Nineteen

At the end of a day of baking, our back room was the only room it was comfortable to be in, caught, as it was, between the heat of the oven in the front room and the frigid air leaking through cracks in the walls now that the sun had gone down.

My mother put Tom to bed on his pallet on the floor, then she and Sofia curled up on her bed, and I insisted that Max sleep in the one Sofia and I normally shared, so he’d be alert enough to help me with our middle-of-the-night task.

When they were all softly snoring, exhausted by the events of the past couple of days, I lit a lantern and bundled up, then I trekked across the village square to the Colberts’ cottage.

Grainger’s mother answered my knock on the door wearing a cloak over her night shirt. “Adele,” she said by way of greeting. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and she looked wide awake, in spite of the hour.

“Bonsoir, Madame Colbert. I’m sorry to bother you so late. I just wanted to check on Grainger.”

“That’s kind of you, chère, but he’s finally asleep. I think he’s developing a fever so I’d rather not wake him.”

“Of course. But would you mind . . . I mean, can you tell me how he’s doing? How he seems? Is he still saying . . . those things?”

Madame Colbert glanced over her shoulder into the warmly lit cottage. Then she stepped outside with me and pulled the door closed, huddling close to the wall to block the wind. “He has not veered one bit in his telling of the incident. His father and I thought that with his fever, he might be frightened into telling the truth. Or, at least, he might be incapable of maintaining the fantasy he’s woven, in the grip of illness. But he is steady in his assertion that Romy Paget is a werewolf, and that she is a corruption that will spread through this village like the plague, if no one listens to him.”

I exhaled slowly. “Well, that is very . . . unfortunate.”

“I have to admit, I can’t entirely bring myself to dismiss his claims,” she whispered. “After all, the great deceiver is known to work in such ways. And how better for the devil to insinuate himself in a village like ours than to target an innocent? A child, at that? You were there, non? Is there any chance you’re mistaken in what you saw? Can you think of anything that might have given Grainger such certainty, in such a frightening occurrence?”

“No, I’m sorry to say.” It pained me to lie to his mother almost as badly as to lie to Grainger. “The only way I know of to account for his insistence in this matter is that he truly believes what he’s saying, mistaken though he is.”

“And you’re certain he’s mistaken? That we have no reason to suspect the Pagets?”

“I’m quite sure they are innocent.” Saying that was a risk. If Romy bit someone or exposed herself in some other way, Madame Colbert might accuse me of covering up her corruption. But I owed the Pagets as much as I owed Grainger. Maybe more, considering that they were about to lose their daughter. “Please give Grainger my best, when he wakes. And tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” I could feel Madame Colbert’s gaze on me as I crossed the square again.

In my own cottage, I sat at the table for a long time, looking at Max’s sketch book by candlelight while I listened to my sister snore, trying to pass the time until I was sure the rest of the village was asleep. Trying to distract myself from a consuming plague of guilt.

A month ago, despite my fear of the dark wood and the monsters that inhabit it, I’d been exhilarated by the idea of my newfound destiny. My pulse had raced every time I’d stepped into the forest, and every beast I felled had felt like an accomplishment. Like both a service to my village and a personal triumph.

I’d never in my life felt so needed—so intrepid—as I had when I’d stepped out of the woods with Tom, convinced that I’d saved him. That I’d found my true purpose.

But now . . .

I’d thought protecting Oakvale would feel rewarding, even if I could never take credit for my efforts. I’d expected to feel noble and courageous, content with my bruises and exhaustion because I knew I was making a difference.

I didn’t expect the guilt. I hadn’t understood, when my mother told me how difficult my role would be, that she wasn’t talking about the hunt. She was talking about the secrets. The lies. The impossible choices.

The sacrifice of one life for another.

That’s what made us monsters. It wasn’t the fur, or the claws, or the teeth. It wasn’t the speed, or the strength, or the eyesight. It was the choices. Brutal decisions that often had to be made in the heat of the moment.

Decisions I would have to live with for the rest of my life.

When the moon rode high in the sky, I blew out my candle and stuck my head out the front door. The village was quiet. Nothing was moving, and I couldn’t see a single candle lit in a single window.

