by Ophelia Silk
Jane’s heart stuttered in her chest. Did the witch mean to keep her as a prisoner? She tried to remain calm, but a tremor came into her voice anyway. “What do you mean?”
Adelaide’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, you’re too sick to leave. You’ll need several weeks of treatment, at least, before the poison leaves your body entirely.” She leaned forward, her dark gaze sending a shiver up Jane’s spine. “What did you think I meant?”
Heat rushed to Jane’s cheeks. “I didn’t know, surely. That’s why I asked.” She offered her most polite smile. It came as a reflex, more powerful than her fear and concern.
“‘I didn’t know, surely,’” Adelaide mocked in a high voice. Then she narrowed her eyes. “If you’re going to think terrible things of me, at least be honest. Don’t hide behind a veneer of manners.”
Jane would have felt less exposed if someone had walked in on her changing. “I-I—” She struggled for words. “I apologize.”
“No, you don’t,” Adelaide said, rolling her eyes. “You’re just unhappy that you were caught at it.”
What do you want from me? Jane pressed her lips together in a thin line, pushing away her frustration.
“I’ve upset you,” she said, quiet. “I should leave. Please, return my things to me.”
“Leave?” Adelaide scoffed. “Have you been listening? If you leave now, without my treatment, you will die.”
Jane felt an absurd urge to snap that she’d rather take her chances than spend another minute in this bed. She could not stay in a place like this. Not in a place where her only armor was useless and flimsy, seen through in an instant. She could not keep the company of a woman who cared not for manners or the proper way to do things.
But she couldn’t say that. Even though she was angry, she couldn’t voice it. It wouldn’t be proper, and even now, that mattered to her. And that very inability almost choked her, until her anger was replaced by a weariness that had nothing to do with her injuries. She slumped against the headboard, sighing. When at last she spoke, her voice cracked. “Why do you care?”
This was what didn’t make sense to her. It was obvious, even after such a short acquaintance, that Adelaide didn’t care for anyone. If she did, she wouldn’t be living alone in the forest among beasts. She wouldn’t be so dreadfully, awfully rude.
This question did nothing to soften her, unfortunately. “Why do I care? I’m not the monster you all seem to think I am!”
“I never called you a monster!”
“You thought it!”
“I…” Jane grit her teeth. Again the anger came, pushed at her throat. Again, she couldn’t let it free. “I am very tired. If you are serious about me staying here, I would like to rest now, please.”
If Adelaide could see past her manners, surely she could see this lie. But instead of arguing it, she simply gave a dismissive huff. “Fine.” And without any further preamble, she strode from the room.
Jane did what she always did when she was finally alone after a particularly trying conversation with her parents or one of the customers who visited their farm or an exhausting day at the market with William. She pressed her pillow to her face and screamed, muffling the noise in the fabric.
When that was done, she felt a bit more in control of herself, a little less helpless. She shot a glare at the door, one that she never would have allowed herself in Adelaide’s presence. What a difficult person! She was not the monster of stories, but neither was she harmless. Instead of fearing her, Jane was left with far more complicated emotions.
If she wasn’t worried about collapsing again, she’d try to leave right now, and never mind her things. But the dizziness in the back of her skull warned her of what a terrible idea that would be.
Sighing, she leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. Perhaps with more rest, she would at least be able to move around.
CHAPTER THREE
An Unfortunate Situation
JANE WASN’T SURE how much time had passed when she finally awoke. But she could hear birds chirping, a pleasant afternoon sort of noise.
She laid in bed for a moment, taking stock of her wounds. She still ached, but her head felt a bit clearer. She sat up slowly, wary, but the world did not sway and contort as it had before. Fire raced up her side and she had to pause for it to ease, but that was all. When she pulled herself gingerly to her feet, they held her weight.
She made her way to the door of the small bedroom. Another door stood closed at the other side of a narrow hallway—surely it was Adelaide’s room. She paused for several moments, but could hear no sound from the other side of the door.
