Fated To Die: YA dark retelling (The Retelling Series Book 1)

by TARA GALLINA

  Instead of working to charm the cottage into its cozy state, I accept the punishment as payment for ending Mrs. Potterfield’s life, for not being honest with my family about Espen, and for not being there now to take care of the them, like I had promised Mother I would.

  CHAPTER 9

  Cold fear slices through me like a blade made of ice. I dig my heels into the gravel. The door is mere steps away, but I can’t stop. No matter what I do or say, the shirt tugs me forward, closer to its victim.

  “No! Not here! Not this house!” The words rip from my throat, raw with panic and desperation. “Daceian?” I call out, searching for him in the darkness. He’s not with me.

  Light shines in the upstairs window of the manor. In his night robe, Father peers out, his face ashen, his wrinkles deeper than I remember. He’s straining to see me, but it’s too dark.

  “Don’t come out!” I shout to him, trembling and struggling against the pull of the shirt. “Stay inside. Don’t open the door!” This can’t be happening. Not again. He’s suffered enough. Why more? Why now?

  Rage engulfs me. I let out a warrior scream and throw my body backward. I’ll run off a cliff if I have to, but I won’t deliver this. The shirt doesn’t surrender, not even an inch. Tears blur my vision and stream down my cheeks. To the night, the curse and the Washer Woman, I beg, “Take me! Take me instead!”

  I shoot upright in the chair. My throat burns and sweat coats my face. I’m in the cottage, not at home with Father’s blood-stained shirt. My heart races. I put my hand to my chest and urge myself to calm down.

  “It was only a dream. Only a dream,” I murmur until the panic and fear leave me.

  When I open my eyes, the cottage is different.

  It’s not grimy or pristine, it’s somewhere in between. Light oak panels cover the walls and floors. The furniture is sturdy yet slightly worn, like the furnishings at home in the manor. Soft light filters through the windows, and warm oats sweeten the air. Breakfast is waiting for me on the table.

  “Thank you,” I tell the cottage, my voice still weak from my cries.

  I stand and flatten my hand over my rolling stomach, still sick with worry. The last thing I am is hungry, but I don’t want to offend the cottage by not eating.

  At the table, I sit and nibble on blueberry and cream oats. I drink some apple juice, too. Neither eases the tension inside me. Nothing will make me feel better, except for seeing my family.

  “All I want is to know they’re all right.” A tear slips down my cheek, then another. I don’t wipe them away. One falls to the floor, darkening a small part of the white wood.

  White?

  The cottage is back to its cozy, clean self. Does it feel sorry for me? Does it know my pain?

  Standing, I address the cottage. “Would you be so kind as to summon Daceian for me, please? I need to speak with him.”

  If I beg, he might take pity on me and help me get a letter to my family. I can’t go on without communicating with them somehow.

  “Please.” My voice breaks.

  Nothing happens.

  Instead of getting upset, I drag myself to the chair and sit. My body feels heavy, weighted by emotions I’m not used to experiencing. Tucking them away was my specialty. Now, it’s more complicated.

  Even still, a stirring deep inside me—hope?—refuses to believe this is it for me or my family. I cling to the sensation and try to think of a way to change things in my favor. There must be something I can do other than reading that book.

  I glance at it on the table. It’s too thick. If I had a month, I might be able to read it, but seven days is hardly enough time.

  “Please help me.” I pray to the Blessed Ones. “Help me to find a way.”

  Movement by the door snatches my gaze. A fat leaf falls to the floor.

  Is the plant ill?

  It appears to be healthy. The leaves hang in a relaxed manner. The coloring seems as vibrant as ever. Even the leaf on the floor is green. Gold writing glistens from it.

  I snatch it up and read.

  Daceian won’t be available until this afternoon.

  “You can communicate?” My eyes widen with amazement, but my shoulders slump at the plant’s answer. Now I’ll have less time to convince Daceian to reach out to my family.

  Another idea arises. If my intuition is correct, the cottage and plant, maybe even the Blessed Ones, have taken pity on me. If I play my cards right, I might be able to use it to my advantage.

