Page 38 of Beyond the Cottage

He leaned in. “You lied to me, too. Why did you let me believe you were human?”

“I—” The air in Gretta’s lungs thickened as memories flooded in. She crumpled her napkin, resisting the urge to hide behind it.

“Why, Gretta? Tell me.”

She threw her napkin on the table. “Have you forgotten what happened to that girl, Esme? How the Eater paid her special attention because pixie glands wereespecially sweet?”

Esme had been older than Gretta. Until volatus glands developed, younger pixies were visibly indistinguishable from humans, so Gretta had kept her species a secret, even fromAnsel. She’d been too scared to speak it out loud, unsure how magic worked and what might’ve been listening.

“I remember,” he said gently. “But why didn’t you tellme?”

Gretta threw her shoulders back. “Because I didn’t trust you. I assumed you’d go running to the Eater to save your own skin.”

No part of him moved, but his stricken eyes indicated her lie hit its mark.

She stood. “I’m done eating. I can find my own way back.” Spine rigid, she started for the doorway.

“Gretta,” he called. “Wait.”

Chapter 14

Gretta stopped and turned, and Ansel hesitated. He knew how she felt about him. The logical move would be to let her go. Unfortunately, logic had long-since abandoned him where she was concerned.

“I want to show you something,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ll take you to it.”

“Where?”

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.” He was pushing his luck, but her earlier comment sat poorly. While he may have misinterpreted their past friendship, he didn’t believe she hadn’t trusted him. Some part of him needed her to trust him just a little now. A selfish part simply wanted to be with her longer.

“I’m not in the mood for games,” she said. “Tell me what it is, or I’m going back to the room.”

“It will help you.”

“Help mewhat?”

“Escape.” He’d bring her to Antrelle when the storm passed, but in the meantime, he’d rest easier if she knew the way herself.

Her expression fluctuated between doubt and curiosity. He held his tongue while she decided.

“Fine,” she said.

Ansel checked a flare of gratification. He’d claimed a victory, but a small one.

He collected a lantern and led her out the kitchen’s side door. They followed a corridor that smelled like ancient mildew and rotting leaves until they reached a winding staircase.

“It’s up here,” he said.

She eyed the stairs skeptically and indicated he proceed.

Their shadows flickered on curved stone as they ascended. High, narrow windows spat rain on them, and wind howled overhead. Each time Ansel glanced back at her, she looked away.

He’d give anything to know what she was thinking. It likely involved pushing him down the stairs or gutting him with the scissors in her pocket. He’d happily offer pointers on center of gravity and the location of vital organs if it meant she’d talk to him more.

When he’d offered her breakfast, he hadn’t expected a conversation. The things she’d told him only left him with more questions. What had the rest of her childhood been like? Was she happy? How did she become a professional witch hunter?

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