Red Wolf

by Rachel Vincent

  Startled, I nearly choked on air. Grainger was going to ask Max to help him build a cottage on his father’s land. Our cottage. Where he planned to live as my husband.

  Suddenly I felt as if night and day were about to collide and crush me between them.

  “I don’t think he’s up yet—” I began, but that assumption died when a single high, clear note rang from the cowshed, then fell into a familiar melody.

  Max was whistling the little tune he always seemed to be humming beneath his breath as we crossed the village toward the dark wood.

  “Come on, then.” Grainger took off toward the shed, and I hurried through the slushy, half-frozen mud after him, while my sister rushed ahead.

  “Max!” Sofia threw open the cowshed door. “We brought you breakfast!”

  Surprised by our entrance, Maxime spun around, holding a disk made of braided straw coiled around itself.

  “Breakfast,” Sofia repeated, pointing at the bowl I held. “What’s that?” Her gaze narrowed on the straw disk.

  “It’s an archery target,” Grainger told her.

  “That’s right.” Max looked uncomfortable for the first time since I’d met him. He’d been working on the target for several days, intending to take it to my grandmother’s clearing, where I could practice with my crossbow, safe from both beasts in the dark wood and prying eyes from the village.

  But obviously no one else in Oakvale was supposed to see his latest gift to me.

  “Are you an archer?” Grainger stepped forward to inspect the target, from which a short tail of straw rope still hung unsecured.

  “Not by trade. Though most men in Ashborne know how to handle a bow.”

  “A fletcher, then?” Grainger frowned, obviously trying to figure out why a fletcher would be assisting the village carpenter. And staying in our cowshed.

  “No. I was just . . . trying to keep busy.”

  “Here.” I held the bowl out to him, and Max set the target down so he could accept it, obviously eager for the change of subject.

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, I guess I’d best be off to the sawmill,” Grainger said, having evidently forgotten he was going to request Max’s help. “Adele, will you walk with me?”

  “I would, but I’m afraid the cow won’t wait. Unless my lovely little sister would be willing to milk her for me.”

  “I’m only lovely when she wants something from me,” Sofia stage-whispered to Max, who gave her a sympathetic smile. “If I milk the cow, will you let me help with Monsieur Beaumont’s gingerbread?”

  She would be willing to do one of my chores, in exchange for helping with another of my chores?

  I shrugged and heaved an exaggerated sigh, much to Grainger’s amusement. “Well, I suppose—”

  “Romy!” a familiar, high-pitched voice called out from a few cottages down. “Tom!” It was Jeanne Paget. “Romy! Where are you?”

  Sofia took off down the alley, the empty milk bucket swinging at her side, and I turned to follow her with both boys at my heels. We rounded our cottage to see the older Paget girl headed toward us, scanning the village square and the alleys between cottages as she shouted out for the two younger children.

  “Jeanne!” I called. “What’s wrong?”

  She scurried down the dirt path toward us. “Romy and Tom weren’t in the loft when I woke up this morning, and Papa told me to find them.”

  “How is Romy? Is she feeling better?” I asked.

  Jeanne shrugged. “She’s still running a fever during the day, but at night she feels better. Mama says her illness is ‘lingering,’ but I think she’s feigning sick because she’d rather play than sleep.”

  “Maybe Romy and Tom are playing hide-and-seek.” Sofia shoved the milk bucket at me. “I’ll help you find them!”

  “Fine. Go help Jeanne. But don’t go near the dark wood!” I shouted after them as the girls scampered down the dirt path, suddenly worried that, like me, Sofia could feel the eerie call of the forest. “Come back as soon as you’ve found them!”

  “Well, I should go, too,” Grainger said.

  “As should I.” Max handed me his empty bowl. “Monsieur Girard likes an early start to the day.”

  And with that, they each headed off in opposite directions, Max toward the carpenter’s and Grainger toward the sawmill, leaving me standing alone on the path between them, holding an empty bowl and a milk bucket.