I was supposed to wake up my mother, to say goodbye and listen to any last-minute advice. I was supposed to wake up Max and bring him with me. Instead, I said a silent goodbye to them both as they lay sleeping. Then I knelt next to the little boy asleep on his pallet between the beds.

“Tom!” I whispered, shaking his leg gently.

His eyelids fluttered, but once they were open, he focused on my face almost instantly. The child clearly had no difficulty seeing in dim light.

“Wake up, mon cher. We’re going to go for a walk.”

Tom sat up, his eyes bright and alert, despite the late hour. When I handed him the worn pair of shoes the Pagets had given him, he put them on without hesitation, though he was still clad in nothing else other than the borrowed tunic he slept in, which came to his knees.

I put on my red cloak, settled the strap of my crossbow over my shoulder, and slid three bolts into my quiver. Then I led Tom outside without bothering to take a lantern, because without Max’s company, we wouldn’t need it.

“We’re going to get Romy,” I whispered, and though he didn’t say a word, I swear his eyes shone brighter at the mention of his friend’s name.

Tom followed me down the path and around to the side of the Pagets’ cottage. “Stay here,” I whispered, squatting to put myself at eye level with the child. “And do not go after their chickens. Okay?” But when he only blinked at me, as usual, I realized I’d have to take the chance that he’d understood. And that he wasn’t hungry.

I snuck back around to the front of the cabin and quietly opened the door. The fire had been banked for the night, but I could see well enough in the dark to know that Madame Paget lay on the floor beside Romy on a makeshift pallet, beside a bowl of water and a cloth bag of herbs probably used for a poultice. It was no doubt easier to nurse an injured child in the main room in front of the fire than up in the loft, where I could hear her sister snoring softly.

For a moment, I stood quietly watching mother and daughter sleep, debating the best way to remove Romy without rousing Madame Paget. Should I try to lift her and hope she didn’t wake up screaming? Or should I shake her gently and hope she didn’t wake up screaming?

Finally, I knelt at the child’s side and lightly shook her shoulder, hoping Madame Paget was exhausted enough to sleep through my interruption.

Romy opened her eyes, and I shushed her with one finger laid over my lips. Then I grabbed the small pair of shoes drying on the hearth and motioned for her to follow me out the front door.

It was frighteningly easy to get her out of the cottage.

“Where are we going?” she whispered as I led her around the side of her home. But the second she saw Tom, she abandoned me and raced over to throw her arms around him.

She didn’t say a word to him, nor he to her, but they held each other for several seconds, and the scene was so tender that I hated to ruin it, despite the urgency of my errand.

“Here. Put your shoes on,” I said at last, and finally Romy disentangled herself from Tom’s embrace, so she could do as I’d said. There wasn’t even a glimmer of distrust in her gaze when she stood again and looked up at me. Romy had known me her whole life, and she would do anything I asked her to.

And Tom, it seemed, would follow her to the ends of the earth.

“Where are we going?” Romy asked again as I took her hand and led the children down the dirt path in the center of the village.

“We’re taking a walk.” I expected her to object to the late hour, or the dark, or the cold, until I remembered that she’d already been out at night at least twice in the past week, hunting the village chickens.

The hour and the darkness didn’t bother me either, but the cold was another story.

When we spotted a lantern ahead on the path, I tugged both children into the Rousseaus’ barn, trying not to think about the time I’d taken shelter there with Grainger, both of us soaked from the rain.

We huddled at the back of the small building in a mostly clean pile of hay, while Elena’s father’s horse eyed us uneasily.

“Why are we here?” Romy asked, and when I shushed her, she repeated her question in a whisper.

“Because we don’t want to be seen by the village watch.”

“Why not?”

“Because they would . . . make us go home.” The truth was much more complicated than that, of course. They would question us. And no good could come of that.

“Are we not supposed to be out?”

“Not really.”

“Why are—?”

“Romy,” I whispered, deciding to put an end to her questions by asking a few of my own. “How’s your shoulder?”

“It aches a bit,” she said with a shrug.

“May I see?”

