“He won’t be alone—”
“Ena.” He cut me off with a little growl. “I’ve already told you. Only five of them signed up for tonight and they need at least six to patrol the forest.” Again, his features thawed at my open mouth and pleading eyes. “My place is with them. Both as a man of this village … and as a father,” he finished quietly—soberly.
I stilled as his warm eyes met mine. That familiar steady stare wore me down. We both had iron wills, but he so rarely showed affection nowadays. Perhaps, he knew that. Maybe this was his way of showing he still cared.
Father’s eyes flitted to my open palms on the table as if he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned to Elain and said, “Now, where’s that delicious blueberry tart I can smell? I’m ravenous.”
Or maybe, he’d just wanted to stop me nagging.
Elain simpered and sat on his lap, practically purring.
Feeling embittered, I slipped off to my room upstairs. The door shut behind me and I fell against it, closing my eyes and breathing heavily. I forced calm into my veins and with one great effort, straightened and looked around my sanctuary. It was all I had: this small room with its single bed pushed up into the corner, the chest of drawers that doubled as a bedside table, and a few shelves where I placed my most prized possessions. I’d stacked these with the books my mother had taught me to read by; a bow and a quiver of arrows, which remained the only weapon my father had let me train with; and most importantly, several shells from my mother, which she’d claimed to have picked off the beach. Every night since she gave them to me and whenever I closed my eyes I saw the ocean—a breathing, living beast that roared at me to join and swim and play among its waves.
I pushed myself away from the door and walked over to sit on my quilted bedspread. The light was failing, so I lit a candle on the bedside table and waited.
Twenty minutes later and with a stiff back, I watched through my window as my father left the house. His hood was up and his lantern guided the way as he strode to the tree line. He stopped and turned in the growing velvety dark. My throat bobbed when he raised a hand in farewell. For once, I knew it was for me. Not Elain. I lifted my arm and forced myself to give him a little wave. It came out as more of nervous twitch but he seemed to appreciate it, because he waved back before wheeling around and disappearing into the shadows.
I stayed awake, staring out the window until all I could see was my face and the candle flame reflected in the glass. I scowled and stuck my tongue out at those angular cheekbones, pale skin, and the smudges of violet under my eyes that darkened as the night deepened.
Hours later, my eyelids dropping and the candle sputtering and dying beside me, I breathed onto the windowpanes, making little clouds of mist and idly drawing shapes in their wake. While tracing a star and a crescent moon, I saw it. A lantern in the distance. I jumped and ran for the door. Racing down the stairs, taking two at a time, I clattered into the living space. Cursing at the dark, I felt my way to the door. I knew this cottage inside out, so it didn’t take long before I was feeling for the iron handle. Wrenching the door open, a light blinded me. My father cursed and lowered his lantern. But when I dared another peek, blinking between the fingers of my outstretched hand, a shape came into view. Too short and wide to be my father.
“Who’s there?” I asked warily.
“Serena,” replied a familiar voice.
“John? Where’s Father?”
“I’m so sorry, Serena.” His voice stumbled.
“What’s going on?” Elain appeared from my father’s room—or should I say “their” room. Wrapping a robe around herself, she scowled into the light. “Hal? Is that you?”
“No, it’s John Baker. I came … I came to tell you both that Halvard’s gone—he’s dead. Gus dragged his body back from the forest on his own. I took him to Martha; she thinks it was a heart attack. Dr. Fagan insisted on seeing him as well, and he’s agreed on the cause.”
The world tilted; the ground slipped out from under my feet. Just before darkness claimed me, I heard someone scream.
There was a soft slide accompanied by the grind and grunts of men lowering the casket. That coffin contained my father. The sounds of people weeping freely beside me, the keening laments and the smells of the damp graveyard dirt—I tasted bile as I realized why this felt so familiar.
I didn’t cry.
The grief and despair didn’t burn and twist and shred the way it had with my mother. I didn’t know what that meant about me—more importantly, I didn’t want to know.
The funeral blurred past while I continued to be absent in spirit. Then, a hand appeared on each of my shoulders. Viola and John stood, flanking me. They muttered something, and I felt myself being steered away.
They soon had me bundled into their cottage. Viola marched me over to the couch and swaddled me in blankets until I could scarcely move. Not that I had any intention of doing so.
After they’d tried and failed to get me to speak, they whispered to each other in the corner of the kitchen.
“John, she’s in shock. She has to stay. I’d sooner die than let that woman near her.”
“Vi—we can’t keep Elain from her forever. Serena might be of age, but she’s still her daughter by law. You know she won’t let this go.”
“I don’t care,” she hissed. “She’s not going back. Mark my words, there’s a sickness in that woman, and if the will doesn’t name Serena as his heir, there’s no telling what she might do—”
John cut across her. “Vi, don’t say such things.”
I felt their eyes on me then. But I’d barely registered their words, preferring to disappear into the bleak landscape that was my mind.
Minutes later, or perhaps hours, someone pushed a mug of tea into my hands. I held it there with no intention to drink it, not even feeling the warmth. Nothing felt real, my body least of all. My mind detached and played with the idea it wasn’t me, Serena, sitting on their couch, but a corpse instead. Staying as still as possible, I held my breath and watched the flames dance in the hearth, willing its heat to bring me back to life. There was only ice coating my bones, and even in this baker’s cottage with a fire blazing, it wouldn’t melt.
Chapter 2
The Evil Stepmother
I spent every moment curled up on John and Viola’s sofa in the week that followed. The only exception occurred on the sixth day when the reading of the will took place. John accompanied me to the Village Hall; Viola stayed behind. I didn’t ask why, but I suspected she was afraid of what she might say if my father had left everything to my stepmother.
Baird, the Chief Elder, ushered us into his office in the back of the Hall. Elain was already there waiting and didn’t even bother to look up as we entered. Then, my father’s last wishes were read out to us.
The cabin had been left for Elain and me to share until I got married, at which time the house would transfer to my husband. The forge was to be divided between me, Elain, and Gus who would manage the business.
My stepmother struggled to conceal her fury, and even risked provoking Baird by insisting she read the will for herself. I seized the opportunity to slip out with John and make it back to the bakery without her following. Once we’d caught Viola up, she was more stunned than anyone. It seemed we’d both sold my father short. He’d not only secured an income for me through the forge, but a house and a dowry. My prospects of making a good match had increased tenfold overnight. Despite a touch of relief that I wasn’t suddenly a pauper, I knew in my heart that nothing good could come of provoking Elain. The next morning, my stepmother turned up on the doorstep.
“She can’t stay here for the rest of her life. She’s my daughter!” Elain yelled at Viola, as she blocked the doorway.