  I spent the morning baking with my mother, sweltering in the heat from the oven, even with the front door standing open to provide relief. Max came back for lunch, and Sofia followed him through the door less than a minute later.

  “They’ve just disappeared,” she said as my mother set a hunk of stale bread and a piece of salt-cured herring in front of her. “You don’t suppose, do you, that Tom might have gone back into the dark wood? To try to get home to Oldefort, to the rest of his family? That he might have taken Romy with him? The Pagets are very worried.”

  My mother’s frown said that the Pagets were not alone in their concern.

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Max assured her around his first bite of fish. “Few people would wander into the dark wood without a very good reason.”

  “Isn’t going home a good reason?” she asked. When Max had no answer for her, he tweaked her nose and told her to eat.

  She obeyed without a single smart word in return.

  “Adele,” my mother said, as she went back to her dough. “I think I might send you to your grandmother’s this afternoon, with a fresh batch of bread.” She seemed to think about that for a moment. “Or maybe I’ll take it myself, if you can finish up here.” But, of course, what she would really be doing was searching the dark wood around the village for any sign that Romy and Tom actually had wandered into the forest.

  “I want to go!” Sofia announced through a mouthful of herring.

  My mother’s kneading hands went still. “No.”

  “But I want to see Gran’s cabin. To see monsters.” She shrugged. “Then I want to go see Ashborne. Max says it’s lovely, and while the river’s frozen, I can’t get there without going through the dark wood.” My sister frowned as she amended her thought. “I can’t get anywhere, without going through the dark wood. And I want to go . . . somewhere.”

  “Why on earth would you want that?” I demanded, more sharply than I’d intended. Her willingness to put herself in danger terrified me.

  “You may be scared to leave Oakvale, but I want to see things!” Sofia declared, her eyes shining with the prospect.

  “I’m not scared,” I snapped at her. I’d been out in the woods for weeks, fighting monsters. Not that I could tell her that. “It’s just that this is home, and I don’t need anything else. I have friends here. I’m happy here.”

  “No, you aren’t.” Sofia rolled her eyes at me. “You have one friend. And Elena’s not going to have time for you soon, because she’s marrying Simon—”

  “Simon’s my friend too,” I insisted.

  “—and she’s going to have babies.”

  “That’s not—”

  “And people talk about you. About us. I hear them, and—”

  “You’ve heard people talking about us?” Horror trickled like ice-cold water down my spine. I’d assumed my little sister was unaffected by the whispers about us, but considering her love of eavesdropping, I should have known better. “You shouldn’t listen to unfounded gossip.”

  “What do they say?” Max glanced from me to Sofia, then back.

  “That we’re witches. That Adele is immodest and lustful.” My little sister’s eyes narrowed, while my cheeks burned. She turned to our mother, whose kneading had begun to look aggressive. “What’s lustful?”

  “It’s complete nonsense,” I told her. “Just cruel people talking about things they know nothing about.”

  “Well, I don’t know why you’d want to stay here with all these cruel people, when you could live anywhere you want.”

  “This village may not
be perfect, but it’s home,” I told her. And I felt even more anchored to Oakvale now that I truly understood my ability—my duty—to protect it.

  “Well, I’m going to travel and see some things when I’m older. But I’m already old enough to go see Gran, aren’t I, Mama?”

  “No,” our mother said again, through clenched teeth. “Absolutely not.”

  “You are a silly moppet,” Max declared with a smile and another tweak of her nose. Then he gave me a reassuring look over her head. “The dark wood is no place for a child. But fear not, Sofia. Adventure awaits you, someday. I feel that in my bones.”

  I could only hope she’d be willing to wait for “someday.”

  Reluctantly, my sister turned back to her lunch, and a few minutes later, Max met my gaze. “Is that true?” His good-natured smile had faded into a look of deep disappointment. “You don’t ever want to leave Oakvale?”

  An ache swelled in my chest. “Max . . .”

