Red Wolf

by Rachel Vincent

  “This”—she gestured with one hand at the two dead goblins—“is exactly why I taught you to throw a hatchet, Adele.”

  Of course recreational hatchet throwing was really guardian training, just as her bedtime stories were actually instructional.

  Did learning to knead dough, darn socks, and churn butter somehow also teach me to kill something?

  “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll throw the hatchet.”

  My mother took my chin in one hand and smiled at me. “You did a great job. It was your first goblin kill, and it was a complete success. Keep that in mind when you feel critical of your effort.” She let me go and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “And your victory was unaided.”

  “Because you only stood there and watched. Please tell me you would have pitched in, if I’d needed it.”

  She threw her cloak over her shoulders with a dramatic swirling motion that seemed born of much practice. “Of course. My goal is to train you, not to get you killed. Though it would be in everyone’s best interest if you were fairly self-sufficient in the dark wood before Madame Bernard takes over your training.”

  “Why would she do that? If I am to marry Maxime”—and I still had no intention of doing that—“why can’t the wedding wait until I am fully trained?”

  “Because that will likely take years, during which Ashborne will have only one guardian, while Oakvale has three. They need you, Adele.” My mother bent to put on her shoes. “That’s the entire reason you were betrothed.”

  “I am to be married to a man I’ve never met entirely because another village needs the protection of a woman they would burn as a witch, if they were privy to the details?”

  “Precisely. It is a noble calling, not an easy one, Adele.”

  “Perhaps, if people are so eager to burn the women who would protect them, they do not deserve that protection.”

  She frowned as she slid her hatchet into its loop on her belt. “Grainger is among those people. As are Elena and Simon. Do they not deserve your protection?”

  “Of course they do. But I cannot believe any of them would burn me for a witch, if they knew the truth. They are my friends.” Though Grainger was much more than that.

  “They would burn you, Adele. And the flip side of that coin is that if any of them were a threat to the village, you would take the necessary action, even if it broke your heart. That is the mission.”

  “They aren’t a threat to the village.”

  “But someday they could become one. Just like your father did. And if that happens, you will do what needs to be done. As I did.”

  A sick feeling churned in my gut as the bitter reality of my new responsibility truly sank in. “I might be asked to kill anyone.”

  “That isn’t likely. But it is certainly possible.” My mother turned away, hiding her grief from me. “I know that better than anyone.”

  “So then, what am I supposed to do? Isolate myself, like you do? Reject friendship? Refuse love, because someday I may lose it?”

  She turned to face me again, frowning. “I’m not—”

  “You have no close friends, and you push Monsieur Martel away at every turn.”

  “Adele, I had love, and you will too.” She sighed. “But what I had with your father would never be possible with Monsieur Martel. I cannot trust him like I trusted your papa.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Another sigh. “You don’t have to isolate yourself, Adele. But you do have to be prepared to make hard choices. And to make them quickly, with the greater good in mind.” With that, she took off through the forest, without waiting to be sure I would follow. Which, of course, I did.

  For a while, we walked in silence, listening to the sounds from the woods. On alert for prey. Then she spoke again, softly. Without turning. “I understand how difficult it will be for you to give Maxime a chance.”

  “How can you possibly—”

  She stopped and spun to face me so abruptly that I nearly collided with her. “Why do you think it is that Monsieur Martel pursues me so ardently?”

  I shrugged. “Because the blacksmith has three children and no wife.” And because my mother was beautiful enough to make him disregard rumors of a Duval curse. “He thinks that wedding you would solve all of his problems, as well as warm the empty side of his bed.” The very thought of which angered me on my father’s behalf, despite the fact that he’d been gone for so long I could hardly remember the shape of his features, most days.

  Despite the fact that I’d just criticized my mother for isolating herself.

