Winter fell hard over the land of Steenbeck, bringing fierce blizzards that howled louder than starving wolves at the door. Thick snow and icy frosts drove the animals deep into their dens, and withered every growing thing until even the trees of the dense forests were shriveled and dry. The people in the city felt hunger’s pinch, those in the villages curled up around aching bellies at night, but the worst off, by far, were those living in the isolated cottages of farm and forest.
Among those who ate handfuls of snow to try to fill their stomachs, who felt their limbs shake with weakness as they set snares that remained empty, were the household of the woodcutter, Bergen.
Bergen had two children. Hayden, a tall lad old enough to be out on his own, and a younger daughter, Graciele, a clever girl, who had never known her mother. Though Bergen’s wife had died in childbirth, the children had inherited their mother’s coloring: dark brown hair, strong jawlines, and striking eyes the color of a clear green river, shading to dark amber in the center.
After his first wife passed, Bergen thought he might wed again, to provide a new mother for his children. Unfortunately, he chose poorly.
The new stepmother was a greedy woman who had married the woodcutter based upon the gossip that he possessed a secret store of silver. His first wife had come from a well-off merchant family, though after her death they moved away, cutting off contact with the woodcutter and his children. Surely, though, there were hidden riches in Bergen’s cottage.
When the new wife discovered that the only things of value he possessed were a silver platter, a necklace set with bright rubies, and four gold-chased crystal goblets, she became bitter and unkind. Especially as the woodcutter steadfastly refused to hand over the jewelry, claiming he was keeping the necklace to give his daughter when she came of age.
The only thing the stepmother brought to the marriage was her pet turkey, Tom: a bird as ill-tempered as his owner. The turkey lived in a pen next to the house, and was always fed the best scraps. When the winter storms blew, he was brought inside and fed acorns, snapping at anyone who came too near.
The stepmother took her own temper out upon the children, though Hayden shielded his little sister from the woman's wrath. Five years separated him from Gracie—enough that he was soon too big for the stepmother’s raised fist, and able to look after his sister when they went foraging in the woods.
“You should leave,” Gracie told her brother when he reached his fourteenth birthday. Though only nine, she was wise beyond her years. “Make a better life for yourself in the city.”
“I won't leave you,” he said. He shivered to think what harm might befall her if she were left to face their stepmother alone.
Every spring, Gracie told him to go, and every spring, he refused.
“Once you turn sixteen,” he told her, upon his own sixteenth birthday, “then we will go together to the city and find work.”
“I can go now,” she told him staunchly, her eleven-year-old hands closed into stubborn fists. “I'll work at the weaving mills.”
Hayden shook his head. He’d heard the tales of children worked to death in the factories, and refused to let his sister trade their meager existence at the cottage for an even worse fate.
Two more years eked by, their stepmother growing harder with each winter. She began to shoot him dark. pointed looks whenever he was near, despite the fact that he could bring in at least as much wood as his father. But the price of firewood had fallen of late, and Hayden had grown tall and well-muscled, with an appetite honed by his labors.
“He eats too much,” she said to his father. “Send him away so he will no longer be a burden to us.”
Hayden felt his father's gaze upon him and bent his head, pretending to be absorbed in the little wooden horse he was whittling beside the fire.
“I can't,” the woodcutter said. “It would break Graciele’s heart.”
The stepmother scoffed. “He spoils her. Better for the girl to toughen up. She needs to learn to stand on her own.”
For the next several days, Hayden tread carefully and ate little, despite the hunger burning in his belly. He tried not to mention how fat the turkey was, while he and Gracie grew thinner by the month. After a week had passed without his father turning him out of the cottage, Hayden knew he was safe.
For the time being.
Now, though, the winter wind whistled in around the door and windows of their humble dwelling. There were not enough blankets to keep them warm. Even the abundance of firewood was dwindling at an alarming rate, the heat quickly sucked from the heart of the wood by the frigid air.
The family slept as close to the fireplace as they dared. Hayden draped his gray woolen cloak over himself and Gracie, while their stepmother hoarded the warmest blankets for herself.