  I draw in a deep breath. Please don’t let this backfire on me.

  “Might I offer you a trade? I’m worried about my family,” I say, careful of my words. “I have younger sisters, twins who are lost without me. If I could be granted permission to let them know I’m all right, that I miss and love them, I would gladly clean and care for you in return for your kindness.”

  Moments pass in silence. When nothing happens, I gather the bowl and cup into a neat pile and use the napkin to clean the table.

  “You see? I’m quite good at tidying up. I have much practice caring for the home I used to live in.”

  Please work.

  Next, I take the cloth napkin to the mantel above the fireplace and dust the surface, even though there isn’t anything to clean. Then, I fluff the cushions on the chair and brush away what little dirt there might be on the ottoman. I’ve just finished wiping the small side table when another leaf falls to the floor.

  I squeeze my eyes closed with a silent prayer—please let it be good news—and bend to pick up the leaf. Gold words glint from one side.

  You have been granted two hours. Do not be late.

  I can leave? I can’t believe it. I don’t know what I was expecting but this—wait. What if it’s a trap, like the bird?

  Daceian said the cottage will protect me, and the plant, which lives in the cottage, has given me consent to leave. Does that mean I’ll be protected outside, too?

  I don’t want to upset the plant, afraid he’ll take his offer away, but I need to be safe. “I hate to ask but is this a trap?”

  The top leaf shifts to the side. A shake of the head?

  “And I won’t be punished?”

  The leaf moves to the other side.

  Still, nervous, I press on in the gentlest way. “How is this allowed? Is it something other maidens have been granted or just me?”

  A moment passes then another leaf falls to the floor. I pick it up and read the gold script.

  No other maiden asked. Ask the right questions, get the right answers.

  Daceian said a similar phrase to me. He also said the other maidens spent their time crying and begging to be set free. Perhaps, they never asked if they could leave and come back, or perhaps, my kind gesture of cleaning and trading favors made the difference.

  Another leaf falls.

  Go now.

  My pulse jumps. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” I put the leaves in my pocket and open the door.

  Fear seizes me, and I struggle to move. When my feet touched the ground outside the window, it turned black and tried to suck me under. My heart pounds at the thought of that happening again. I glance at the plant. The green leaves fall in a relaxed position. Does that mean it’s safe? I hate that I don’t know. I hate that I’m scared. This could be my one chance to see my family and I’m wasting time.

  A nervous squeal bursts from my lips. The plant does nothing to assure me. I grip the door frame and ease one slippered foot onto the mossy ground. It remains solid under my weight. With my hands still clutching the door frame, in case I need to pull myself back in, I step down with my other foot and wait. The plant doesn’t squawk. The woods don’t darken the way they did before, and the ground doesn’t disappear.

  Two urges strike me, leaving me torn. Jump back into the cottage or take off through the woods. Mother used to say, “If you think for too long, you often think wrong.”

  My legs and arms shake with my nerves. The plant hasn’t moved, as if it’s sleeping. Shoving my fear to my toes,
I let go of the door frame and run.

  In my haste, I trip a few times on the marshy ground and bang my shin when jumping over a fallen tree branch. Panic keeps me going until I realize I don’t know the way out of the woods. I’ve never spent time on this side of the forest. By my house, the woods get darker and thicker the deeper I go, and thinner where the trees meet open land.

  Here, I don’t see a change. Everything is thick and dark. I should stop and check my surroundings. No matter how afraid I am to slow down, if I don’t, I may never find my way out.

  My lungs pump fast and my throat feels dry. I’m not sure how far I’ve gone, and I can’t see the roof of the cottage anywhere. Before going any farther, I stop and survey the area. Nothing looks familiar. Panic builds inside me. How do I get anywhere from here? I’m lost. Lost.

  My eyes sting with tears I refuse to let fall. I did this to myself. My breath hitches and a familiar scent fills my nose. The river. I can smell it in the air. I must be close.

