Prologue
I’m sure you all know who I am. Or you think you do, anyway.
You think I’m Hamlet’s tragic girlfriend, who drowned herself in the river after he rejected her. Or you think I’m a madwoman who lost her mind and her life after her father’s death. Or you think I’m a silly, naive little girl who never knew what was good for her.
That’s what everyone seems to think—because they’ve only ever heard one version of my story.
And it’s not even the real one.
We’ve got Shakespeare to thank for that—you know how he loves tragedies. If there’s something that can go wrong in a story, Shakespeare will find a way to make it go wrong. And a sure way to make something go wrong is to put Hamlet in charge of making an important decision. That boy can’t even decide what kind of jam he wants on his toast—good luck having him decide how to avenge his father’s murder.
Obviously, the father in question knew all about Hamlet’s indecisiveness—it’s not like it’s hard to notice. But as Shakespeare tells it, the ghost of Hamlet’s father tasked Hamlet with avenging his death . . . and we all know how that went. Pretty much everyone died in the end.
I wonder if anyone thought to ask, in these 400 years since Shakespeare rewrote my story: how would things have turned out if the ghost had entrusted someone different with the task? What if he’d chosen the quiet, overlooked girlfriend, who no one would suspect of anything? Because that’s what really happened.
And I won’t say everyone lived happily ever after, but at least there were several players left standing at the final curtain.
Chapter 1
Wind howled outside my window, jolting me awake.
I hadn’t gotten a decent night of sleep in over a month—and even when I’d managed to drift off, my dreams were filled with thoughts and visions of King Hamlet’s death. The tragedy that had befallen Denmark left me feeling horrified and shaken, and I couldn’t escape it. No one at Elsinore Castle could.
I sighed and pushed off my blankets. There was no point trying to sleep any more—I just needed to get out of my stuffy room. Maybe in the frigid night, I could look into the mountains and forget.
The stone was cold on my bare feet as I tiptoed up the familiar spiral staircase. I’d been up here more times than I could count—no matter how much was on my mind, standing alone in the night air always calmed me. The battlements seemed like the only private place at Elsinore, and I felt my tense shoulders relax as I walked over to the low stone wall where I always stood.
My thoughts swirled in my mind, and I whispered them aloud to the crescent moon.
“How could this have happened? How can he just be gone?”
“What about our rides through the forest? What about our birdwatching in the garden? Now . . . I’ll never get to do those things with him again.”
“And why, why is Hamlet avoiding me? Why now, when we need each other most?”
I closed my eyes and breathed in the cool night air. When I opened them, the pain of my thoughts had eased slightly, but I wasn’t ready to go back to bed yet. Just a few more minutes of silence.
“Ophelia . . .”
It sounded like a whisper of wind calling my name, and I looked up with a start, my fingers clenching the wall. Being out here alone in the dark never scared me, so why was I suddenly hearing things?
Or was I?
My breath caught as I saw a shimmering shadow making its way toward me across the battlements, pale blue against the dark sky. Full of an anticipation and fear that I didn’t quite understand, I took a shaky, involuntary step back. Somehow I knew this shape wasn’t just a cloud of mist.
As it got closer, it seemed to take the form of a person—but before I could tell for sure, the midnight bell chimed and the eerie shape disappeared.
The whole next day, I was tense and on edge, thoughts of the misty form haunting me even in the sunlight. But I also found myself filled with a desperate urge to know what it had been, and that urge only grew throughout the day.
I knew that any reasonable person would just avoid going back up there after what I had seen, but not me. I was too curious to resist. So here I was the next night, creeping up to the battlements again, both terrified and somewhat excited. What had I seen? And was there a possibility it would appear again? I stood in the exact same spot as before, hardly daring to breathe.
Minutes passed, and the battlements were still silent. Had I just imagined it? I stared fixedly at the spot where it had appeared, looking for any sign of the mysterious shape. I’m being ridiculous. Ghosts aren’t real.
I stepped away from the wall and headed back toward the stairs. There was no point waiting for something that wouldn’t come, and I had been naive to think the figure was more than a figment of my imagination. But just as I put my foot on the first step, I saw a blue glow out of the corner of my eye.
I whirled around, heart beating fast.
The shimmer was much brighter than it had been last night, and I watched in awe as it took shape. It definitely looked like a person this time. And then as it approached me, I recognized it.
I blinked in shock. I’d devoured books about supernatural creatures when I was younger, before I’d realized they were just made up. Or so I thought, anyway.
But now I was positive that I was staring at a real-life ghost . . . and not the ghost of just anyone.
“Your Majesty?” I choked out.
“Ophelia.” The ghost’s voice was deep and commanding, just like it had been in life. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. If anything, King Hamlet looked more magnificent than ever before, wreathed in blue light, glowing against the dark sky. He stepped toward me. “I have been waiting for you.”
Waiting for me?
I breathed in, then out, and said in a voice that shook only slightly, “Why?”
“I have chosen you. Ophelia, you must avenge my foul and villainous murder.”
I stood there motionless for a while, unable to speak, mind reeling. Murder? Who would have murdered Denmark’s beloved king? He couldn’t be right . . .
. . . Could he?
I must have somehow spoken aloud—or maybe he read my mind—because the former king nodded gravely. “The people of Denmark believe I was killed by a serpent’s bite while I napped in my garden.”
Yes . . . that was what we had been told. Was he saying it was a lie?
“Part of the story is true.”
Were my thoughts so obvious?
“But there is so much more.” He shook his head, watching me intently. “Indeed, I was sleeping in my orchard as I often do in the afternoon, to get a small respite from the trials of the day. But that is where the story’s truth ends.
“Ophelia, the serpent that murdered your king now wears his crown.”
He paused to let this sink in—and it was a good thing he did, because it took me several moments to register his words. Murdered? Serpents? The murderer now wore his crown?
Claudius?
“Yes. My brother, the playfellow of my younger years and the man I thought was a trusted friend to the end of my life.” The ghost’s face darkened. “I was wrong about him. Claudius is the power-hungry serpent who killed me, and I need you to avenge his heinous act.”
“Why me?” I had no idea why I was asking that question, of all things, but I didn’t know what else to say. “Why not someone else? Why not Hamlet? Shouldn’t your son be the one to avenge his father’s . . .” I found myself unable to say the horrible word.
“No. I love and trust my son, but I cannot ask this of him. I have foreseen that if Hamlet attempts this task, a great tragedy will rip Elsinore apart. But I am trusting you, Ophelia. In all of Elsinore’s court, I believe you are the only one with the cleverness needed to avenge my wicked murder.”
“I promise I will not let you down.” My words were cautious—I knew exactly what I was agreeing to. He wanted me to kill the king, a possibility that was awful and unfathomable to me.
But what other choice did I have? King Hamlet was trusting me with the burden of the truth, and I couldn’t exactly refuse.
“Ophelia, you must not tell Hamlet what I have told you.”
The ghost’s sharp words startled me, but I nodded immediately. I had figured as much . . . and I would only realize later how hard it would be to keep that promise.
Then the midnight bell chimed, and the ghost began to fade away once more. He looked right into my eyes before he disappeared completely, and his last words were faint but powerful.
“Adieu, adieu, Ophelia. Remember me.”
Art: Ophelia, by HM1505 (Deviantart)