Eighteen

That afternoon, I pushed my way carefully through the crowd gathered in front of the church until I stood at Elena’s side, my full basket heavy on my arm. Simon stood on her other side, with two of his brothers.

Max had stayed at the bakery to keep Tom away from Jeanne and Sofia. And to avoid reminding a village balanced on the razor’s edge of paranoia that there was a new face in town.

It would take very little for the crowd to decide Grainger was right. A blood moon. A bad batch of ale. A moldy sheaf of wheat. Such minor disasters were regularly attributed to an evil influence, and with Grainger’s accusations so fresh, any one of them might be enough to change the minds of most of the village.

“Have you heard anything?” I whispered. My fear for Grainger had kept me from getting any further rest. He could be pilloried and whipped, or he could just be fined. Or, if the tribunal believed that he intended to kill Romy, he could face execution. Likely a hanging.

But it wouldn’t come to that. Not even the village gossip accused Grainger of intending to murder the poor child.

“Nothing yet,” Simon said with a frustrated frown. “I can’t understand how all this came about. Grainger is a good man, and I can’t fathom him making up such a story, with no cause.”

“And yet, here we are.” Elena sighed. “The tribunal has been in there for nearly an hour.”

I adjusted my basket in the crook of my elbow, trying not to choke on my own guilt. “Has the crowd been waiting that long?”

“Only some of us,” she whispered, nodding toward Grainger’s mother, who was wringing her hands hard enough to turn her fingers purple. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for her, with her husband sitting in judgment of her son. “I don’t think anything like this has happened in Oakvale since—” Elena’s mouth snapped shut, but I knew what she’d been about to say.

Since your father.

But my papa’s situation was very different from this. Grainger wasn’t suspected of being a werewolf. They wouldn’t be tying him to the post in the center of the square and piling fuel around him.

No matter what the tribunal decided, we wouldn’t have to watch Grainger burn.

I could only hope the same remained true for Tom and Romy.

“This must be so hard for you,” Elena whispered, and I nodded. “Have they called you in to stand witness?”

“No.” And they probably wouldn’t. Grainger’s guilt would be determined entirely by the judgment of the priest, the captain of the village watch, and the local lord’s estate manager, acting in his stead. None of whom had been present during the event. None of whom had spoken to anyone about what happened, except Grainger, and possibly his mother, as a character witness.

I found it agonizing to know that though I’d gotten him into this, I had no way to help him without damning the entire Paget family.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Elena added, but her typical optimism was belied by the worried crease of her forehead.

Simon must have heard that same concern in her voice, because he turned to give her a reassuring smile, which warmed my heart even as it triggered an ache deep in my chest.

Grainger used to look at me that very same way.

“I have to make deliveries,” I told Elena. “I’ll be back.” Though it looked like most of the people I’d be delivering to were assembled in that very gathering.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, clearly not fooled by my excuse.

“I’ll be fine,” I lied, though I wanted nothing more in the world than a return to the days when I could confide my deepest, darkest secrets to her. To a day when those secrets would have nothing at all to do with the dark wood.

I made my way through the village as quickly as I could, delivering the loaves I’d pulled from the oven that afternoon, taking payment in the form of smoked meats and winter vegetables like turnips, cabbage, and potatoes from those who were actually home. I dropped my full basket at the bakery with Max—my mother had gone back to the Pagets’ to check on Romy—and returned to the gathering outside the church just as the doors were being opened.

Elena reached for my hand as the priest stepped forward and began to speak. “We have gathered here today to hear evidence against Grainger Colbert on the charge of attempting to murder a small child. Monsieur Colbert was given every opportunity to admit his guilt and beg the tribunal for mercy, but he insists that his aim was true. That the child he fired an arrow into is actually a wolf, capable of changing its appearance into that of a little girl in order to corrupt the good souls of Oakvale.”

Monsieur Colbert and the baron’s representative stood on either side of the priest, and while Father Jacque spoke, Grainger’s papa stared at the ground with one hand on the pommel of his sword.

“It is our judgment, absent any witness to support his claims, that Monsieur Colbert is feigning madness in order to excuse his carelessness and ineptitude in the position of village watchman. He was appointed and armed in order to watch over the village—trusted with our very lives—and he has betrayed that trust by gravely wounding one of our most defenseless citizens. We therefore demand the removal of Monsieur Colbert from the village watch—along with the removal of his right hand.”

A gasp went up from the crowd.

“Oh no . . .” I whispered, as dread sat heavy within me. “No, no, no.”

“At least they don’t want his head,” Elena whispered in return, her hand tightening around mine.

