Mia had a dream that the wolf was circling her house, burning Alma with yellow eyes, waiting to devour her with moon white teeth. Each paw had sharp claws that sank into the wet earth. Mia saw deep indentations between each rib and dry, withered teats that hung with no milk. The wolf has found us, she thought in her dream. The wolf smells the weak.
Pushing herself up from the floor in front of the fireplace, she rubbed her eyes. She needed a few moments to blink and clear away the dream as she caught her breath. Alma slept on her straw pallet against the wall and seemed well. Bjorn’s mother slept in the chair by the fire. Mia reached out and touched her feet. They were warm, but to be safe, Mia covered them with the edge of Margarite’s long cloak. It hung too big for her now that she had shrunk with age and disease, but Mia did not want to alter the cloak. Margarite loved it. Any change would remind her of how much time had taken from her. The truth would be one more screaming wound in this world, a world without remedies.
Bjorn had not returned while she’d slept, Mia decided, judging from the iron pot left undisturbed over the fire. There were hot coals glowing white beneath it but no flames. Looking around in the moonlit shadows, Mia could not guess the hour. She would listen for church bells now that she sat awake. She began contemplating whether to keep dinner warm or begin to think of breakfast for Bjorn. Her mouth watered.
Bjorn had spent many nights gone since Alma’s birth three years ago. Better to police the town at night, he said, when the drunks kept business hours. Mia agreed, saying she knew nothing of men’s work. She would not doubt him. She did know that since the recent drama with that man Cronwall, Bjorn had to tamp down the wicked gossip that had infected the town. Some thought Cronwall was dead, even murdered. Some said he had abandoned Catarina for reasons best whispered in the ear. Not that anyone whispered in Mia’s. What news she heard in the market fell to her by accident, when women gossiped with their backs to her, unaware. Mia had good ears.
The white coals were fading to black. With a grunt, Mia pushed herself to stand. She would fetch another piece of wood from outside and then freshen herself for Bjorn’s return. Some heated water would be good too. She probably looked a horror.
“I’ll give you one last chance.” The man’s voice came from outside her door. The voice was clotted with rage. She did not recognize it.
Mia froze. She heard weeping, then a woman’s muffled cry, as if someone held a hand over her mouth. Her heart fluttering, Mia ducked down to the floor. Whoever they were might see her through the window. Had she let the fire burn too low? Would they think no one home and come inside? She wanted none of their trouble.
She heard the voices arguing and then a dragging sound. Something crawled toward the front door.
The woman spoke. “If you cannot stop yourself, then I will stop you.”
A low popping sound came next. The crawling, scraping noise stopped. Mia held her breath. She had one candle box by the door. The flame in it burned low, not even a thumb’s width high—probably too low to be seen from outside. But Mia crawled to it, picking up each knee with silent effort, and managed to snuff it out without making a sound. She breathed in shallow bursts, listening for the voices.
She heard the man speaking in ragged whispers. Silently, Mia crawled as fast as she could toward Alma, grabbing her blanket and covering her face completely. If they came in, the pallet might look tumbled but empty. She could do nothing about Margarite. Mia saw her kitchen blade and crawled to it next. She had to shuffle under the window to get to it, praying God would not let her make a mistake that alerted the couple to her movements. The shutters hung open, but she could not shut them from the inside. Whoever stood out there could simply stick his head right into her home and see her. Mia forced herself to breathe and think.
“I have not kept your secrets,” the woman said, weeping.
“Who? Who did you tell?”
Mia’s hand closed around the blade as she stretched for it. She blessed the weight of the blade in her hand, the glistening edge of the knife. Slowly pressing her back against the door, bone by bone, she sat and listened, willing her heart to slow down, breathing through pursed lips. The woman’s voice drifted softer now, as if she had moved farther away. The man’s voice changed to a plea, but Mia could no longer make out the details of their conversation. Mia heard a sharp crack, and she started.
She scooted along the wall a little closer to the window, twisting at the waist as she pulled up just enough to see out of the corner. A man stood silhouetted against the moon, his heavy boot on the back of someone on the ground. Mia stared at the shape lying motionless, wide, and flat. It’s the woman, she realized, with her skirts spread out around her.
Mia ducked back down.