said, and pulling her tight, she pressed her lips against her daughter’s icy brow. “Now go quickly, and let no one see you.”
On the other side of the village, behind the gate and past the thicket, beyond the rose trees, Rowan was just drifting off to sleep, her mind moving far from her body, when it was as if someone leaned in and whispered in her ear:
It’s starting
.
And then there came a barrage of images, each more odious than the next, as if painted on the backs of her eyelids by a wicked hand. Wresting herself from the clutches of sleep, Rowan sat up in bed, hand to her heart, and stifled a scream. She tried to slow her breathing and calm her racing heart, but she couldn’t still the sense that some vile creature was creeping ever closer, and that no matter what she might do, something terrible was about to happen.
The snow was coming down fast now, and Fiona moved on unsteady legs. What was happening to her? Where had her life gone? She longed for Lareina. She longed for her father. She had gone only a short way into the woods when she found that a crippling exhaustion bore down on her. There was something inside of her—something broken, and without it she was unable to move any farther. She climbed atop the remains of a fallen great oak, and letting her hair down, she watched as snowflakes slowly gathered in it, dotting the black with specks of glistening white.
She searched her emotions, but she found only fear: fear of her home, fear of life, fear of herself. Lareina had told her to go to the Greenwitch, but she found that she feared her too. How was she, a girl so unused to being by herself, so used to having all of her decisions made for her,supposed to find her way through the dark to the house of a stranger? Why should she trust her, this Greenwitch she’d never met? She put her face in her hands, and she wept.
And then suddenly she realized that maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought. Tom. She’d only just met him, but she trusted him. She would be safe with him; she was certain. Pulling herself up to stand, she ran through the snow, a wild gallop through the trees, and a few moments later, she was standing beneath what she hoped was his window. She threw a pebble, then another, and then a third and final one. And she waited there below, tugging her cloak tight against the cold.
When Tom heard the noise at his window, he thought it must be hail, but then he saw the gentle snowflakes falling, and knew it could be no such thing. No, someone was throwing pebbles. He stilled himself and then moved to the pane. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw there beneath him. Her cheeks and lips were flushed especially red—crimson, even—and her dark eyes sparkling below seemed to call to his very soul. He opened the window.
“Hello,” she said, smiling up at him like she’d always known him.
“Hello,” he managed to say.
“Come down,” she said, and then she moved quick as an animal, darting into the trees, and she was gone.
Breathlessly, he pulled on his trousers and slipped intohis boots. Grabbing his coat, he was off and out the door as if his very life depended on it.
The snow was falling in steady swirls. The weather, which had appeared docile from his bedroom casement, now obscured his vision and made him unable to see her footprints. He headed into the trees after her, and had run only a few steps when an arm shot out and grabbed him. For a second that arm seemed otherworldly, almost as if it were there but also weren’t, caught between two realms, misshapen by his perception. And for a moment, the only thought that ran through his mind was of those men on the mountain, their bodies strewn about in the snow, and he screamed in terror. He could not help himself.
“It’s just me,” she said softly, and then he saw her again, the light of her, and moved to touch her, to press his lips firmly to hers, to crush her against him, but then he noticed that the skin around
On the other side of the village, behind the gate and past the thicket, beyond the rose trees, Rowan was just drifting off to sleep, her mind moving far from her body, when it was as if someone leaned in and whispered in her ear:
It’s starting
.
And then there came a barrage of images, each more odious than the next, as if painted on the backs of her eyelids by a wicked hand. Wresting herself from the clutches of sleep, Rowan sat up in bed, hand to her heart, and stifled a scream. She tried to slow her breathing and calm her racing heart, but she couldn’t still the sense that some vile creature was creeping ever closer, and that no matter what she might do, something terrible was about to happen.
The snow was coming down fast now, and Fiona moved on unsteady legs. What was happening to her? Where had her life gone? She longed for Lareina. She longed for her father. She had gone only a short way into the woods when she found that a crippling exhaustion bore down on her. There was something inside of her—something broken, and without it she was unable to move any farther. She climbed atop the remains of a fallen great oak, and letting her hair down, she watched as snowflakes slowly gathered in it, dotting the black with specks of glistening white.
She searched her emotions, but she found only fear: fear of her home, fear of life, fear of herself. Lareina had told her to go to the Greenwitch, but she found that she feared her too. How was she, a girl so unused to being by herself, so used to having all of her decisions made for her,supposed to find her way through the dark to the house of a stranger? Why should she trust her, this Greenwitch she’d never met? She put her face in her hands, and she wept.
And then suddenly she realized that maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought. Tom. She’d only just met him, but she trusted him. She would be safe with him; she was certain. Pulling herself up to stand, she ran through the snow, a wild gallop through the trees, and a few moments later, she was standing beneath what she hoped was his window. She threw a pebble, then another, and then a third and final one. And she waited there below, tugging her cloak tight against the cold.
When Tom heard the noise at his window, he thought it must be hail, but then he saw the gentle snowflakes falling, and knew it could be no such thing. No, someone was throwing pebbles. He stilled himself and then moved to the pane. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw there beneath him. Her cheeks and lips were flushed especially red—crimson, even—and her dark eyes sparkling below seemed to call to his very soul. He opened the window.
“Hello,” she said, smiling up at him like she’d always known him.
“Hello,” he managed to say.
“Come down,” she said, and then she moved quick as an animal, darting into the trees, and she was gone.
Breathlessly, he pulled on his trousers and slipped intohis boots. Grabbing his coat, he was off and out the door as if his very life depended on it.
The snow was falling in steady swirls. The weather, which had appeared docile from his bedroom casement, now obscured his vision and made him unable to see her footprints. He headed into the trees after her, and had run only a few steps when an arm shot out and grabbed him. For a second that arm seemed otherworldly, almost as if it were there but also weren’t, caught between two realms, misshapen by his perception. And for a moment, the only thought that ran through his mind was of those men on the mountain, their bodies strewn about in the snow, and he screamed in terror. He could not help himself.
“It’s just me,” she said softly, and then he saw her again, the light of her, and moved to touch her, to press his lips firmly to hers, to crush her against him, but then he noticed that the skin around
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