  I was very conscious of Sofia listening, as she picked at her food, and though my mother didn’t pause in her work, I knew she was listening as well.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d been honest with Max from the beginning about Grainger. About the plans I’d had for my own future, before my mother ever told me about her plans for me. Yet after the time we’d spent together in the woods—after the connection we’d formed—I suddenly felt like staying loyal to Oakvale would mean hurting him.

  And as inconvenient as his arrival had been, I did not want to hurt him.

  Yet in allowing myself to bond with Max, I’d already hurt Grainger, even if he didn’t know it.

  There would be no way to make everyone happy. To meet all of my obligations. To keep all of my relationships intact. And part of me wished I could just freeze us all in this moment, while I still had both Max and Grainger. Before I had to decide whether to abandon my neighbors or forsake the citizens of Ashborne.

  I exhaled slowly, fighting a terrible pressure building inside me. A dreadful guilt.

  “It’s okay,” he said at last, watching my silent struggle. “I understand.” Yet he ate the rest of his meal in silence, while my mother aimed disappointed looks at me from the table where she was now rolling dough into little balls.

  I kept my mouth full of food, so I wouldn’t be expected to say anything else.

  After lunch, I loaded my basket with several large scraps of linen I’d been working on in the evenings. “You aren’t delivering pastries this afternoon?” Max asked as he fastened his work belt at his hips.

  “Not today. Elena is minding Monsieur Martel’s children, and I promised to keep her company. We’re going to sew a new tunic for little Tom.”

  We’d already made him a pair of long woolen socks and a cloak—labor that had passed quickly, because as usual, we’d chatted the hours away while we worked. Yet for the first time in our lives, the conversation felt one-sided. Elena told me all about the preparations for her wedding, and as excited as I was for her, the details felt bittersweet, both because I hadn’t had time to help her with them and because every word she spoke reminded me that I hadn’t been able to give Grainger an answer yet on the subject of our own betrothal.

  As happy as I was to hear how close she and Simon were growing, especially since I’d hardly seen her in the past few weeks, I ached to be able to share with her in return. To tell her about the new divide in my life and ask her advice on how to knit the pieces of myself back together. But I didn’t have the right to divulge my family’s secrets without their knowledge or permission, yet hiding things from Elena made me feel like I was losing her. Like we were drifting apart.

  Fortunately, it seemed she might not truly notice that distance. At least not until after the excitement of her wedding had passed.

  “May I walk with you as far as the carpenter’s workshop?” Max asked, drawing my thoughts back to the task at hand.

  I hesitated, reluctant to encourage more rumors by taking another stroll through town with him. But it was just one walk through the village with a family friend—hardly a scandal, no matter how it felt.

  “Of course.”

  He took my everyday cloak down from its hook and draped it over my shoulders.

  My mother and Sofia walked a few steps behind us, on their way to check on Madame Paget and see if the absent children had reappeared, before my mother headed into the forest.

  “So, are you ready to try out the target tonight?” Max leaned closer to whisper over my sister’s prattling.

  “Yes.” Over the past few weeks, I’d practiced with my new weapon on several beasts from the dark wood, but as much as my aim had improved, I was hoping the straw target would give me a chance to become truly comfortable with the weapon without the pressure of a life-or-death situation. “I really appreciate—”

  A scream froze me mid-step, and I looked up just as Elena backed into the dirt path from the blacksmith’s yard, heedless of her skirt dragging in the mud. She had one hand clasped over her mouth, the other clinging tightly to the arm of the youngest of the Martel boys while she stared into the sizable barn to the side of Monsieur Martel’s open-air workshop.

  My mother and I raced to Elena’s side with Sofia and Max on our heels, just as Madame Gosse burst from her cottage down the path, having heard the scream. Monsieur Martel dropped his hammer and rushed from his workshop with his oldest son in tow. His forehead was creased with worry until he laid eyes on his youngest two children and could see that they were unhurt.

  “Elena, what’s wrong?” I asked.

  Elena finally uncovered her mouth, and her hand began to tremble as she pointed at the barn. “I’ve found Romy Paget and little Tom. In the barn.” Her entire arm was shaking now. “Margot, come away from there!” Elena darted forward and grabbed the five-year-old Martel’s arm before she could venture into the shadowy depths of her own barn.