In the dead of winter, when the snow was as high as his waist and the world was muffled in white, the old year turned to the new. More bleak months stretched ahead, yet the pantry was bare. The root crops they’d stored had shriveled and frozen and crumbled away. Every day, Hayden went out in search of game, but there was nothing. Even the mice that lived in the cottage had disappeared.
One night, as the coals glowed sullenly on the hearth, Hayden heard his stepmother whispering into Bergen’s ear.
“Take your children deep into the forest,” she said, “and leave them there, otherwise we will starve to death.”
Their father made a sleepy protest, but Hayden could hear there was little heart in it. “What about the turkey? You said its time was coming soon.”
“It is. But think how much more there will be to eat, if there’s only two of us. Besides, Hayden is full grown. He’ll take care of his sister.”
For three nights in a row, in the small and bitter hours of the darkness, Hayden heard his stepmother whispering, her voice low and strange. Each time, his father's protests grew weaker, until, on the third morning, Bergen would not meet his son's eyes.
“Bundle up,” the woodcutter said to his children, a false heartiness in his voice. “I've heard there's a house deep in the forest, where we will find food.”
Gracie gave her brother a doubtful glance, but he sent her a silent look of confidence. His fingers closed around the white pebbles in his pocket, which he’d excavated from beside the frozen stream the day before.
“Hurry, now,” the stepmother said, holding out Gracie’s moth-eaten cloak. “The sun is up, and there's no time for breakfast. You can eat later.”
Anger shook through Hayden, and he nearly confronted his stepmother. Short of throwing her out into the snow and barring the door, though, there was little he could do—and his father would never allow it. Besides, unlike his stepmother, Hayden would not stoop to murder. Carefully, he banked his temper. Rage would only burn the precious energy he needed to keep himself and Gracie alive.
He belted on his dagger, then took his hunting bow from the wall along with a quiver of arrows, daring his stepmother to protest. Her lips tightened, but she shot a look at her husband and said nothing. When their stepmother's back was turned, he saw his sister take her gathering basket, then slip a small paring knife into her pocket.
Shoulders bowed, their father silently led them out of the cottage and into the woods. They trod the usual paths at first, but as the trees clustered more closely together and the light fought to break through the tightly woven branches, Hayden began dropping his pebbles.
He knew the forest well enough, but Bergen had been a woodcutter his entire life. As the hours passed, he led his children by unknown ways, deep into the dark heart of the woods.
Though it was winter, the densely tangled evergreens overhead trapped the snow, keeping it from landing on the forest floor. Here and there, drifts of white had broken through, but the woodcutter avoided the snow, or any place where they’d leave tracks. More proof, if Hayden needed it, that their father planned to abandon them with no return. They stepped over ground covered with rotting black leaves and shattered pine needles.
But with the help of the stones, Hayden hoped they’d be able to find their way out again.
From somewhere far away, a wolf howled. Gracie stumbled and he caught her by the arm, steadying her.
“I'm afraid,” she whispered in a voice too soft for their father to overhear.
“Stay strong, and don’t worry.” He squeezed her hand, trying to infuse her with hope. “I'll always take care of you.”
She gave him a somber nod, then turned and trailed the woodcutter into the depths of the forest. Hayden’s heart tightened in his chest. No matter what happened, he vowed to protect his little sister. With his own life, if necessary.
It won’t come to that, he told himself. They’d escape the forest, return to the cottage and gather up their few belongings and the things their mother had left them, and then go. For good.
He should’ve listened to Gracie and brought her to the city last spring, despite the fact she was still four years shy of sixteen. Had he known the grim winter that awaited, he would have.
It was obvious now that their cottage was no longer home. Leaving in the dead of winter wasn’t a happy thought, but the harshness of the icy road was still better than starving to death in the woods. He knew that, as long as their stepmother lived, she would never let them set foot in the cottage again.
With such dark thoughts for company, he followed his sister into the icy shadows, strewing the rocks behind them—patches of white shining like weak stars against the bitter ground.