The child pulled down the neckline of her sleep shirt, and I gasped at what I saw. Where there had been a bloody wound the night before—a grisly hole in her flesh—now there was only a shiny red patch of scar tissue. The area still looked swollen, but the wound was completely closed.

I’d noticed since my ascension that my bruises faded quickly, but I’d never seen anything like this.

“Has your mother seen— I mean, what does your mother say about the wound?”

“She says it’s a miracle. And she said that I should keep it covered with a poultice. To keep air from the injury.”

“It isn’t covered now,” I pointed out, and Romy frowned.

“There was a poultice on the wound when I went to sleep. It must have fallen off while we were walking.”

And if it was found, there would be evidence that the child had wandered off during the night—a habit Romy had already established well on her own. Yet my part in this would weigh heavily on me, even if no one else ever suspected me.

All I could do was take solace in the knowledge that I was giving them as much of a chance as I could.

“Romy, do you remember what happened last night?”

She shook her head. “Jeanne says Grainger Colbert shot me, but I don’t remember that.”

“Do you remember going out after dark?”

The child nodded slowly, as if she were thinking very hard. “Tom was hungry, so we went to find some . . . meat.”

“Tom was hungry? Was he with you last night?”

“Yes. We . . . Well, we went out, but I can’t remember what happened after that.”

“How do you know Tom was hungry? Did he tell you that? Does he speak to you?”

“He doesn’t use words. But I know what he needs.” Romy’s voice carried a note of pride as she glanced at the boy standing mute at her side. “He makes sounds, and I understand them. They just . . . make sense.”

Would I understand him, if I heard the sounds? Would a redwulf be able to comprehend a whitewulf’s . . . language?

“Romy, do you understand what’s happened to you?” I asked, kneeling in front of the children.

Her hand went to her shoulder. “Do you mean the arrow?”

“No. I mean what’s happened to you since Tom bit you. Do you remember anything from the nights you’ve snuck out with him?”

For the first time since I’d woken her in the middle of the night, she looked worried. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“You’re not . . . ? Who told you that? Was it my mother?” I asked when she hesitated.

Romy shook her head. But who else could it possibly have been? Who else could know what was happening, yet care enough about Romy to keep her secret? To instruct her to keep her own secret?

“Romy, was it your mother?”

Slowly, the child nodded.

I exhaled, long and slow, trying to draw my thoughts into line. Madame Paget knew, and she hadn’t turned her daughter over to the tribunal. Nor had she told anyone.

“Did your mother tell you to say that you don’t remember sneaking out?” I asked, and Romy’s lower lip began to quiver. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. You can tell me the truth.”

Finally, she nodded again.

“But you do remember?”

Another nod.

“How did your mother find out?”

“She saw us in the yard. When we were . . .” Romy shrugged.

“When you were changing?”

The child’s eyes widened as she stared at me. “You know?”

“Yes, I know. And I would never tell.”

“I didn’t mean to do it. To . . . change.” Her eyes filled with tears, and her lower lip quivered. “But I couldn’t help it.”

My heart cracked open. “It’s okay. I’m going to take you somewhere where it’s okay for you to change.”

Her frown deepened. “Into the dark wood? That’s where Tom wants to go, but he’s scared to go alone.”

I couldn’t blame him. “Do you know why he wants to go there?” I asked, and Romy gave me another wide-eyed shake of her head. “Because that’s where he’s from. That’s where he belongs. He’s lost his mother, but he might have other family out there.”

“Is his family like him? Are they . . . like me?”

“Yes. Yes, chère, they are.”

“Will they take care of me?” she asked, and I was startled to realize that she understood more of what was happening than I’d expected.

“I hope so.” I really, really hope so.

“Can I . . . can I come back, if I don’t like it there?”

“No, chère. I’m sorry, but it isn’t safe for you here anymore.”

Her forehead crinkled with worry. “But it’s safe in the dark wood? With the monsters?”

“I hope so.” I couldn’t bring myself to lie to her. Yet neither could I make myself tell her the whole truth. That Tom might not have any family left. That even if he did, he might not be able to find them. That even if he found them, they might not want to add a new pup to their pack.