But that was little comfort, considering the reality.

With only one hand, Grainger wouldn’t be able to work at the sawmill. He would have trouble mounting a horse, plowing a field, or even swinging an axe, which meant it would be very difficult for him to provide for himself. To maintain his own dignity.

“The sentence is to be carried out immediately,” the priest announced, drawing silence from a crowd determined not to miss a word. “Please gather in the village square.”

“No, no, no . . .” I moaned.

“Adele,” Elena whispered, a warning for me to be quiet as the crowd began to flow around us like the current of a river.

My mouth snapped shut hard enough to jar my jaw, and I could only stare as two members of the village watch pulled Grainger from the church. His father stood by, watching stoically, while his mother fought tears.

“No!” Grainger shouted, pulling on the rope that bound his wrists. “Don’t turn a blind eye to evil among us! Romy Paget is loup garou! She will be the undoing of this entire village! She and her family must undergo trial by fire!”

The crowd split down the middle, and I stared at the ground like a coward as Grainger was hauled past me toward the massive stump at the near end of the village square. A man was beheaded there once, before I was born, but that stump hadn’t been bathed in blood in my lifetime.

“Adele!” Grainger shouted, and I flinched. Then I made myself meet his gaze. “Tell them the truth! Tell them what you saw! Don’t betray your neighbors amid the threat of corruption from the dark wood!”

Eyes turned my way, and I felt the gazes on me like bugs crawling over my skin.

Elena slid her arm through mine and held me close. “Don’t listen,” she whispered. “He’s just desperate to save his hand. None of this is your fault.”

But this was all my fault. Guilt was a ball of flames burning in my gut, scorching me from the inside. My own personal trial by fire.

Grainger kept shouting as they dragged him toward the stump, where another member of the watch already stood, holding an axe. The tribunal must have alerted him of the verdict before it was announced.

They untied Grainger’s wrists, then they forced him to his knees and pulled his right arm forward so that his hand lay over the chopping block.

“No!” Grainger shouted, flailing so that the watchmen had to press down on his shoulders to keep him in place. “To hell with you all!”

I couldn’t watch. But I couldn’t let myself leave. I couldn’t spare myself entirely from the painful spectacle, because it was my fault. Because the very least I could do was remain present for the injustice I had heaped upon a man I’d hoped to marry. A man I would probably always love.

I knew the axe had been raised by the gasp of the crowd, and a second later, I heard the gruesome thunk of a blade into wood.

Grainger screamed, an agonized sound like nothing I had ever heard. Tears filled my eyes, and I opened them to see his mother wrapping the end of his right arm in cloth.

His hand lay on the ground beside the bloody tree stump the axe was still embedded in.

“The devil take you all!” Grainger shouted, while his mother tried to make him hold still, so she could wrap his wound.

His father turned and walked away.

“Adele?” Max stood in the bakery doorway as I approached my home, his face pale and drawn from lack of sleep.

Tom sat at the table, rolling a ball across the surface, from one hand to the other. He seemed anxious, glancing frequently toward the open door, as if the tension in the village were setting him on edge.

Behind him. Jeanne and Sofia played with dolls, seemingly unaware of the gruesome event going on right outside the door.

“Not now.” I brushed past Max into the cottage, and on my way into the back room, I realized that my sister and her friend were reenacting the tribunal’s sentencing announcement with their dolls, having evidently heard the event through the open window.

My stomach lurched, and I struggled to hold down my lunch. “Stop that,” I snapped.

Sofia looked up at me, her eyes wide and scared, and I realized that the girls weren’t acting out what they’d heard for fun. They were trying to understand. “Was Madame Gosse right?” Her chin quivered. “Has Grainger lost his mind?”

“No.” I sank onto a stool at the table, facing the girls. Aware that Max was listening. “He’s just . . . confused.”

“And he’s lost his hand, because he shot Romy?”

“It’s complicated, but yes.” I glanced at Jeanne and found her listening closely, her lips pressed firmly together.

“And you’re not going to marry him now?” Sofia asked. “Because he’s lost his hand?”

“That’s not . . . That’s not why I can’t marry him, chère. It’s complicated. At the moment, things are very . . .”

“Complicated?”

“Yes.” With a sigh, I stood and brushed hair back from her face. “I’ll explain it all as soon as I can. For now, just . . . stay away from the forest. Okay?”

She rolled her eyes. “I always stay away from the forest.”

“Good. I love you.”

“I know. Love you too.” Then she picked up her doll, and I headed into the back room.

“Adele.” Max followed me through the curtain.