  “Adele!” My mother seemed more scandalized than a woman who’d stood naked in the forest minutes ago had any right to be. “Though I suppose that is part of it, the truth is that there are two other widows in the village as well as a handful of unmarried girls a year or two older than you who would fit the bill and be happy for a blacksmith’s income. Monsieur Martel pursues me because we were quite fond of each other, in our youth.”

  “You . . . you had a lover, before Papa?” I frowned at her, feeling like I was meeting my own mother for the first time.

  “Not a lover, really. But had he asked for my hand, I would have given it to him. Before I knew about my own betrothal.”

  “And did you accept Papa just like that? With no hesitance?”

  “Of course not. I’m not asking you to do that either. I’m asking you to give him a chance. Give Ashborne a chance to earn your service, with Maxime as their emissary.”

  I exhaled slowly. “I’ve already said that I would.”

  “Good. He’ll be coming soon with a merchant and will stay for a few weeks, to help with a carpentry project. During that time, I expect you to be true to your word.” Excitement sparkled in her eyes again, heralding a change of subject. “And now that that’s settled, it’s time for you to call forth your wolf form.” She reached forward and slid my hatchet free from its loop at my waist. “Before we patrol for the night, we’re going to clear out that goblin nest, and this time you’re going to be on four paws.”

  “How many are in a nest?” I asked as I reached back to loosen my own bodice.

  “The most I’ve ever seen is eight.”

  Which meant we’d only killed a quarter of them so far.

  My mother’s smile gleamed in a beam of moonlight as I sank onto my knees in a drift of dry foliage. “It’s going to be a long night, Adele. And I promise you’re going to love every second of it!”

  Ten

  “I dreamed you were gone,” Sofia said as a stream of milk hit the bucket clamped between my feet. She was supposed to be shoveling manure, but my sister had a way of delaying unpleasant chores for as long as I’d let her.

  My hand stilled on the cow’s warm udder. “You dreamed I died?”

  “No, that you left in the middle of the night. With Mama. I dreamed I woke up, and I was all alone. But then I fell asleep again, and when I woke up, you were both there. And you overslept, you lazy bones!”

  The tension in my arms eased, and I yawned as I continued milking. “You can’t accuse me of oversleeping unless you actually let me sleep.” Instead, she’d held my nose until I woke up gasping. And in the hour since, I’d built a fire in the bread oven, fetched water from the well, and begun the milking. “Keep shoveling, little goose,” I scolded, and she stuck her tongue out at me. “And if you wake up alone again, rest assured that you are dreaming. Go back to sleep, and everything will be fine in the morning.”

  Sofia sank her pitchfork into the hay on the other side of our small cowshed, but instead of lifting her load, she squeaked, and the long wooden handle hit the ground. “What’s that?” she asked, and I turned to see her pointing at something in the dark rear corner. “Adele, what’s happened?”

  I stood, taking the bucket with me so the cow couldn’t kick it over, and squinted into the dim corner, where I found several stray feathers suspended in a thick, drying puddle of . . . blood. My hand clenched around the bucket handle and I gasped. “So
fia, go count the hens.”

  But she only stared at me with wide eyes.

  “Go!”

  She jumped, startled, then darted out of the small shed and across our narrow yard to the dome of mud and straw where our hens roosted, when they weren’t pecking around in the dirt for bugs and dropped bits of grain. We were supposed to have four hens, at the moment, but—

  “Two in the yard, and one in here,” Sofia called out. “One’s missing! The new fat one, from Monsieur Laurent!” She raced back into the cowshed, face flushed from the cold. “Is there another fox? Remember the one that ate the Girards’ chicks last summer?”

  “Yes, Grainger mentioned one had been spotted in town. Here. Finish milking for me.” I tried to hand Sofia the bucket, but she backed away from me.

  “That’s your chore!”

  “Don’t be a brat. I’ll be right back.” I shoved the bucket at her, and she took it because even at eight years old, she knew better than to spill milk.

  I was on my way into the house to tell my mother about the dead hen when Grainger called my name. I looked up to see him headed across the village square toward me. “No patrol today?” I said in greeting.

