Breadcrumbs

by Anne Ursu

  “Yes,” Hazel said. Something began to gnaw on her heart.

  “And you’re . . . looking for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” The guard glanced at the ground. “Most people don’t admit that, they just go.”

  Hazel’s heart sped up. “What do you know about her? How do I defeat her?”

  “Defeat her? That’s what you want?”

  Hazel did her best to look very brave. “Yes! She has my friend.”

  “I see. Look, kid. You can’t defeat her. She’s never going to go away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she’s always waiting there, at the end of this place. All you can do is pretend she’s not there. That’s what most people here do.”

  Hazel looked up at the guard, whose face was rueful and whose body seemed cloaked by more than wool. She was too tired to make sense of this senselessness. So she thanked her and walked past her, into the village.

  Hazel walked down the hill to the marketplace. She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly—some available shelter she could crawl into, some Hobbit inn that took energy bars as payment. It did not matter, as long as there was a place to sleep.

  But when she arrived at the market, she forgot her fatigue and simply stared at the scene before her. The marketplace was a cobblestone square about half a block wide surrounded by little shops, all cast aglow with torches. Even at night the square was thrumming with people. Hazel felt something unknot in her as she moved toward all of them. There was solace in company. At least right now. Hazel was tired of being alone.

  She would have expected to stand out in the crowd here, with her backpack and jeans and shiny green jacket—not to mention her dark skin and hair. And there were plenty of people who looked like they’d dressed up for the Renaissance Festival, with wool cloaks and tall leather boots. But she saw a man in all black leather, another in a trench coat and fedora, a woman in jeans and a bright-red peacoat. And they weren’t all white and European looking either—she saw African faces, Asian, Hispanic. It seemed like people had come from everywhere. For once, Hazel fit right in.

  The noise of the market felt odd in Hazel’s ears after all that quiet. There were merchants advertising their wares, people shouting, strains of music competing for attention. And there was a general hum of activity and humanity. The air carried with it the smell of smoke, cooking meat, and horse poop.

  Near her, a skinny man in old jeans and a battered army jacket was playing the saxophone. A large yellow dog was curled up next to his legs, and next to it was an open instrument case. The man looked like someone you’d see on the street downtown, except instead of bills and coins in the instrument case, people had dropped little vials of colored powders and liquids.

  There were other performers, too. Hazel saw a juggler off in one corner. There was a crowd around a woman who stood on a barrel—she seemed to be telling a story or giving a speech. And off in one corner there was a girl a few years older than Hazel, dancing.

  Hazel moved into the crowd, checking out the merchants and their carts. There were things you might expect—produce and meats, tools, bolts of cloth, handmade jewelry. But there were odd carts, too. Hazel approached one that was covered in identical tiny glass jars. She stared into them, at the little odd blotches inside, until she realized each had a tiny clump of different kinds of human hair. There was a cart of books, as clean and modern as the ones on Ben’s shelves. There was one that had dozens of little brass clockwork animals.

  “I can make that scar go away,” one of the merchants called to Hazel. She was two carts away, but Hazel’s wound was apparently that noticeable.

  Something flickered in Hazel’s heart, and she tried to ignore it. This was not the time to be dealing with her scars. She turned and walked away, pretending like she wasn’t interested at all.

  She found herself at the edge of the row, in front of a small cart filled with vials of different-colored liquid. Behind it was a small white-haired woman in a flowered housedress. The woman smiled when she saw Hazel, and leaned toward her. “I have potions for you,” she whispered.

  The woman’s eyes twinkled like a grandmother who’d announced she’d made cookies. Hazel could not help but look. Maybe there would be something she could use—something to put the white witch to sleep, or maybe a luck potion. Something. She had no payment, of course—unless the old woman was a Joe Mauer fan.

  “What do you have?” Hazel asked.

  “Mine are the best, you can ask anyone. I specialize, see? This row is for people, over here is events, and this row is for time. I can brew these for you if you’re looking for something particular, but that’s extra.”

  Hazel blinked. “A potion for . . . events or time?”

  “For forgetting,” the woman said, as if this was obvious.

  “Oh,” said Hazel. “I was looking for, like, a luck potion?”

  “Oh,” said the woman, like she had specially made chocolate chip and Hazel asked for oatmeal. “You won’t find anything like that here.”

  “I guess I’m okay then.”

  “Are you sure?” The woman looked at her appraisingly.

  “Yes,” Hazel said, moving away.

  What was she doing? She had no business looking for magic potions. She needed to sleep, and then she needed to find Jack. She was so tired that she was ready to curl up, right there in the marketplace, and let all the potion-seekers step over her. Her eyes traveled around the marketplace, looking for some idea of where to go. And then she saw someone who looked familiar.

  Hazel walked over to where the performers were, past the saxophonist and the orator. At the very edge of the square was the dancing girl, and standing a few feet away was the woodsman Hazel had seen earlier that day.

  Hazel went over to join the small group watching the dancer. Just then, a woman broke away from the group, shaking her head. The woodsman turned his head to watch her go. His eyes fell on Hazel.

  “Some people just don’t like ballet,” he said, smiling.

