Rose Red woke up. She was covered in sweat yet very cold.
Those dreams! They grew more horrible with each passing night, and sometimes she could not shake them even as day drew on. “Just a dream,” she whispered, trying to force her heart to slow its racing. “Just a dream, nothin’ more.”
She put up a hand, realized that her face was bare, and hastily felt around for her veil. Not that there was anybody near besides Beana, but she did not like to take chances.
It was chilly in the cottage. She had not lit a fire in the hearth for many months now, nor had she attempted to mend the thatch. It was more like a shed these days than a home, an empty, inhospitable shed. Beana slept in the center of the one room, and Rose Red lay with her head pillowed on the goat’s shaggy back. She sat up now and drew her veil over her head, listening for the familiar sound she knew she would not hear.
The old man’s snoring.
How long had it been now since . . . since everything?
Rose Red got up carefully so as not to disturb Beana and stepped through the sagging cottage door. How long had it been since she’d had a proper meal? Much too long ago to calculate! How long since she’d had a proper night’s sleep? Several weeks now at least. Not since the boy had returned to Hill House.
She made her way into the yard. It was a shambles these days, and the kitchen garden was overgrown with weeds save where Beana had nibbled them down. Though the night was dark, Rose Red could see it all clearly through the slit in her veil, but she turned her gaze away and passed into the forest.
The watching and unhappy wood.
She did not know how intently it watched her, though she felt the tension running through the very bones of the mountain. Was the wood’s unhappiness connected with her own?
The shadows fell deep and solemn where she walked. She caught a gleam of white in the darkness and recognized at once her Imaginary Friend. But she turned away, shaking her head. She did not want to imagine anything right now.
A thrush sang in the darkness. Then she heard the soft rustle of wings and a light weight pressed into her shoulder.
My child, said the thrush in the voice of her Prince. Why do you scorn me?
“I don’t want you,” said Rose Red, trying to shrug the little bird away. “Scat.”
You are weary with sorrow. Allow me to comfort you.
“Some comfort you are.”
Have I not promised never to abandon you?
“Is that so?” She took hold of the gently gripping claws with her gloved fingers and wrenched the bird from her shoulder. It fluttered from her grasp and settled on the ground before her, the white of its breast luminous in the darkness. But Rose Red turned away and continued down the mountain. “Make me some more promises, why don’t you? Promise imaginary food to keep off starvation. Promise imaginary shelter to keep me warm. Promise a whole town full of imaginary folks what will pretend they don’t hate the very sight of me. Promise to give me work so that I might pretend to live again!”
The thrush took to the air and followed her. She did not see it, for her head was bowed. “Promise imaginary medicine what can pretend to heal,” she whispered, “even after hope of healin’ is long gone.”
My child—
“Stupid fancies!” she growled. “Why do you trouble me so? You when I’m awake, him when I’m sleeping! Cain’t you just let me alone?”
The bird spoke no more, at least not that she heard. The silence of the wood fell heavily around her. How long, she wondered, since she’d spoken a word to another person? Beana didn’t count. She was only a goat, after all, and so couldn’t really talk, for all she was the best friend Rose Red had.
Leo had been her best friend once. But that was years ago. He wouldn’t remember her. Not the way she remembered him.
She’d seen the carriage climbing the hill from her perch in the topmost boughs of the grandfather tree. Somehow she’d known it must be he. But the thought gave her no joy.
She emerged from the forest onto the path and continued on down. “I ain’t goin’ to the house for him,” she muttered to herself as her feet padded softly on the hard dirt. Her quick eyes darted about, for even at this darkest hour of the night it wouldn’t be impossible to meet one of the mountain folk coming or going. That was the last thing she wanted. And as she approached Hill House, she must watch all the windows for any sign of a candle, any indication that some member of the staff might yet be awake or even rising early for some odd duty.
There was none, so she climbed the garden gate into the yard.