“Miss Thompson?” There was no response. Satisfied that she was alone, she turned.
The hallway emptied into a large, chaotic space. It seemed to be a living room and a kitchen in one—a dining table stood mere inches from a couch, and a large pot hung over a hearth in one corner. Jane’s eyes struggled to focus on one thing. Flowers were drying out, hanging upside-down by a window over the sink. Books lay open on the floor, yellow pages marred with ink in various states of freshness. There were strange little curios everywhere—animal skulls and candles and shining rocks scattered with absolutely no regard for organization.
“How does she live like this?” Jane murmured to herself, aghast. Her hands itched to tidy up the space, to bring order to the chaos. Only knowing how dreadfully impolite that would have been stopped her.
She took a deep breath. She wanted to be home, where things were in their place and those places made sense. She wanted to be thinking of chores and parties and pleasant things, not witches and wounds that healed too slow.
Movement flickered in the corner of her eye. Her head whipped around, heart in her throat, fearing that the witch would return angry or maybe that another beast would burst forth from the cool wooden floor. But it was just a cat, curled in a pile of blankets. It stretched, regarding Jane with a wary yellow eye.
Jane laughed in spite of herself. “There are rumors of the witch’s hellish familiar,” she murmured. “They say you’re as big as a panther and twice as inky black. I see that those, too, were exaggerations.”
The cat was, perhaps, a bit overfed, but no larger in stature than any other housecat. Its coat was a silky dark gray. Jane got carefully to her knees, wary of the pain in her side, and stretched out a hand for inspection. The cat sniffed it daintily, then squinted at it as if still making up its mind. Jane laughed again, scratching it behind its ears. A low rumble of a purr started up in its chest.
“Making friends, I see.”
Jane jerked her hand back as if burned. Adelaide stood in the front door, an amused smile on her lips and a single eyebrow cocked. A wicker basket hung in the crook of one arm, full of flowers and greenery.
“I apologize,” Jane said softly.
“For what?” Adelaide strode into the house, her dark skirts flapping about her legs like raven’s wings.
“For…” Jane was a bit bashful to realize that she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for. For leaving her room without permission? For making her way into Adelaide’s living space without being formally shown in? For petting the cat? They all sounded like very silly reasons, embarrassing to say out loud.
But, truthfully, she apologized for silly reasons all the time. So did most people. It simply wasn’t polite to call them out.
While she was lost in thought, Adelaide had begun taking herbs and flowers from her basket, crushing them to a fine powder in a stone bowl. “Apologies lose their meaning when given thoughtlessly,” she said, haughty. “Don’t give them unless you mean them.”
“I’m—” Jane began, then stopped, realizing that another apology had been on her lips.
Adelaide laughed, and Jane felt heat rush to her cheeks. Goodness, but she wanted to be home. Away from this place, and away from this taunting, mocking woman.
She remained on the floor, however. Even though she had recovered her strength, the ache in her side from the beast’s pois
on persisted. Adelaide said that she would die without medicine, and that wasn’t too difficult to believe. Her pride was important to her, as were manners. But not, perhaps, more important than her life. That was the only thing keeping her in this house, surely.
Silence reigned between them for several moments, marked only by the grinding of Adelaide’s stone. It was supremely awkward—silence in her own home usually meant that one or both of her parents were displeased with her, and silence with a guest was incredibly rude.
“What is your cat’s name?” Jane asked, mostly to break it.
Adelaide glanced up, briefly, in what might have been surprise. “Cabula.”
“Cabula,” Jane said, mystified. The cat blinked once, slowly, as if in recognition of the name.
“It’s the Old Word for mist,” Adelaide explained as she poured the powdered plants into what looked like a tea bag. “It suits her.”
“So it does,” Jane said, keeping her voice even. But the fact that she had said an Old Word, even unknowingly, made her skin crawl. Old Words had power, a power not fit for any human.
