Page 6 of Lily of the Valley

The other man was wild auburn tresses and eyes as green as the forest around them. Like a fox turned human, right down to the air of mischief that surrounded him. "What do you want to do?"

"Get the wolf," the dark-haired man said.

Lily whimpered. "No wolf, no…"

"I'll watch her while the others keep those mongrels confused. Go!"

Standing, the foxy one said, "Back in a moment." Then he was gone, as though he'd never been there at all.

Lily tried to speak, ask questions, but all she did was cough more blood before passing out again.

The Woodcutter

She woke in a dim room, surrounded by warmth and softness, the soft crackle of a fire.

A cabin. Lily sat up—then hissed in pain and slumped back down, one hand going to her ribcage.

Her hand was bandaged. Most of the arm. So was her chest. Must have cracked her ribs or something. Ah, the curse of small breasts. If she'd had large breasts, like Penelope or Clarissa, she'd have simply bounced off what she'd hit and been nothing more than bruised.

Shaking her head slightly at her absurd thoughts, she braced herself and sat up slowly, carefully, gritting her teeth against each sharp pain.

When she was as comfortably upright as she could get, nestled against a pile of pillows that smelled like woodsmoke and cinnamon, she gave the cabin a good look over. A fireplace took up most of the farthest wall, one of those big ones meant for essentially running the home: warmth, cooking, heating water for other chores. Lily had never been in a home like this, but she'd seen pictures and read extensively.

There were rugs across the floor, made of what looked like scraps of cloth, and more of the same hung over the windows that framed the door that likely led out of the cabin. There was another door to the right of the fireplace. Bedroom? Larder? Workroom?

Herbs and dried fruit hung from the rafters, and the left side of the fireplace was filled with cupboards and drawers, likely to store dry goods and the like. The bed she was in was exactly opposite the fireplace; the only other furniture was a sturdy chair by the fireplace and a table pushed up against the wall with a bench for seating. The walls were covered with all manner of tools, from weapons to traps to crafting and cooking equipment.

There wasn't so much as a painting to give the place a spark of life, though the quilt she was under was pretty and meticulously made.

Where was she? How had she gotten here?

She had a hazy memory of voices in the forest, but that could have been a dream for all she knew. Well, delusion was probably more like it, given how much her head was starting to hurt. She hadn't hit her head, though, had she? She remembered running into something… had she struck her head in the landing?

On a more positive note, maybe this meant she'd lost her pursuers. Surely they wouldn't be able to find her now. Or maybe they would be able to, and she should leave before she put her unseen rescuer at risk. That would absolutely be the right thing to do, though it pained her not to linger and give proper thanks for the life saving help. For the life saving, end sentence.

She'd just started to shove away the beautiful quilt when she recalled a vital flaw in her plan, mostly because just twitching them reminded her forcefully: her feet. They'd been bloody and throbbing, so badly it shot up her legs. She wasn't going anywhere until her feet healed sufficiently.

Lily pinched her eyes shut. This wasn't fair. She needed to be home. She needed to be helping her people. Stabbing Ferdinand right in his stupid face.

But not fair was the thinking of a child and wouldn't help anything.

She stared at her hands. One had been bandaged, so she must have hurt it in all her running and flailing. The other was scratched and bruised, leaving her brown skin mottled with lurid purples and blues and blacks. They were likely from smacking branches and such in her haste. Her nails, so meticulously painted in a soft pink, pretty but properly neutral, were broken and ragged, the paint chipped in some places, somehow completely gone in others. One nail had torn to the quick, leaving the finger throbbing.

Gods, she must look a fright. Like a hooligan, not a crown princess.

Not a queen.

Lily closed her eyes more tightly, pressing her balled up hands to her temples, desperately trying to will away the memory of her father being shot. Bleeding out in front of her. She hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

Had any of her friends survived? Or had they been cut down by those despicable Black Wolves? Lily would round them up and hang them, the bastards. She'd make Ferdinand watch and then stab him in the face.

First, though, she needed to heal. She couldn't do anything else until she could walk properly.

The door opened, bringing in the smell of earth and recent rain—and a tall, broad woman who looked like she spent more time with bears or wolves than people. At that, she probably did, living all the way out in the middle of nowhere.

"You're awake," the woman said, shrugging off the fur draped over her shoulders and hanging it on a hook by the door, along with an axe and other items. "How do you feel?"

"My feet and ribs hurt, but that's to be expected. Thank you for saving me, Mistress…?"

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