  He was wearing his everyday tunic and didn’t have his sword.

  “I’ll be working at the sawmill today and tomorrow. I break for lunch at noon, in case you were wondering.”

  “As it happens, I was wondering!” I said with a smile. “I could bring bread and some vegetable stew, if you’d like to dine with me.”

  His smile warmed me from the inside. “I would be delighted.”

  “Though . . .” I frowned, feigning hesitation. “People might start to talk, Monsieur Colbert.”

  His smile widened and his gaze found my mouth, where it hung as if it were caught. “I certainly hope so.”

  Warmth gathered in my cheeks. What was I doing? I’d just promised my mother that I would give another boy a chance to win my heart. But did that mean I could no longer spend time with Grainger? What would I tell him about this Maxime, when he arrived?

  “We have a fox,” I blurted out, ruining the moment with my own nerves, as the complicated consequences of my promise to my mother suddenly became clear.

  Grainger laughed. “An unusual pet. Whatever will you call it?”

  “I’ll call it the lining of my new shoes, if you’ll be so kind as to dispense with it for me.” Foxes rarely ventured into the village proper, because of the abundance of vegetation and rodents skittering through the fields on the edge of town, but they were the occasional nuisance. Though they usually stole eggs, this particular fox’s offense was much more serious. “It ate our new hen overnight.”

  “Oh.” His teasing smile faded. “I will keep an eye out. It’s probably the same one Madame Girard spotted the other day.”

  “Thank you. I—”

  “Sofia!” a young voice called, and I turned to see Jeanne Paget racing across the village square. She skidded for a moment on a frozen puddle, her hair flying out behind her. “There’s a wagon!” she shouted in my direction as my sister came rushing through the alley from behind our cottage. “A merchant! It just emerged from the dark wood on the west side of the village,” she added, stumbling to a stop next to my sister.

  That was the second merchant in three days, and the fact that this one arrived intact likely meant that my grandmother had been protecting it.

  Because my mother had told her to expect it.

  My heart began to thump beneath my breastbone.

  “Go and tell your mother,” I said, and Jeanne nodded, then raced off toward the thatcher’s cottage. “You too,” I said with a glance at Sofia. “If we’re lucky, he’ll have honey.” We were nearly out after making Monsieur Laurent’s apple tart.

  Sofia raced through the door of our cottage just as the rattle of wagon wheels drew my attention to the other end of the square. Grainger and I turned as the merchant rolled into view. His wagon was a simple, uncovered four-wheeled cart, piled high with barrels and baskets and pulled by an ox. The merchant himself walked alongside the beast of burden, guiding him around the frozen puddles and deep ruts in the dirt path.

  “He must be from Oldefort,” Grainger said, and that made sense, because Oldefort was the closest village to ours. “Maybe he came looking for Tom and his parents. Maybe he can tell us Tom’s real name.”

  I shook my head. “It hasn’t been long enough yet for them to be missed. For help to be sent.”

  The merchant stopped in the middle of the square, where he pulled something from his pocket to feed the ox, then he exhaled in obvious relief as he began blowing out the candles burning in the six lanterns hanging from all sides of his cart. The cause of his relief was obvious: he’d made it through the dark wood, armed only with firelight and—

  A boy hopped off the back of the cart and tossed a large, oddly bulging leather rucksack over his shoulder. He blew out the last lamp for the merchant and patted the ox almost affectionately. Then he turned, scanning what he could see of our little village. His focus lingered on my hair and his gaze met mine.

  He smiled as if he knew me.

  “Ashborne,” I whispered, and Grainger turned to me with a confused look.

  “What?”

  “The merchant isn’t from Oldefort. He’s from Ashborne.” As was the boy—the young man—who’d hitched a ride.

  “How do you know?”

  I looked up at Grainger, pointedly ignoring the new arrival. “Don’t you have to get to the sawmill?”

  “Yes. Of course. Though I hate to miss the excitement.”

