It's been two and a half hours, at least. The sun is directly overhead as you plod through the maze. Two and a half hours of turning left and right, finding dead ends, backtracking, looking for anything that can be considered a landmark. You've already listed the root that tripped you yesterday as one, and so far the only other extraordinary thing was a thick branch twisted in the shape of a question mark.
You've practically filled your paper to the edges, which means you'll need to head back soon for more pages, and a brief rest. You try to control your frustration at the foot-high platforms you've been forced to wear. If it weren't for them you would have gotten this far in only half the time. Now you're reduced to careful steps, struggling to keep your balance in a body much weaker, much shorter, much slower when it comes to reflexes.
Okay, you admit, you weren't forced to wear these boots. But they were all you had. You definitely didn't want to walk barefoot on the worm-infested grass and with roots sprouting up to prick your feet. You'd probably be just as slow making sure you didn't injure yourself each time you took a step.
Finally, you reach another dead-end and decide to take a mid-day break. You're getting a little hungry, as all this walking has taken a lot out of your young body, and your stomach is still upset at you for eating almost nothing yesterday. It takes you another half-hour to make your way back to the courtyard, by which time you are famished, hot, and exhausted. The sun beats down unsympathetically as you shuffle up to the apple tree and reach for an apple. There aren't too many within reach now. You take all three of the apples you can get from your height, actually thankful for once for your platforms.
Once inside the house you wipe off your heels and plop down in the plush study chair. As you bite into the first one, you take out a fresh sheet of paper and begin transcribing your latest map to make it cleaner, and to match up with yesterday's.
After your snack you go to the second-floor bathroom. As you wash your hands, you notice how young they look. So small and delicate. Your youthful face appears innocent, and yet sad and humiliated. You look as pale as ever, except for your increasingly lush cheeks. It's looking fairly silly now, almost like gray paint has been applied to your skin. But your dark eyes reflect the depression you've been trying so hard to fend off. You don't care that your hair's curls are getting even more pronounced. They truly can be called curls now, and their gathering shortens your hair up above your knees. As it bunches up it's beginning to expand outward, becoming almost as wide as your dress.
Where will it stop? When will you stop getting younger? When will your skin stop paling? When will you be free of this accursed existence?
As soon as you beat the maze.
* * *
Three more hours under the warm sun and your skin doesn't tan. You're not even getting sunburned. The two pieces of paper you carry with you are nearly full of twists and turns. How big is this maze, you wonder? Is there even an end? Your feet ache and your legs throb. You wipe sweat from your brow and your arm warmers soak it up just like they've been soaking up the sweat from your arms. You peel them off and throw them angrily on the ground, but the relief is only momentary as your gray arms soak up the sun's rays directly and continue to sweat.
After another hour you start making your way back to the house. You're pretty sure you've walked some of these corridors before, on one of your two previous excursions, and when you get back to the house you'll be able to compare the maps. You reach the point where you marked the arm warmers you unceremoniously discarded and are not surprised to see they've disappeared. They're probably waiting for you, cleaned and dried, back in the third floor bedroom closet.
You reach the house just as the sun's rays remove themselves from the very top of the mansion's roof. The sky is a dark blue and the birds have stopped chirping. Inside, you toss the maps on the desk and proceed to the kitchen for dinner. An incredible smell greets your nose. You follow it to the oven, and upon opening it you find a roasted turkey, fully prepared and still warm from baking.
You don't care what it was going to do to you. You were starving, and so far nothing this house has done to you was totally preventing you from escaping through the maze. You remember your vow to get out, no matter what form you had, and you gingerly remove the turkey with pot holders you see on the counter next to the stove.
You cart the heavy foul to the table across the kitchen. It seems everything has been prepared for you this time. A plate, silverware, glass of water and side dishes are waiting for you to sit down and eat. A folded piece of paper stands like a tent on the empty plate. You put down the turkey and open the note.
"For All Your Hard Work."
You look around, not expecting to see anyone or anything out of the ordinary, but still hoping you could at least talk to somebody. Was there really a person or persons living here, staying out of your way, treating you like an experiment? Was the house doing it all by itself? How did it know English? Was it lonely?
You don't know how your thoughts landed on that question, but now that you had asked it, you begin to seriously wonder about the motivations a magical mansion would have to turn you into a strange eight-year-old goth. It's a mystery you continue to ponder as you wolf down the delicious meal.
Afterward you're feeling very full, and very satisfied. You hadn't been able to finish the whole turkey, of course, but you put a sizable dent in its roasted corpse. You're quite tired now, and decide to put off transcribing the maps in the study until tomorrow morning.
You decide not to take a bath and not to sleep in the third floor bedroom. They're just so far away, and you barely have the energy to walk in a straight line, much less up two flights of stairs. You shuffle in your platforms across the hardwood floors of the main hall. You lean into the living room door as you push it open and your eyes gaze wearily on one of the large couches. You undo your belt ribbon and boot buckles, stripping naked except for your panties, and lie down on the soft cushions. Your small body fits quite well on the couch as if it were a twin mattress, and before you know it you've slipped once more into the realm of dreams.