When the girls are safely curled up on the floor, I take a long walk in the cold December night air just to get my mind thinking of…anything other than the feel of her in my arms, on my lips. My mind replays all we did, all I want to do, and I grab a fistful of snow off a broken castle wall and scrub my face in the cold, trying to shock the lust from my body.
No priest would ever take a vow of chastity if he tasted a kiss like hers first.
And I am no priest.
By the time I return to the room and carefully step over the warding spell Fritzi laid to protect us, snow evaporating from my cloak, I find that the fire burning inside me, ignited by her touch, has not cooled in the least. I wrap my cloak tightly around me and lie down about a meter away from Fritzi, trying to put some distance between us, but still close enough to the fire that I won’t freeze. I need sleep. We both do. Tomorrow we’ll venture into the Black Forest and find God knows what—although, hopefully, also my sister—and we need our strength and our wits about us.
I count to a hundred. A thousand.
And eventually, I sleep.
When I wake up, she’s in my arms.
Despite being asleep on the dirty stones of an abandoned castle, my entire body is relaxed because she lies beside me. The rightness of it, of this woman in my arms as I awake—it leaves me breathless. Fritzi is curled up with her back against me, her hands tucked under her face, the length of her body pressed against mine. Her hair spills over my shoulder, and my left arm is under her waist, my right draped over her side.
The dawn outside is gray and cold. Fritzi is still asleep; from her gentle, huffing snores, I know Liesel is too. I stay perfectly still, unwilling to break this moment. Even asleep in the dead of night, we found our way into each other’s arms. I close my eyes, wishing for this moment to last. I smell her skin, her hair, her.
With a soft sigh, Fritzi stirs. My arms tighten around her. Her body tenses in confusion then relaxes into acceptance. She wiggles around so that she can face me.
“Good morning,” she whispers, nestling into my arms.
We are millimeters from each other, and while a day ago I would have denied myself this temptation, I have no desire to ever deny myself anything when it comes to her. I lift my arm, brushing aside her blond hair and exposing her neck. My fingers trail along her soft skin, and she shivers, a delicious sensation that electrifies my body.
I lean up just enough to lick the shell of her ear and whisper, “It will only be a good morning after I have had a good night with you.”
She arches up, her arms snaking around my neck and pulling me against her. My mouth trails down her jaw, nibbling and kissing and tasting. She is a feast I will spend the rest of my life starving for.
Fritzi stiffens. “Liesel is waking up,” she whispers.
“Bespell that child to sleep more,” I groan.
Fritzi smacks me gently, but not before I see a gleam of contemplation in her eyes, as if she is really considering my suggestion.
“Is there any krapfen left?” Liesel asks without opening her eyes.
Fritzi bats my hands away when I try to keep my hold on her. Groaning, I roll away from her, trying to realign my mind with the tasks at hand rather than indulge my body in the fantasies it wants to make real.
“You ate it all,” Fritzi says.
Liesel shoots up. “If there’s any outside, I’m eating that.”
“That’s an offering for the forest folk!” Fritzi protests.
“Maybe they left some for me!”
Liesel darts outside, and Fritzi and I both follow. She skids to a stop in front of the little altar of snow they made last night.
The krapfen is gone. While it’s possible an animal came and snatched the food, the bottle I left is gone as well.
In its place is a different bottle, made of rare bright blue glass, not pottery, and stoppered with a wax seal.
Both Liesel and Fritzi turn from the bottle to me, eyes wide.
“Is that…normal?” I ask.
Liesel shakes her head, blond braids snapping. “I always leave out an offering at Yule, and I never get anything back.”
“No one does,” Fritzi says. “We leave the gifts because it’s tradition. But…”
But someone left a gift for us in return.
“I think it’s for you,” Fritzi adds, rubbing her finger over the vivid color.
“Why did they have to leave beer?” Liesel mutters. “They could have given us more pastries.”
I step forward, my hands shaking as I reach for the bottle. It’s cold from being stuck in the snow, but the insides are still liquid, dark brown.
“Should I…?” I ask.
“Drink it?” Fritzi says, although her tone is a little doubtful. “Maybe. Open it, for sure, but smell it first…?”
I peel away the wax and yank out the cork. There’s a hiss and a pop, the sign of a fresh beer. I sniff the content—nutmeg.
It…can’t be…
Without hesitation, I raise the bottle to my lips and sip. I pull it back, eyes wide in shock. “This isn’t just any beer,” I say. “This is my sister’s beer!”
“Beer is beer,” Liesel says.
I shake my head furiously and take another swig. There’s no doubt about it. Hilde used her mother’s recipe, and even if the regulations on beer stated not to add extra ingredients, Hilde always added nutmeg to the brewing process, just as my stepmother taught her.
“This is Hilde’s,” I say again, wonder in my voice.
Fritzi and Liesel start discussing what this could mean. But as I drain the bottle, relishing in the taste of home, my eyes drift over the trees. This castle is ruins now, but it had been built in a highly strategic part of the province, a hill that overlooked not just the Black Forest, but also the town of Baden-Baden below, and—
Something’s wrong. The peaceful, snowy landscape is dotted by jet black, cloaks winding up the road.
“Fritzi,” I say, and the tone of my voice makes the girls stop talking immediately.
I point over the side of the broken wall.
An entire regiment of hexenjägers march up the hill toward us. It’s impossible for us to see all the way into the city of Baden-Baden from this angle, but no doubt there’s chaos on the streets. Has he possessed someone else? Is he coaxing the guards of Baden-Baden to work with him by using some magical influence to bend their wills to his? It doesn’t matter. What army of man could survive when facing a witch like Kommandant Dieter Kirch?
“We have to run,” I say, barely able to process the shift from feeling safe to knowing we’re not. “Now!”