But Adelaide had wielded them. Hazily, she remembered a hoarse voice, the beast collapsing in on itself like so much old wood. A shiver worked its way up her spine, but this time it was emotion more complicated than distress. Adelaide was so powerful.
And she had used that power to save Jane.
Adelaide shoved a mug under Jane’s nose, jerking her out of her thoughts. “Drink this.”
The liquid was a pale brownish green, clearly the result of the crushed plants being steeped. Jane took the mug and swirled the liquid, examining it. “This is the medicine you mentioned? Are there any side effects?”
Adelaide huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. “A damnable aftertaste, but that’s about all.”
It occurred to Jane that there was really no way for her to ask the witch to prove it without sounding incredibly rude. And, anyway, it wasn’t as though she had anything to lose. She could feel the pain at her side worsening, making it difficult to breathe. It was not difficult to imagine it stopping her breath altogether.
“Very well, then,” she said, and downed the potion. Immediately, she knew the witch had lied. It was not just the aftertaste she had to worry about.
The initial taste was fairly terrible, too.
It burned like acid all the way down her throat, tasting of old dirt and overripe tomatoes. Her eyes watered and she had a brief but very violent fight with her stomach that she just barely won.
“Oh, please don’t vomit that up. These ingredients are very difficult to grow.”
Jane was flustered enough that she almost shot the witch a glare, good manners be damned. She had to stare at the floor with her watering eyes until the urge passed. She swiped the liquid off of her cheeks, and she imagined that her face must have been red and splotchy the way it got when she had the wind knocked out of her. “That was…”
“Oh, terrible, isn’t it?” Adelaide’s voice was cheery. Was she enjoying Jane’s pain?
Jane bit the inside of her cheek to keep the less pleasant words in. “It was… effective,” she finally decided. And that much was true. Awful taste or not, the burning in her side had already eased to a dull throb.
“Come now. No need to spare my feelings with such words. Tell me how it really was.” Adelaide leaned against the table. Her black skirts rode up to reveal a pale strip of skin over her sturdy boots.
Jane looked away hurriedly. “I see no need to do that.”
“You must be exhausting to be around long-term.”
Perhaps there were side effects to the potion after all, because Jane couldn’t keep her words to herself. “You don’t have to be cruel.”
“It’s not cruel to be honest,” Adelaide replied, without an ounce of remorse on her face. “I won’t censor myself for anyone—not even such a lovely, doe-eyed blonde as yourself.”
The flush returned to Jane’s cheeks with a vengeance. It wasn’t the first time she’d been complimented for her looks, not even the first time she’d heard it phrased in such a half-mocking manner. The other farm girls did it often—oh, look at Jane, she mustn’t do the dirty work, must keep herself clean for dear William. But it sounded different, coming from Adelaide. It felt different, coming from Adelaide.
Jane shook her head, trying to clear it. “Do you voice every unkind thing that comes into your head?”
“Not just the unkind things,” Adelaide said, wry. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because—” The bluntness of the question tripped Jane up for a moment. “Because it’s rude!”
Adelaide laughed. She had a throaty, husky laugh, and for some reason that brought heat to Jane’s cheeks, as well. Did the supposedly side-effect-less potion also cause fever?
“Is what they say about me in town rude?” Adelaide leaned against her counter, her gaze challenging. “Claiming that I’m a monster’s mistress, that I worship the darkness? Is that not cruel, is that not rude?”
The question wasn’t hypothetical. It hung in the air, demanding to be answered. Jane swallowed. “That’s… different,” she finally said. “People fear the forest, and they see you as part of it.”
“Is that so?” Adelaide replied. “Well, regardless, if people are so unconcerned with being polite to me, I see no need to be polite to them.” She crossed the kitchen, one pale hand trailing along the counter as she went. “Besides, the rules are arbitrary.”
“No, they aren’t.”