That I would basically be abandoning both children alone in a forest that was full of monsters and impenetrable to daylight. Because the alternative was their immediate death.

“I don’t want to leave my mom and dad.” Romy’s chin began to quiver again. “And Jeanne.”

“I know, chère. And they don’t want you to leave. But they don’t want you to be in danger from the village, either. So we need to get going. Are you ready?”

Romy turned to Tom and took his hand. Then she gave me a brave little nod. “I’m ready.”

“Okay. Let’s go.” I took Romy’s other hand and guided the children to the barn’s entrance, where I peeked out, on alert for the glow of a lantern or the echo of footsteps. When I found neither, I led them outside, but this time we avoided the dirt path and snuck through fallow fields, trekking from shadow to shadow.

We continued through the pasture on the edge of the village, then across the dirt path that circled Oakvale. Beyond that was a small expanse of grass—dead and frozen in the winter—then the ring of torches and the edge of the dark wood.

Romy hesitated, tugging on my arm when I tried to cross the path. “It’s okay,” I whispered, desperately hoping I was right. As small as she was, it was difficult to imagine her ever growing into the vicious, snarling beast I’d fought during my trial, but the possibility that she would infect someone in the village was real and immediate enough to keep me from turning back, when all I really wanted to do was return both children to a warm, safe bed.

Not that my mother would let them stay there for long.

So I took a deep breath and led them into the dark wood.

I didn’t have a lantern, and we had no destination in mind, so there was no reason to stick to the path. Yet it felt odd to strike off into the wood itself, even with my hatchet in hand and my crossbow hanging at my back.

Romy clung to my hand as we stepped over exposed roots and ducked low-hanging branches. The children seemed able to see as well as I could in the dark, but while Tom appeared happy—relieved?—to be back, Romy looked terrified to the point of near-panic.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Look at Tom. See? He’s not scared.”

“That’s because we’re here with him.”

“And he and I are here with you,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but—” Romy’s head whipped toward the left, her eyes suddenly searching the darkness. “What was that?”

I hadn’t heard anything other than the ambient nighttime sounds and the constant slithering of vines through the woods. But Tom was staring in the same direction, his entire frame tense and on alert.

Were their ears better than mine?

“What do you hear?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” Romy said. “But Tom doesn’t like it.”

Probably not a family member, then.

A second later, I heard the sound. At first, it was a series of dull thumps, accompanied by a cascade of soft cracks. But with every passing second, the sounds got louder until the footsteps became thunderous and the cracking sounded less like the crunch of twigs beneath someone’s foot than like the splintering of entire trees.

Romy started to wheeze as her breaths came faster and faster, her hand tightening around mine until her grip threatened to break my bones. Tom began to back up, pulling her with him until her hold tugged my arm as well. I tried to let her go as I slid my hatchet back into its loop on my belt, but she clung to me until I had to pry her fingers loose so I could get to my crossbow.

“Get behind me,” I whispered as ahead of us, the top half of a tree broke off and slammed into the forest floor, sending a tremor beneath our feet. And finally, I saw it.

A troll. I’d never seen one, but this beast looked enough like the image my mother had described that I recognized it immediately.

It was twice my height, its skin an indeterminate shade of gray with an oddly smooth, almost lustrous texture that seemed to reflect what moonlight my redwulf eyes were able to see. Its head was huge, with facial features marred by odd, knobby skin growths.

“Stay back!” I whispered to Romy as she and Tom scurried behind me, arms wrapped around each other, eyes wide.

Bracing the crossbow on the ground, I pulled back the heavy iron lever to tighten the string, then I laid my first bolt in the groove on the stock.

The troll barreled toward us, huffing with each expansion of its massive lungs. Drool dripped down its chin, because its oversized, blunt teeth seemed to prevent its lips from entirely closing. The beast roared as it lunged at me, and my stomach roiled from the odor of rotting flesh, where remnants of its last meal were still stuck between those enormous teeth.

I would only have time for one blow before it reached us, and if that blow wasn’t fatal . . .

I sucked in a deep breath and took aim, high overhead. Then I pulled the trigger.