Every year on my birthday, I walked to her grave to kneel and remember. Always alone. Nearly everyone had forgotten my mother, my father included, but not me. My eighteenth birthday dawned bright and clear on the last day of winter. Slipping out of Father’s cabin, I paused to pull my overcoat tighter. The worst of the cold season may have been over, but the forest still clung to its fearsome chill.
Taking the crisp air into my lungs I set off, savoring the opportunity to stretch my legs. Not three paces on, an old insecurity checked my stride. My stepmother, Elain, often mocked me for strutting like a man. Ignoring the misery thundering in my veins, I walked the frost-gilded path toward the hollow.
The ancient tree still stood with snow-heavy branches, stripped of leaf and bud. The mound of tilled earth that covered my mother was overgrown with grass that had frozen, hard as iron.
I kneeled. The last year flowed out of me in cached whispers. The bad stuff came first: the abuse from my stepmother, my father’s willful ignorance.
Elain had stumbled into our lives seven years prior. The memory of that day was still fresh—it still stung. I’d been dragging my father toward the bakery, eager to eat my weight in pastries, when my world shifted irrevocably. It was my own fault. Born with the grace of an ox, I’d rammed into a doe-eyed woman selling flowers. A few flutters of her lashes and my father was flushing pink. Three months later, they married.
I tried to love her, but the secret slaps, hateful stares, and sharp insults prevented me. My father had believed her excuses, and Elain soon shut me up by threatening to poison me. On balance, this wasn’t even the worst of her viciousness. The years of insults left the deepest marks, chipping away at my soul one callous jibe after another. Death by a thousand cuts.
Finally, sick of sadness, I breathed, “It’s not all bad, Mama. Father’s given me leave to spend the day with Viola—no chores.” I tried for a smile and failed. “Although he almost didn’t let me go. What with the children going missing … and the fae. I had to lie and say I was going straight to the village, but I couldn’t break with our tradition.” I put two fingers to my lips. Pressing them to the earth, I added, “I should go—don’t want to be late. Sorry I didn’t come with happier news.”
I rose and took a shortcut through the forest, one that would take me to the village of Tunnock. Despite the abductions, I wasn’t afraid. It was too much of a relief to be free of the cabin. I’d spent years distancing myself from that house, walking the forest trails for endless hours, swimming in the river bordering our village. But my feet often turned toward John and Viola’s. Thank the stars for them. The local baker and his wife had been my mother’s only confidants in the village, and when she died, they’d become mine. Gods, I’d tried to make more friends, but my mother’s reputation for being unusual lived on, and I’d inherited the mantle—lucky me.
When I turned a corner on the trail, an icy blast of air slammed into me, snapping me from my melancholy. I pulled the collar of my coat tighter against the cold once again, and quickened my pace at the promise of hot tea. Maybe there would be muffins or cubes of heaven, otherwise known as chocolate.
The breeze also carried smells of wood smoke and animal waste, clear signs I was fast approaching the village. Telltale wooden huts and cabins appeared on the horizon; spotting the lingering snow covering the rooftops, I was reminded of the gingerbread houses John made every Yuletide. My mouth watered, and I jogged the rest of the way.
I came upon the village border—a spiked wooden fence acting as flimsy fortification. There was a gate of sorts, but it was rarely barred. The village was too far north to interest pillagers or highwaymen, and our greatest danger came from the predators of the forest: roaming wolf packs, a stray bear, and of course, the fae, and if the tales were true, there was no wall high enough or barricade strong enough that could keep those winged devils out.
As I passed through the open gate, the frost-glaze underfoot transformed into mud, squelching up the sides of my boots. I strode on through the village, and seeing Father’s forge on the right, I veered left. My father wasn’t there yet, but Gus, his apprentice, would be.
Father had hired Gus in my fourteenth year. At first glance, we’d appeared to be two sides of the same coin—all elbows and angles. But whereas I could eat for days, he came to us malnourished. Father took pity on him. So did I.
For months afterward, I’d visit him in the forge. Far too often he’d come in with an ugly bruise and his temper would turn evil; I’d have to stay away. Things only got worse after his own father died. Whenever I saw him then, his gaze, laced with violence, latched on to mine and his fists clenched as if he wanted to strangle me. Viola told me he carried a poison in him, that he needed to dull the edge of his pain like a knife needing a whetstone.
My aversion to Gus didn’t go unnoticed. I felt my stepmother’s eyes watching, calculating. Given her hatred for me, her sudden sly hints about advantageous marriages made me assume she’d heard the women gossiping about Gus’s growing notoriety—seducing girls with marital promises, and when their reputation lay in tatters, tossing them aside.
Those rumors were why I’d altered my appearance. At sixteen, he’d stared too long at my long hair so I’d cut it short. Then, his eyes roamed down to my budding breasts. Baggy dresses were my answer.
Today, I’d gotten lucky: Gus wasn’t in sight. The muted sounds of a hammer striking metal assured me he was in the back of the forge. I relaxed as I was greeted by a painted white door, with framed glass windows misted over from the heat brewing inside.
Viola and John’s cottage was small—just a few rooms added onto the side of the bakery—but it felt like home. I knocked and gave my shoes a swift tap on the mat while I waited. A moment later, the door swung open. Viola’s round face, crinkling blue eyes, and wiry gray hair welcomed me. She quickly waved me into a combined living and dining space, of which I knew every inch. The ceiling was supported by dark beams, hung heavy with sweet and mallow-scented bushels of herbs. Faded rugs covered the floor, and the paneled cherry-wood walls gleamed as the winter sun poured in. A fire already crackled and roared in the hearth, and a bottle-green couch and armchair had been artfully arranged beside it. The door on the right led to the bakery, but it was the large breakfast table in the center of the room that held my attention. Breathing in deeply, I savored the smells of cake and the fresh pot of tea waiting on a checkered tablecloth.
“Boots off, young lady,” Viola demanded, scowling down at the mud I was tracking in.
Kicking them off and placing them by the door, my stare locked onto the table again. I failed to hide a look of piggish delight, and Viola chuckled. “Darling, I’ve never known someone so in love with food.”
“Sorry,” I said, flinching.
She didn’t need to add the part about me not having the curves to show for it. Elain had exhausted that topic. Anger sparked in Viola’s eyes as if she’d guessed my thoughts—nothing, or no one, but Elain ever caused her to lose her temper like that.
Snapping shut the door, she waved a hand at the table. “Go, sit and eat.”
Settling in one of the wicker chairs, trying not to gobble up everything in sight, I waited for Viola to sit and pour the tea. Then I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I groaned, actually groaned, as the first crumb touched my lips. Blushing, I angled my head into what I hoped was an apologetic look.
Viola laughed. “Don't be silly. It’s your birthday. If there was ever a time when you’re allowed to indulge, it’s now. Besides, you know John loves it when people appreciate his food.”
At the mention of his name, John appeared in the doorway that joined the bakery to the house. I got a heavenly whiff of that warm deliciousness before he shut the door and held his arms out for me. I straightened, a muffin clenched between my teeth, and gave him a quick hug. As I broke away and sat to resume my feast, John clapped a hand on my shoulder. “So good to see you enjoying my baking.”