  “Elena?” Monsieur Martel frowned at her. “What’s happening?”

  “Romy and little Tom are in your barn, Monsieur,” she said. “Both covered in blood.”

  A chill skittered up my spine, and Sofia grasped at my hand, her eyes wide and scared.

  “Mon dieu!” Madame Gosse gasped, as Monsieur Martel pulled his young daughter close. “I’ll go get Madame Paget.”

  “Elena, keep the children with you,” my mother said, and I recognized her commanding tone from our training sessions in the forest. “Everyone else, wait here.” Then she raced toward the barn, her cloak billowing out in her wake.

  I shoved my basket at Sofia and took off after my mother, my pulse roaring in my ears almost loud enough to drown out the sound of Max’s footsteps pounding the earth behind me.

  It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the barn, but the scents of manure and livestock both felt normal. “There,” my mother whispered, and I followed her to the right, where we could hear the rustle of hay from the open stall at the back.

  “Mon dieu,” my mother breathed as she stared into the stall. I peeked around her arm to find little Tom standing in a bed of hay, completely naked, smeared in blood from head to toe. Behind him, Romy Paget lay unmoving. Also naked and covered in blood.

  I choked on a shocked cry, and Max gasped from behind me.

  “Maxime, please help Adele keep everyone back. Especially Madam Paget. She shouldn’t have to see this.”

  Tom blinked up at us, mute and unmoved by our horror.

  “Wait,” my mother said, as Max turned to do as she’d asked. “May I have your tunic?”

  “Of course.” Max set his leather rucksack on the ground and pulled his shirt over his head.

  I stared into the blood-splattered horse stall, transfixed by my own horror, until—

  Romy moved.

  But surely I’d imagined that.

  “Mama.” I stepped past her into the stall and knelt at the little girl’s side, uncomfortably aware of Tom blinking mutely at me from a foot away. And sure enough, Romy inhaled again, her tiny chest rising, just
barely. “She’s alive. In fact, I can’t find . . .” I frowned, studying her closer. “There are no wounds. This isn’t her blood.”

  “What?” My mother pushed past Tom to kneel next to me, where she inhaled deeply, as something pale caught my eye. A feather. And once I’d seen the first one, all the others seemed to jump out at me from the shadows.

  “It’s a hen,” I said, just as my mother breathed the word “chicken” on a relieved exhalation. “Likely the one Madam Gosse was missing this morning.”

  “Madame Duval?” Max said, and I looked up to find him staring down at us, his tunic hanging from one fist, his scarred chest exposed.

  “They’re fine. Romy’s asleep, and she still feels warm.” My mother pressed one hand to the child’s forehead, then jerked it back, shocked. “Yes, she’s still quite sick. Will you carry her please, Max?”

  “Of course.”

  I backed out of the stall to give him room, and Max handed me his tunic as he knelt to pick little Romy up, cradling her in both arms. As he carried her into the center of the barn, I draped his tunic over the little girl.

  “Adele, will you bring Tom?”

  “Of course,” I said, and as my mother bent to pick up Max’s leather sack, I knelt next to the naked child, to put myself on his eye level. “Tom, what happened to Romy? To the hen?” Its head lay on the ground, inches from the mound of hay where she’d lain. “Did you kill the chicken?” I whispered. “Did you eat it?” As unthinkable as that idea seemed, the child was covered in blood, and there was nothing left of the bird save for its head, some feathers, and what I now realized were a few bloody, sinewy bones. “Tom. Did you eat the bird? Did Romy?”

  The child said nothing. I couldn’t even tell for sure that he understood my question.

  “Adele,” my mother called.

  I stood and took Tom’s hand, trying to ignore the sticky feel of the blood dried to his palm and fingers.

  Gasps went up from the small crowd gathering as we emerged from the barn with the two children. “It’s fine. They’re okay,” my mother announced. “The fox has struck again, and it seems the children found the remains of Madame Gosse’s hen.”