“Please don’t. I can’t look at you right now,” I told him. “I know that’s not fair. This isn’t your fault. But Grainger’s lost his hand—he’s lost everything—and you’re standing there whole.”

“I—” He exhaled slowly. “That’s true. And I’m sorry.”

“That you still have both hands?”

“That he doesn’t. That my arrival wasn’t the joyful occasion I’d hoped it would be.”

And he did look sorry. Though he’d done nothing wrong. He also looked exhausted.

I sighed as I sank onto the edge of the straw mattress Sofia and I shared. What happened to Grainger was not Max’s fault. It was mine.

“Have you slept?” I asked him. “You can sleep here for a while, if you want. I’ll watch the children.”

“Thank you, but if you don’t mind, I should go to Monsieur Girard. I’m sure he understands my absence, considering the day’s events, but I am supposed to be helping him.”

“Of course. Go. And give him my best.”

“I’ll be back tonight,” Max said as he put on his cloak.

When he’d left, I went back to the main room to get started on the next day’s bread orders. As I worked, I watched Tom. He played with a ball for a while, rolling it across the floor until it hit the wall and rolled back to him.

Once I’d covered the unbaked loaves of bread and left them to rise, I sat next to the boy on the floor, determined to pull some information out of him. I needed to know how much he understood and whether he could speak. I had to know what it was like to grow up in the dark wood—half human, half wolf—and whether a whitewulf pup could be taught not to kill humans.

After all, aside from biting Romy out of frustration, he hadn’t attacked anyone in Oakvale.

“Hi,” I said, and though he looked up, he didn’t otherwise acknowledge me. “Are you hungry?” I asked, but he only blinked at me. “I’ll get you something to eat if you tell me you’re hungry. Or even just nod your head.”

Tom picked up the ball and rolled it across the floor again.

“Please say something. Just tell me that you can understand me.” Had he stopped speaking after the trauma of losing his mother? Or were whitewulf pups mute?

Despite her transition, Romy could still speak.

The front door opened, letting in a frigid gust of wind, and my mother stepped inside. The bags beneath her eyes had grown dark and puffy from lack of sleep.

“Sofia, bundle up and take Jeanne outside to play,” she said as she took off her cloak.

“Okay!” My sister stood, her doll forgotten. “Tom, come with us!”

“No, Tom needs to stay here,” my mother said.

“But—”

“Go, before I change my mind and give you chores.”

Sofia and Jeanne pulled on their cloaks and mittens and disappeared outside.

“How’s Romy?” I asked as my mother sank onto a stool at the table.

“She’s doing very well. Too well.”

“What does that mean?” I set a tankard of ale in front of her.

“Her wound is healing too quickly, and there’s no sign of fever. I don’t think her mother has noticed yet. She’s as occupied with praying as with tending the wound, and she’s inclined to believe her prayers are being answered. But I fear there’s another cause.”

“Do whitewulfs heal quickly?”

My mother shrugged as she lifted her cup. “I don’t know anyone who’s ever studied a whitewulf, beyond the lay of its fur as trim or lining for warm clothing. But the pace of the child’s healing is not natural. Her parents will notice that soon.” She exhaled slowly. “Are you still determined to handle this yourself?”

I nodded.

“You’re certain? It must be done tonight.”

“I’m certain. I’ll leave with the pups as soon as I’m sure the rest of the village is asleep.”

Her left brow rose. “With Max.”

“Yes, with Max.”

“Adele, I know this isn’t what you want—”

“This isn’t about what I want. I understand that.”

“I know. I’m just saying . . . This won’t be easy, and once you’re out there, you might be tempted to just . . . leave them.”

I blinked, trying to hide my surprise. To hide my intention.

My mother sipped from her tankard, then she set it down and took my hand. “I know that would be easier for you to bear, believing you’d spared them, but Max is right. If you leave them out there, you’ll just be condemning them to slow starvation at best. While that might be easier for you, it won’t be for them. And if they were to somehow survive . . .”

Any consequence from my decision would be my fault. My guilt to bear.

That’s what she was saying.

She took another long gulp of ale, then she met my gaze frankly. “Chère, I need to know that if I send you out there, you’ll do the right thing.”

I swallowed my guilt and doubt and gave her a firm nod. “Mama, that is exactly what I intend to do.”

Max returned for dinner, and Jeanne finally went home, insisting she could help her mother care for Romy. We had no excuse to stop her, so Mama and I let her go, hoping that Romy was no longer in enough pain to make her lash out and bite.

Max joined us at the table for stew made from the last of Gran’s venison roast, but Tom wouldn’t move from his pallet, so I took a bowl to him.

