beside each bed is a dark wooden nightstand with a lit candelabra. In front of the nightstands are fur rugs, and there’s a sparkling fire at the end of the aisle between the beds.

There is no strange light on the ceiling here—only cold looking stone. The warmth pervades me, spreading through my body like liquid cough medicine, putting me into a sleepy trance.

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