  His brown eyes were kind, just like a woodsman’s should be. He looked a little like Jack’s dad—he even had the same lines under his eyes—and the thought softened Hazel’s heart. She gave him a little smile.

  Her eyes went to the dancing girl. She was beautiful, with blond hair and big green eyes. She moved like the most elegant ballerina, like she could fly if she set her mind to it. There was no music, but it didn’t seem to matter. The way she moved, Hazel heard the yearning of strings.

  And then Hazel gasped. On the girl’s feet were the red shoes.

  She couldn’t believe it. Someone had left them in the road and the girl had found them. They were magic. Hazel knew that when she saw them. And if she had picked up the shoes, she could dance like that.

  “She’s very good, isn’t she?” the woodsman asked.

  Hazel nodded, eyes on the shoes.

  “My daughter was a dancer. She was very good, too.”

  “Oh.” Hazel shot him a glance. She did not know whether he was using the past tense because his daughter no longer danced or because he no longer had a daughter, and she feared the answer.

  “She gave herself up to it. Sometimes people get so focused on things they don’t see the world around them. That’s what I’m trying to tell people. It isn’t easy.”

  Hazel nodded, though she didn’t know what he was talking about. She was very tired. She needed to ask him for advice, that’s why she’d come over.

  “Do you like her shoes?” he asked suddenly.

  Hazel nodded.

  “Everyone does,” he said, sounding a little sad.

  Hazel was confused. Didn’t he leave them? She watched the girl dance, bending and stretching and leaping. She noticed that there was sweat on her face and her expression was not of beauty or elation but something like pain.

  “She looks tired,” Hazel said. Though maybe she was projecting.

  “She’s been dancing a long time,” said the w
oodsman. “This is what happens.”

  Hazel cast another glance at him. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him for help, because he would surely take pity on a young girl who needed it—and take out any wolves she met along the way. But something stopped her.

  “Is she okay?” Hazel asked.

  “She will be,” he said.

  She wasn’t sure she believed him. There was something weird going on. But she was so tired. Her head was fog. She wasn’t thinking clearly, that was all. So she nodded good-bye to the woodsman, and with one last glance at the dancing girl, headed back into the company of the crowd.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Temptations

  As soon as she stepped back into the market, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Hazel whirled around to see a slim, slight man in a long black coat with two rows of shiny buttons down the front. He had a swoosh of black hair and a thin, pale face. He looked like he might have been blown in by the wind. His eyes reminded her of the bad guy Jack had showed her that day in the shrieking shack.

  “Hello, young lady,” he said in an accent thick with the forest. He motioned to the cart behind him. It was lined with vials of fluid and packets with different color powders, and standing in the center watching over it all was one mean-looking chicken. “May I interest you in a potion?”

  What was it with this place and potions? She politely refused, the same way she shrugged off the people trying to sell hair products at the mall. It was not forgetting that she needed.

  “Oh,” he said, luring her back with his voice. “I have all kinds of potions. I have the rare ones. I can give you your heart’s desire.” He took a step forward and studied her. “I can tell there is something you want. I know these things.” He leaned over her, eyes penetrating her defenses, and whispered, “What does your heart yearn for?”

  The way he asked it was like he was speaking directly to her heart, as if she was not even participating in the conversation. And the answer flew out of her mouth. “I want my friend back.”

  A slow grin spread across the man’s face. “I see,” he said. “Now—and please don’t call me presumptuous—may I assume this was no ordinary friend?”

  The marketplace bustled in the background, but it seemed to be distant somehow, as if Hazel and this man were the only true things in the world. It was like they were in their own pocket of air.

  “No,” Hazel said. “He’s not.”

  “You feel like you are nothing without him. He made you feel worthwhile, and then took it away.”

  Hazel could not speak.

  “That’s what I thought,” the man said. “I understand. I’ve got things that can help you get him back.”

  Hazel’s heart sped up. “Like what?”

  “I can make you beautiful,” he said. “I can make you womanly. I can make you charming and worldly. I can make you clever.” His face was now inches from hers. “I can make you belong.”

  The air was buzzing and Hazel couldn’t seem to think. He didn’t understand, that wasn’t what she meant.

  Or was it?

  At least with Jack, she had belonged somewhere. With him gone, though, she was a misshapen piece. Was there enough magic in the woods to make her belong?

  She opened her mouth to speak and the man gripped her hand. She felt a shock run through her body, and then she swayed a little and the air didn’t seem like it knew how to support her. She thought of the whistle in her pocket and the boy at the other end, but he was so far away. And the man smiled again and it was a very funny kind of smile, and he whispered, “I can give you whatever you want. It won’t cost anything. I’ll just ask one thing in return.”

  A voice reached out to her like a lifesaver in the water. “Rose! Rose, what are you doing? Rose!”

  A dark-haired man in a blue coat rushed up to Hazel and put his hand firmly on her arm. He sounded out of the breath. “Rose, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  “I’m not—” Hazel said. But she was very sleepy now, and something was definitely wrong, and the man was shooting her such a look, such a curious look, and she couldn’t seem to finish what she was saying. Anyway, Rose was a nice name. And she didn’t have one of her own, not really.