  If I can find it, I can follow the direction of the current. It will lead me to the village.

  Relief transforms my fear into determination. Following the scent, I round trees and hop over roots jutting from the ground. The air grows moist and rushing water sounds ahead.

  A long row of hedges blocks my view, but I’m certain the river is on the other side. With no end in sight of the fortress-like shrubs, I choose to cut through them. Most likely, I’ll get scraped up, but it will save on time.

  At the hedges, I search the leaves for a thinning area. Mumbled voices sound from the other side. For a moment, I think it’s villagers, even though they never venture into the woods during the week of the Summer Solstice. Still, I think they’re here to save me, no matter how preposterous the idea.

  The air turns cold all of a sudden, and dread seeps into my bones, alerting me to who is talking.

  “You should be more cautious about visiting, child,” the Washer Woman says, her voice dripping with such sorrow and pain, I physically ache.

  My instincts scream for me to leave before she catches me or lightning strikes the rocks, but my legs are frozen, my feet anchored in what feels like blocks of ice.

  Like a lasso around my neck, my head jerks toward a small break in the hedges. Fog rises from the river like plumes of smoke, masking two figures. Their dark silhouettes appear to be standing on the surface of the water. Both are tall and human in shape. Who is this other person?

  “You know why I come.” Daceian’s voice rings clear.

  Panic and terror blasts through me, melting the chill from my skin, and still, I can’t force my legs to move. What if they hear me? What will they do?

  “Preya,” Daceian says.

  My heart lodges in my throat. They know!

  “She’s not like the others,” he adds, and I can breathe again. “She’s smarter, braver, and irrational in a way that works to her advantage. We talk. She asks questions. She pushes the limits and it’s changing things. It’s making me stronger. I can influence my powers in ways I couldn’t before.”

  “This is not for my ears, Daceian. You know better.” Anger grates in his mother’s voice. The fog darkens to a stormy gray. “I cannot stop the consequences if we’re caught.”

  Caught? By who?

  “Then help me,” Daceian implores. “Tell me the right answers to seek. She could be the—”

  “Silence,” she bellows. Lightning strikes in the fog, bright and blinding.

  The hair on my arms stand. I shiver and cover my ears to lessen the loud boom that often follows a bolt like that. It never comes.

  From the hedge, a black snake slithers around my feet. It’s orange tongue flickers from its mouth with a hissing sound. The tail brushes over the toe of my slipper. I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from shrieking. It circles back into the bush, leaving me in tremors—part from the snake and part from the situation.

  I need to run away. I want to, but they might hear me.

  Footsteps shuffle over debris, drawing closer. I squat low to the ground and hold my breath. The snake could be beside me in the bush, waiting to strike. The Washer Woman could enslave me for a year after my service for breaking the rules. This could be it for me. The end.

  “What is it, my dear?” the Washer Woman asks, the endearment sounding off in her glum voice.

  The footsteps stop on the other side of the hedge. “It’s a snake,” Daceian replies so close that if I stuck my hand through the shrub, I bet I could touch his leg. “A big black one. We’re fine.”

  “We are never fine.” His mother declares. “Stand back so I can kill it.”

  Daceian’s shoes shuffle away.

  I need to go. Now. Rising, I lift the hem of my dress and run.

  Light flashes through the woods. Thunder clashes and a whoosh of air sends me stumbling forward. I fall and throw out my hands to catch myself.

  Water gushes behind me, like the falls at Mount Loras. I glance over my shoulder, terrified its rushing toward me.

  A wall of water crashes over the hedges where I was squatting a moment ago. I blink, not trusting my eyes. Like a flood, the water sweeps away the hedges and recedes to the river.

  I jump up and push my legs to go as fast as they can. My heart pounds. Every part of my body shakes. I can’t breathe or think, but I keep going, afraid any second the Washer Woman will call for me and I’ll be forced to greet her.

  CHAPTER 10

  The trees blur as I sprint through the woods. A few times, I slip on the marshy ground. The river trails to my left, never far from sight. I could move toward dryer terrain but I’m afraid of getting lost. Then I’ll never find my way out of the woods or back to the cottage.

