Page 36 of Song of the Dark Wood

“Rowan, you know better. That’s blasphemy in the eyes of the Mother,” the Crone warned. Her eyes bore no judgment, just curiosity.

“I can’t let those men use me like that. Isn’t what I’ve done enough?” Rowan asked desperately. “Isn’t it enough that I have given up everything else—family, love, all light in my life?”

“You need something beyond the Mother’s light?” the Crone challenged.

Rowan scoffed. “As if her light has ever shone on me. I’ve spent my whole life in the dark about everything. Apparently, her light is reserved for those who relish in my misery.”

The Crone’s face was inscrutable.

“I really have to settle for being a sacrifice?” Rowan pressed. Her voice was as pathetic and small as she felt. “The Wolf said he and the Mother banished a greater evil with their bargain.”

The Crone sat preternaturally still. She had a knack for weaponizing silences, whereas Rowan couldn’t stand to sit with her thoughts. She spent enough time in meditation during the week, and she’d grown restless over the years, using much of her time to teach herself to play the piano.

“You should leave that alone, girl. Your sacrifice is bigger than just our town. There are sinister things beyond your wildest imagination,” the Crone said.

Rowan huffed out a sigh and changed tactics. “Why can I sing plants back to life? What is the purpose? Have all Red Maidens been able to do that?” The words burst from her lips in a hushed frenzy.

The Crone looked at Sarai. “Leave us.”

Sarai hesitated for a moment, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, before laying down her book and leaving her mother and Rowan alone in the cottage.

The Crone pursed her bloodred lips. “No, all Red Maidens could not do what you can. You are a change-maker. You’d be wise to keep that gift between us.”

“Why?” Rowan challenged.

“Because in the wrong hands, it could throw off the balance between the realms.”

Rowan stared at her. “What am I?”

“You’re a spirit singer.”

“Please just tell me,” Rowan begged.

“I don’t know.”

The Crone had seemed to hold the answers for every question Rowan had asked over the years. It was simply a question of whether she’d share them.

“Why did you look at me so strangely on the night of my first trek?” Rowan asked.

“Because I saw a glimpse of darkness in you—a power that could tip the realms. I wasn’t sure if telling you would make it better, but it’s likely worse for you to be ignorant of it.”

Rowan’s mouth went dry. She sipped her tea until her hands stopped shaking, and the warmth of it settled in her stomach, grounding her.

“So what do I do?” she asked.

“Keep it to yourself for now.”

“What do I do about the elders?”

The Crone looked at her with something resembling pity. “Youendurethem, as only those of us who must answer to their whims do. You do your best to entice the Wolf, and you pretend to be ordinary and pliant.”

“I cannot?—”

“Rowan!” the Crone scolded. “Those who do not bend are broken. That is not a fate I wish for you.”

Rowan stared at her. In all the time they’d known each other, the Crone had only called her by name in ceremony.

“Help me,” Rowan pleaded.

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