There was nothing the girl loved more than visiting her Poppy. He told the most marvelous stories. And, unlike her mother, he did not send her to bed with the sun. They stayed up late before the fire, taking tiny sips of a substance called choc-o-late. A gift from the queen herself, the dark, creamy liquid was new and very dear. And though it smelled wonderful, the taste was so bitter on her tongue it made her mouth pucker. Still, the girl adored her grandfather and so pretended to like it.
During the day they read together or took long walks in the garden, where she memorized the names of all the plants and flowers. At night, they stood beneath the clear sky and he pointed out the magical beings that made up the stars.
Riding in front of her grandfather on his great horse, the girl was sad their visit was over, though she had missed Mother and Papa. The veered off the rutted forest road and trotted down a sun-dappled lane that wove through the trees. As the last leaves of blazing autumn drifted down to crunch beneath the gelding’s hooves, the girl breathed the brisk morning air and blew it out in a pleasing cloud of white.
“I like the way the forest tastes today, Poppy,” she told him.
“Tastes?” She felt his chuckle rumble against her narrow back. “You can taste the forest?”
“Of course I can.” She giggled. “Can’t you?”
Her grandfather filled his lungs as the girl instructed, holding his breath until she gave him leave to release it.
“Ah,” he said. “I believe I understand. But tell me what you taste, so that we may compare.”
“Well,” she said. “I taste oak leaves and green moss. Rose hips and hazelnuts that the squirrels have hidden away.” She sniffed at the air, smacking her lips to make her grandfather laugh again. “There are juniper berries and holly, and ice that hides in the shady spots. Now you go.”
“Hmm,” her grandfather mused, smacking his own lips, hidden as they were beneath gray whiskers. “Why, I believe you’re right, child. There is all that, along with a sweet bouquet of white ash and beech, and mulch that covers the forest floor. That thick layer will protect tender seeds as they sleep away the cruel winter. This part of the forest is old. Very old, though it shrinks each day as more and more people rob its precious bounty.” Her grandfather leaned down. His beard tickled her cheek as he whispered, “I smell snow coming, and if I don’t get you home before it arrives, your mother shall take a strap to the both of us.”
They laughed together at the thought of her mother with her quiet voice and soft hands, chasing her own father around with a shaving strop.
The girl’s grandfather pulled in a huge breath. “Ah,” he said. “And if I’m not mistaken, I believe there is a hint of venison stew with turnips, new-baked bread with butter and strawberry preserves on the air today.”
The girl giggled again. “That is silly, Poppy. How can you taste stew when we are so far into the . . .”
The tiny cottage appeared out of nowhere, as though it had sprouted like a mushroom from the crackling forest floor. The house was seated a ways back from the trampled path, and blended so cleverly among the huge trees and massive, moss-covered stones the girl had to squint to make out the walls of speckled river rock and the slant of its thatched roof.
“It’s a fairy cottage,” the girl breathed.
Her grandfather chuckled again. “No, child, though I will grant that the lady who lives here was once as lovely as the fair folk themselves.”
He slid from the horse and helped her to the ground. He tied the bay’s lead to a branch, then took her hand in his, whistling a tune as they followed the narrow path of flat stones that led to the cottage.
At the edge of the clearing that surrounded the home, the girl smiled, charmed by the neat little structure with its tidy herb garden and green shutters. “Who lives here, Pop—?”
Her grandfather’s hand clamped over her mouth. He yanked her back into the trees. “Hush,” he whispered, as he shoved her behind him.
Kneeling, he peered around a large trunk and scanned the clearing.
“Is something amiss?” the girl whispered. She did not care for the look on her grandfather’s wrinkled face. And when he only put a finger to his lips in reply, she pressed her doll harder to her chest.
She did not laugh this time when her grandfather sniffed at the air.
The sweet, nutty breath of the deep woods carried a scent of smoke. Nothing strange in that, she thought. The day is cold. The owner likely lit a fire to ward off the chill.
But why was her grandfather frowning so? And why had the forest gone so suddenly silent? Even the birds had stilled their chatter.
A horse whinnied, the sound rolling out from somewhere behind the cottage. A sudden crash from inside made her jump. Her grandfather went rigid. The girl edged over so she could peek around the tree. The door of the sweet cottage hung ajar and at an odd angle, half ripped from its hinges. Through the open doorway, she saw an orange light as flames bloomed inside. Shadows moved against the wall. Several rough-looking men stepped out, followed by a broad man clad in the Spanish manner.
The girl’s grandfather stiffened as he muttered, “The Spaniard.”
Fire began to eat through the thatched roof, spreading quickly to send a plume of white smoke into the sky.
“Poppy?” she whispered, but he was already tugging her back through the trees.
“We must leave,” he said. “Now.”
He tossed her onto the saddle and pulled himself up behind her. The gelding raced down the rutted path, faster and faster, until the wind stole the girl’s breath and she had to duck her head to keep from swallowing air. Her grandfather’s urgency as he commanded the horse to hurry, hurry, hurry twisted her stomach into knots.
Her fists tightened in the coarse mane when she heard a faint shout behind them. The gelding’s powerful muscles strained, and her grandfather’s long beard brushed against her cheek as he leaned low, shielding her body with his own. “Hear me well, child. A village lies just ahead. I am known there and I believe its people will shelter us. When we stop, do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
The girl nodded. She wanted to ask who they were running from, but fear had frozen her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
One, two bends in the path and they were racing through a collection of several dozen thatched huts set around a stone well.