  I’m not running in that direction, though. When the Washer Woman demolished the hedge, I had no choice but to run farther away from the cottage to avoid being found.

  Part of me thinks I should go back to the cottage. I’m already at risk. Another part thinks if I’m to be punished for this, I might as well see my family one last time.

  Will I be punished? The cottage gave me permission to leave. Regardless, Daceian won’t like that I did.

  Guilt settles in my stomach. If he realizes I’m gone and is angry, I’ll explain myself and apologize. Maybe, he won’t know and everything will be fine when I return.

  With that thought in mind, I forge on, running toward home.

  In the distance, the white village appears through the trees. My leg muscles burn from my fast pace, but I don’t slow. If I do, I might stop and pass out, or worse, let fear send me back to the cottage.

  The village bridge comes into view. Thick brush grows between the trees as if the woods wants to keep me from escaping. Never slowing, I raise my arms in front of my face and plow through them. Thorny branches scratch my arms and hands. One nicks my cheek, another scrapes my neck and collarbone. My dress snags and tears at the hip.

  I break free, ignoring the sting of my wounds and keep running. Instead of crossing the bridge, I tread under it to keep from being seen. Not that anyone is out in town this week. The only time people leave their homes is before dusk when they meet in the castle chapel to pray to the Blessed Ones. They ask for mercy and compassion, but no one dares to ask for the curse to be broken.

  As the head Councilman, Mr. Dunn opens and closes the service. He warns villagers not to become greedy, reminding us that greed is what landed us cursed in the first place. People worship him as if he were royalty. I suppose he’s the closest thing we have, given his family has led the Council since the day it was established.

  Large rocks form a makeshift bridge across the river. I jump from one to the next until I’m on the other side. Grassy land slopes down from the wall surrounding the village. Keeping out of sight, I follow it to the entrance of town, where another bridge leads to our land and the manor.

  Sweat coats my skin, stinging the cuts on my body. Blood oozes from a few on my arms and hands. The wounds and my disheveled appearance won’t help assure my family
I’m doing well, surviving. I hope I don’t scare them.

  My muscles scream for me to stop. My lungs burn and ache with every inhale. Against my will, my legs slow to a fast walk. More than anything I want to lie down and sleep, after I guzzle a bucket of water. That can’t happen though, not until after I see my family.

  I come up from under the bridge that leads to our property and glimpse the white manor atop the hill. Home. Excitement gives me a second boost. I stride across the sunny field, the tall grass blowing in the breeze, and start up the long driveway to the manor.

  Magnolia trees line the way. At the top of the hill, I take a moment to catch my breath. I made it. I’m home. It seems unreal. Tears prick my eyes. I blink them back. They’ll be plenty of time for crying later.

  Colorful flowers brighten the gardens and perfume the air. The tops of blooming Crepe Myrtles sway in the breeze. Neighing sounds from the barn at the bottom of the small hill. Does Daisy sense I’m back? I want to see her too, but I know there isn’t time.

  I listen for the giggles of the girls, frolicking somewhere on the property. This time of day they love to play outside. The manor is quiet. Too quiet.

  My heart pounds faster, not that it had fully calmed from running here. I lift my skirt and hurdle the two steps to the front entrance. The big doors open with ease.

  The foyer and winding staircase seem darker. The air is stuffy like the house has been closed up for the winter. Where is everyone?

  “Father?” I call out, short of breath and cough.

  No response.

  “Girls? Girls! Where are you?” I take the stairs two at a time, my knees weak like they might give out.

  No one replies.

  On the way to their room, I pass Father’s open bedroom door. He sits in the chair by the fireplace, his head hanging forward as if he’s asleep.

  “Father?” I inch toward him as a new fear takes hold of me. What if he’s dead? “Father?” It comes out as a shriek.

  His head snaps up, but he doesn’t look at me. His gaze lingers on dried-out wood in the fireplace. Deep lines carve a permanent frown on his weary face.