Page 7 of The Wolf

SCARLET

Of all the tasks and chores thrust upon her by her stepmother, Scarlet hated gardening the least. She’d have almost enjoyed it if it weren’t for the nature of the plants she was responsible for tending.

Poisonous plants.

Toxic plants.

Deadly plants.

But it was part of her job, and in any case she was largely left to her own devices while she was in the garden. The quiet time—the alone time—was something Scarlet craved. If she was doing chores in the house, there was always someone watching. It made her skin crawl even after all the years she’d been subjected to her stepmother’s machinations.

She sighed and wiped sweat from her forehead, frowning at the grit she smeared against her face. Even when she was out and about, acting as a spy herself, Scarlet could notbeherself. It was too dangerous and too much was at stake. She had to be a ghost.

But here, in the gardens, she could let go of some of the pain and fear. Here she could dig her fingers into the damp earth and imagine a different future where no one was enslaved.

Where she was free.

She scanned the plants around her and eyed the Camas to her left with small white flowers. Death Camas. It looked like a wild onion to the untrained eye. The flower was death wrapped in an innocuous package.

Just like Scarlet’s stepmother. She shivered.

With a huff, she dug the hoe back into the soil, readying it for the blood that would be tilled in among it for the benefit of the plants. She hated that part most of all; the blood filled her nostrils with its noxious iron tang and threatened to make her sick. According to her stepmother, it was essential to making the most potent, deadly plants in all of Betraz, and even Heimserya.

Death gives birth to life.

She swallowed the bile in the back of her throat. It was time to suck it up, breathe through her mouth, and retrieve the blood to complete her task.

Her gut churned violently as she glanced toward the forest.

Every day she expected Tarros to come for her.

Her escape had been lucky, and Scarlet hadneverbeen lucky.

She hadn’t been able to think of much else in the days following Tarros’s disappearance.Disappearance,because nobody save Scarlet knew what had happened to him, and even then she had no idea whether the deplorable shifter was alive or dead.

It was both a relief and a torment to not know what had become of him.

A relief, for if Tarros were dead then there was a chance Scarlet would not be found responsible for his disappearance. He wouldn’t be able to tell everyone what had transpired—or lie about the facts to condemn her. Scarlet would be free of his lustful, violent gaze, and there would be no repercussions.

A torment, because if Tarros did end up returning, then she would be worse than dead. And even if heweredead, and his body was found, there was a chance she would still be found responsible for what happened to him.

Humans were always blamed for anything that went wrong in Betraz.

Being the rightful duchess did not make Scarlet exempt from punishment.

And so every moment since Scarlet’s narrow escape from Tarros was full of fear that she’d be blamed for his disappearance, and abject bliss that he was gone, as she didn’t have to worry about his violent groping hands grabbing her in the dark of night.

Her fingers tightened around the hoe and she fought a shiver.

He’s gone. Just breathe. No one will find out.

Scarlet had burned her red cloak to cinders of course, and with it the stench of Tarros that had been clinging to her. Keeping it would have been a sure sign that she had been involved in his disappearance, though she had feared that theabsenceof the cloak would be just as telling. It was to her immense relief when Dris, the housekeeper, had wordlessly provided Scarlet with a replacement, an identical cloak to help her avoid suspicion. Scarlet was indebted to Dris. The housekeeper had looked out for her since she was young, even at the risk of her own neck, treating the duchess as her own child.

Next, she’d scrubbed her skin with a scent-damping soap she’d created herself until her skin had turned pink and raw. It had done the trick but Scarlet still felt dirty. Even now, the taint of Tarros’s touch wouldn’t disappear. He’d corrupted her soul somehow.

Don’t let yourself spiral. Work.

“Till the ground, till the ground,” Scarlet murmured to herself in a singsong voice as the blackened, metal edge of the tool cut into the soil. Over and over, she worked the earth, sweat dampening her back and dripping between her shoulder blades. Time passed and her back began to ache. She rolled her neck and groaned, blond hair falling into her face.

---