“Why won’t he go near the hearth?” Sofia asked as she tore a chunk from the fresh loaf my mother had set on the table. “Isn’t he cold?”

“Tom doesn’t like fire,” my mother told her. “He seems to be scared of it.”

Sofia turned to him with a curious look while she chewed a bite of rye bread. “You don’t need to fear fire unless you stick your hand into it, silly goose. Or unless it catches on cloth, or on the walls.”

Or, unless you’re tied to a stake in the middle of the village square. Not that Sofia had any memory of our father’s death.

Tom blinked at her. Then he poured stew straight into his mouth from the bowl.

We ate in silence after that, and when I looked up from my food, I realized that Max and my mother were both staring at the table, evidently mired in the same guilt and dread that had stifled my appetite.

Nothing would be the same after tonight. Not for the village, and not for me. And certainly not for the Pagets, whose only mistake had been to take in the little boy I’d found in the woods.

I forced down the rest of my dinner and cleared the table, and I was headed into the back to rest until Sofia made a happy little sound. When I turned, I found Max pulling his sketch book from his pack. “Oooh, are you going to draw? May I watch?” she asked, scooting her stool closer to his.

“I thought I might. And yes you may.” He gave her a somber smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes, and I realized he was looking for a distraction. Because he was as bothered by what we were going to be doing in a few hours as I was. By what he thought we were going to be doing, anyway.

“What’s that?” Sofia asked, as I crossed the small space to look over his shoulder.

“It’s a crossbow. I saw some soldiers carrying them a few months ago, and I asked one if I could sketch his weapon. He was kind enough to oblige.”

The page in front of him held a detailed sketch of the crossbow he’d given me, with dimensions and materials carefully labeled, and as I stared at it, I realized that Max had intentionally hidden this page from me when he’d first showed us his sketch book. Because he hadn’t yet given me the weapon he’d made.

He turned the page, and I found myself looking again at the little cottage he’d drawn. Presumably the cottage he’d built for us. And suddenly I couldn’t look away.

Max’s cottage seemed so perfect. So peaceful, when my life in Oakvale was rapidly descending into chaos and violence. The temptation to chase such an ideal was almost overwhelming.

But escaping to Ashborne with Max wouldn’t be leaving those things behind. The violence—my destiny—would follow me, wherever I went.

Max turned another page, and my sister’s eyes widened as her gaze caught on the next drawing, the last one in the book.

It was incomplete, but I recognized the forest scene immediately.

“Oooh, what’s that? Some kind of beast?” Sofia frowned. “It just looks like a snake with spines down its back.”

“See the lady next to it?” Max leaned over to point at the figure. “She’s there for scale. That snake is twice as long as she is tall.” And though the snake was just a suggestion made of several long, faint lines so far, the woman was fully detailed, including her hooded, fur-trimmed cape.

“She looks like you, Adele!” Sofia squinted at the drawing, and when she tried to bring a candle closer, I blocked her arm, afraid she’d drip wax on the book. “It looks like you’re fighting the snake!”

I glanced at Max, and for the first time since I’d met him, he seemed . . . embarrassed. As if he were nervous for me to see that page. “It isn’t done,” he said. “I’m not sure what that giant snake really looks like.” Because we’d extinguished the lantern in order to tempt it toward us.

But he knew exactly what I looked like.

I looked fierce, in the drawing. Strong and confident, as I faced down a beast reared up to my own height and nearly twice my width, with its broad, thick neck.

“Perhaps Adele might have some ideas,” my mother said softly. “About how a basilisk should look.”

For a moment, I could only stare at the drawing. Was that how he saw me? Did I seem so confident to him? So ready to charge into danger? Had he not seen my fear? Had he not heard the race of my pulse, with his well-trained ears?

The girl in his drawing could do anything. He believed that, and his belief had come through in the sketch. The girl he’d drawn could walk into the dark wood and sacrifice two small children to save an entire village, and she could come out of that experience stronger. Tougher.

More monstrous, in the way a guardian should be.

I did not feel like that girl.

“I’d guess that the spines should be longer,” I said at last. “Longer than my arms. And the fangs should drip with venom.”

“Thank you,” Max said, his gaze holding mine.

Sofia glanced back and forth between us. “Draw me!” she demanded, throwing her arms out. “I want to fight a troll!”

I grabbed the candle before she could overturn it. “Paper is in short supply, and it’s very expensive,” I told her.

“But you’re even more precious,” Max insisted. “As soon as I finish this one, I will start another. ‘Sofia and the Hideous Troll!’”

She beamed adoringly at him as she returned to her seat at the table.