  Based on the number of men and women already converging on the visiting merchant carrying bundles of wool and dishes of butter—one rolling a barrel of ale—the rest of the village shared his sentiment.

  “I’m sure he’ll stay overnight, at least,” I assured Grainger.

  “You’re right. I’ll see you at lunch.” He squeezed my fingers for a moment, then he took off toward the Laurents’ sawmill on the edge of town, where half of the village men would already be hard at work.

  The young man holding the rucksack watched him go, his expression inscrutable, then his focus found me again.

  I turned and headed toward my cottage, and I nearly ran right into my mother on her way out, carrying several fragrant bundles wrapped in clean nettlecloth. “Chère, will you please grab the cheese from the shelf? And that basket of dried figs.”

  “I . . .” I’d been planning to finish cleaning the cowshed for Sofia. Because I’d rather occupy myself with a pitchfork full of manure than go meet the boy who’d come all the way from Ashborne to ruin my life.

  “Adele,” my mother whispered fiercely. “You promised.”

  “What did she promise?” Sofia asked, coming out of the cottage with a wooden crock of butter in her arms.

  Mama gave me a look. “To help carry our wares.”

  “This is the last of our cheese,” I pointed out as I reluctantly headed inside and pulled it from the shelf.

  “We can make more,” she insisted. “Assuming the merchant is even in the market for cheese.” But even if he wasn’t, he would buy ours. Mama made the best cheese in Oakvale.

  I hooked my arm beneath the handle of the fig basket and followed my mother and sister into the village square, where we joined the crowd already gathered around the merchant’s cart—a mid-winter surprise, unexpected by everyone but us.

  “I’ll take that.” Mama shifted her burden into one arm and took the cheese from me. “And you can set the basket down.”

  Before I could ask why she suddenly no longer needed my help, I became aware of a presence behind me. “Madame Duval?” a deep voice said, and I whirled around, so startled I almost kicked over the fig basket.

  My mother turned a brilliant smile on the dark-haired boy with the bulging rucksack. “You must be Maxime Bernard.”

  “Max,” he insisted, while I stared at the mud beneath my feet, trying to cool the flames burning in my cheeks. Trying to deny
a surprising urge to lift my head and take a good look at the man my parents intended for me to marry. To see if he was as handsome up close as he’d appeared from across the square.

  Not that that would sway me one single bit . . .

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame,” he continued. “You are exactly as my mother described you. Though I wasn’t expecting this delightful little dove.” He reached out and ruffled my sister’s hair, and she beamed up at him as if he were her new best friend.

  “This is Sofia,” my mother said. “And this”—her gaze landed on me with an expectant weight—“is my oldest daughter. Adele.”

  “Adele.” The boy held his hand out for mine, and when I didn’t take it, he only gave me a crooked smile, which triggered the appearance of a single dimple in his right cheek. “It is my greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Well, that felt like a bit much.

  “Monsieur Bernard,” I said with a noncommittal nod, and to his credit, his smile didn’t falter at my less than enthusiastic greeting.

  From the gathered crowd, Elena lifted one eyebrow at me over the basket full of folded linen she held, waiting for her turn to haggle with the merchant. I could only give her a shrug in reply, well aware that half the village was watching my interaction with the newcomer.

  “I’m Max,” he said, as if he hadn’t just introduced himself to my mother. “I’ve come from Ashborne to aid your carpenter with a project.”

  Yes, that was why he’d come.

  “Well then, I suppose you’ll want to go meet Monsieur Girard. He’s just down that path, to the right.” I pointed, in order to be hospitable and helpful. And to hurry him along.

  “Oh, I don’t think he’ll be expecting me just yet.” Max winked at me. He actually winked! Then his voice dropped into a faux conspiratorial whisper. “He likely doesn’t even know I’m in town yet.”

  “In that case, Adele, why don’t you show Max around the village?” My mother’s voice flowed thick and sweet like honey, and I scowled at her, begging her silently not to throw me at him quite so obviously.