A. [There is more to this place than meets the eye, of that Caitlyn is sure. The mysterious prince hidden away in a crumbling, abandoned wing of the castle, his fiancé insisting that he must never be seen, an alleged curse... How could she sit idly in her bedroom or suffer through the stifling pleasantries of the ballroom or dining room - the exact sort of tedium she's spent her life trying to avoid - when she could be exploring and investigating instead.

The sun has long since set once Caitlyn sneaks into the northern wing. A furtive - and, she hopes, subtle - glance over her shoulder seems to confirm that no one is following her.

The beam of her torch is dim. Her best efforts to preserve the battery can only do so much when she's been in this world for such a long time. It's enough to see by, more or less, even though the cracks and crevices remain in shadow.]

Is anyone there?

[She feels the hair on the back of her neck prickle, the familiar sensation of not being alone, as she sweeps the beam of the torch around the room. Maybe someone followed her after all. Or perhaps someone was already here before she arrived.]

B. [It's not yet sundown, this time. But there's still more to be explored, more secrets to uncover, and Caitlyn is still avoiding the southern wing's rather unsettling veneer of politeness and frivolity. She's much happier here, in the decaying northern wing, investing.

She glances over at her companion before her eyes start moving over the room they're in, taking in the torn and moulding wallpaper, the shattered furniture, the soot gathered in heaps against the baseboards.]

It's awful in here. Why would anyone choose to live like this? [She can't understand ever wanting to hide herself in a place like this, no matter the circumstances. But whatever caused the prince to isolate himself in the northern wing, whether it was self-loathing or fear or sorrow or some other thing, it can't be easy, and there's more sympathy in her voice than anything.]

A. [The perfectly straight seams of Caitlyn's too-ornate clothes are disturbed only slightly by her fidgeting, her fingers tapping awkwardly against the edge of the table as she awaits the next course. She's regretting being here at all. She could have taken dinner in her room. Everything is too fast, too bright, too loud, and extraordinarily, hellishly boring.

If only the cutlery would stop singing.

She casts a rueful glance sideways at the person sitting next to her, her tight smile making it all too clear that she doesn't want to be here. A feeling only intensified when a plate is set in front of her with a single cupcake on it, topped with a swirl of red icing. A quick look around confirms that no one else has received a cupcake, let alone one with this particular shade of icing.]

E-excuse me. How d--

[She raises a hand to catch the attention of the servant who placed it in front of her, but they're already gone. She casts another glance sideways, and offers another, even more, awkward little smile to the person sitting next to her.]

B. [Don't open the door, no matter who you think is out there.]

How do they choose which diners to give black plates to, and who's doing it? There must be some method behind it. Even if diners are chosen random, there has to be a reason for handing the plates out at all.

[She's musing aloud, not entirely expecting the person she's holed up with in her bedroom to respond. Really, the only way to be certain is to interrogate the staff. Which would involve leaving.]

If I do go out there, what will happen?

[She's considering finding out, whether her companion really wants her to or not, when there suddenly comes a knock on the door.]

[Caitlyn kneels over the tracks, observing their depth, the length of the stride, the crumbled snow that's flaked off the edges of the prints and fallen in. There's fresh dirt in the prints, too, stained red like the dirt of the castle. She reaches down and picks up a pinch of it, bringing it to her nose. The same coppery, musty smell as the dirt in Netvor.]

This is from the castle.

[She's not accustomed to tracking humans. She's never needed to before. But she suddenly finds herself frustrated by her inability to look at print depth and stride length and make a precise estimate of the subject's weight and height. If only it were an elk.]

We should follow these tracks. See where they lead.