“They frequently are.” Adelaide rolled her eyes, moving to untie the dried flowers from their post. “How to dress, how to speak, how to act—what does that have to do with cruelty or kindness?”
Again, the question hung in the air, but this time an answer was not so easy to find. “Because, without politeness, without manners,” Jane began, falteringly. “We wouldn’t… I wouldn’t…”
Adelaide was watching her now, those dark eyes curious and reflecting too much light. It frightened her. She didn’t think that anyone had looked at her in quite that way before, like they were listening to her, as though they actually cared what she had to say.
What would Jane say, beneath that knowing gaze? What could she admit, to these ears that were actually listening for something other than the socially accepted words?
“I’m tired,” she finally said. “I believe I need some more rest.”
She retreated to her room, trying not to feel like she was fleeing. She shut the door behind her and pressed her entire back to the wood, trying to slow her breathing, trying to calm her rapid pulse.
Trying to pretend that she wasn’t still seeing Adelaide’s dark eyes every time she closed her own.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Hasty Exit
“JANE! JANE PARIS!”
Jane’s eyes snapped open. For a moment she thought that she had dreamed that voice, so harsh and cruel. A shiver ran up her spine, and her hand stole to her side, which was beginning to ache in earnest as the medicine faded. Surely, that was what had woken her.
But then the voice from her dream echoed again. “Jane! Where are you, girl?”
The voice was familiar, although she couldn’t place it. The butcher’s voice, maybe, or the preacher’s, or the cobbler’s. Jane sat up, another shiver stealing through her. The window was open, and it was cold. White flakes drifted in, the night air just cold enough for snow.
Jane crossed the room carefully in the dimness, gripping the frame. But she did not close it, even as the wind stung her cheeks. She strained her ears instead, waiting for the voices. And the voices came. They were all voices of people she knew, although if asked, she would not be able to identify them by name. Farmhands, salesmen, girls from her youth. All whispering about her, their voices carried by the wind.
“It’s been days.”
“Perhaps she’s dead.”
“No, no, the forest would be more dangerous if it were fed blood.”
“Then she is alive.”
“Where is she?”
“Only one option.”
“Only one answer.”
“She’s like the witch.”
“She worships the beasts.”
The breath fell from Jane’s lungs, and she swayed on her feet. “No,” she whispered. The cold wind still blew on her face, but she no longer felt it. It couldn’t compete with the chill that crept up her spine, the utter terror that clutched her heart at the thought of such judgement.
The voices continued on, mocking.
“Jane Paris is of the forest.”
“Jane Paris is not one of us.”
“Jane Paris is evil.”
“Bad.”
“Wrong.”
“Impolite.”
The window was too small for her to exit. But she knew where the front door was. She ran for it, not caring that she only wore a nightgown, not caring that she had no shoes, not caring about the pain in her side. Those things were secondary to the pain of the accusations that still echoed in her ears.
“She was never right.”
“She slipped up so often.”
“She never wanted to marry.”
And, at last, most horrifying at all, was a light, feminine voice: “Did you see the way she looked at me?”
The wind tore at Jane’s nightgown, turned her hair into a cloud around her head. She had a vague sense of her surroundings in the darkness—plants, a crooked wooden fence—but most of her attention was focused on shouting her denial of those accusations into the cold night air.
“You’re wrong!” She howled to the sky, her voice cracking from disuse at such a volume. “You’re wrong!”
She started forward, meaning to find them, to tell them, to show them. But a hand caught her wrist. Adelaide, holding her back.
“Have you lost your mind?”
Of course. Adelaide wanted to corrupt her, with her dark hair, with her pale skin, with her arresting eyes. Jane struggled against the witch’s grip, clawing at the hand holding her. “Let me go! I have to, I have to—”
Adelaide jerked her forward, sending her crashing into her warmth and solidity. She took Jane by both shoulders and shook her. “Think! Whoever you’re hearing—would they dare step foot in this forest?”