  But it didn’t really matter what she thought, because he was shooing the black-cloaked man away as if he were a meddlesome bat, and it was a bit funny really and Hazel thought she might laugh if only she could remember how.

  “Quickly,” the man said, leading her away from the marketplace. “We don’t have much time.”

  There it was: Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

  Hazel was all fog. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” the man said, looking at her with friendly green eyes. “I’m Lucas.”

  “Who’s Rose?” she asked.

  “You’re Rose. Rather, you just seem like a Rose. I had to call you something so he’d think you were mine.”

  “I do?” No one had ever said she seemed like a Rose before. “You can call me Rose if you want.”

  “All right. Rose it is.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You need an antidote. He pressed something into your skin. It lessens your judgment. He’s a wizard. Did you agree to anything?”

  “I don’t think so. . . .” Weren’t wizards good? Dumbledore’s a wizard.

  “He was trying to force you into a bargain. He’d give you your heart’s desire, but you would be bound to him forever. And I can tell you that’s not a good proposition.”

  “I don’t understand this place.” She had said this before, but it seemed to bear repeating.

  “It’s all right. I do. Now, come on, we should get you home.”

  Nothing made sense to Hazel, and she was so sleepy, like there was a weight pulling down on her brain. But the man had his arm around her now and was guiding her forward. This arm had the weight and comfort of the one belonging to her father.

  “My wife is an herbalist,” the man named Lucas said. “We try to have antidotes around. There are all manner of things that can happen to you in the woods.”

  “I would like to go to sleep now,” Hazel proclaimed.

  The arm tightened around her shoulder. “I know. But stay with me. You can sleep soon.”

  He kept talking to her as he led her through the village to a small cottage just a five-minute walk from the market square. A large, full fairy-tale moon hung in the sky now—though Hazel could have sworn it wasn’t there earlier—showing a cottage that looked like something from a movie. The thatched roof nestled over the small square house like a mushroom cap. Bright yellow curtains hung in the windows. A strip of bright flowers lay in front of the house, blooming against the cold.

  “It’s so pretty,” said Hazel.

  “Wait till you see the garden,” Lucas said.

  Soon Hazel was inside the kitchen of the tiny cottage, slumped in a hard wood chair, while Lucas spoke in a low voice to his wife.

  Lucas’s wife introduced herself as Nina. Hazel blinked up at her. She looked Indian, like Hazel, and when she smiled down at Hazel it was like something familiar but forgotten. Hazel smiled back, or at least tried to. The woman turned to the stove and began throwing things in a pot, while Lucas sat down next to Hazel and forbade her from putting her head on the table.

  “So, Rose,” he asked, “what’s a girl like you doing in the woods like this?”

  He meant to keep her talking, that was clear. He was trying to take care of her. Hazel’s sleepy heart panged.

  “I lost my friend,” she said. She kept saying this, again and again. She’d lost her friend. That’s what she was doing here.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucas said. “I’m very sorry.”

  “The white witch took him.”

  “Oh,” said Lucas. He and his wife exchanged a glance.

  “I came here to rescue him. But I need to sleep first. I’m very, very tired.”

  “I know,” he said gently. “In a little bit.”

  “Then I’ll go in the
morning.”

  “Go where?” Nina asked slowly. “To the white witch?”

  “Yes.” Yes.

  “No. You shouldn’t go,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

  Hazel’s heart twisted. “She has my friend.”

  “So you’re just going to go after him? Just like that?”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “Nina . . .” Lucas motioned to his wife, then eyed Hazel. “I don’t know how to ask this,” he said. “But your friend, are you sure he wants to be rescued?”

  “Of course he does!” She was getting tired of people asking this.

  “It’s just . . .” he began. “The white witch only takes people who want to go.” Out of the corner of her eye, Hazel saw Nina flinch.

  “No,” Hazel said. “Not this time.” From somewhere she heard the sound of a bird singing. Her eyes traveled out the kitchen window. It was dark, and the moon hung in the sky. She could just see the edges of the garden.

  “She’ll promise you things,” Lucas said. “These are not things the people who come here know how to turn down.”

  “I need to defeat her,” Hazel insisted. “Do you know how?” She looked from Lucas to Nina. They did not look at her, or at each other.

  “Some things you just can’t fight,” Nina said quietly, after a time.

  “We should talk about this in the morning,” Lucas said. “Ready, Nina?”

  “Here you go.” Nina stood in front of her, holding out a steaming cup. It struck Hazel, suddenly, looking at the pair of them, that this could have been what her before-parents looked like. She stared up at them, the man and the woman looking down at her, full of concern and care. And she wanted to ask them things big and small, but she did not have the words.

  She sipped the tea—it was thick with honey. Hazel remembered the candy her father would bring home from his trips. It was hard candy on the outside but the inside was a warm burst of actual honey, like you’d stuck your spoon into the jar when no one was looking. When she was little, she’d bite into the hard candy right away to get to the honey center. But when she got older, she learned to wait and let the filling slowly work its way out.