Page 73 of Apples Dipped in Gold

I watched until he vanished into the dark between the trees. When I turned, I found Lore watching me.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

I held his gaze. We were so close, our bodies almost touched.

“I will be okay so long as you are near,” I said.

His brows lowered, and his mouth hardened. I did not understand how he could look at me this way, with so much emotion in his eyes, and still say what he felt for me wasn’t real.

“I will keep you safe,” he said, brushing his fingers along my cheek. His touch drew heat from the depths of my stomach, and I closed my eyes against it.

When I opened them again, my gaze slipped past Lore to the cottage where the witch looked out from her window, pale and hollow-eyed. Then I blinked, and she was gone.

“Samara?” Lore said, his voice hushed, as if he did not want for anyone else to hear. Perhaps he didn’t.

“I should go,” I said.

“Wait,” he said, and pushed something into my hand. It was the golden thread.

“Thank you,” I whispered as I slipped it into my pocket.

I stepped around him and headed toward the cottage, following the cobbled path as it twisted and turned through the garden. Like earlier, the cobbles at my feet were polished and new and the garden green and lush.

Do not trust your eyes, the fox had said, so I didn’t and focused on other senses.

The cobbles beneath my feet felt broken and uneven, and the garden smelled musty and sweet. The cottage steps felt too soft and creaked beneath my feet. The handle of the door looked polished and shiny, but it felt rusty and rattled as I turned it.

When I entered the cottage, there was a lovely kitchen to the left and a small sitting area to the right. Everything appeared tidy and pristine. A fire blazed in the hearth before a long wooden table where there was an array of vegetables, potatoes, and pork, and though the cottage smelled like burning cedar, it could not mask the rancid smell of rotting meat or the pungent odor of spoiled potatoes.

“Come, pretty thing,” said the witch from behind me.

I jumped at the sound of her voice and the feel of her gloved hand on my arm, which was slimy and cold, though it looked perfectly normal.

She pulled me into the kitchen. “Help me cook for your beloved, for that is what he is, is he not? Your beloved?”

I did not answer her, because the fox had said not to speak before her.

“There is an apron for you near the fire, pretty thing. Put it on!”

I did as she instructed, knowing it was not clean though it appeared bright and white. As I slipped the strap over my head, I was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. If I made it through this evening without vomiting, it would be a miracle.

“Now, pretty thing, there is a knife and a board for cutting. Slice the carrots and the mushrooms, and chop the potatoes and the pork.”

I approached the table. The knife she referred to was more like a cleaver, and when I took it into my hand, the handle felt oily. I dreaded knowing the truth, what horror it might be stained with. I started with the carrots, but the first turned to mush in my hand. Bile rose in my throat, and I swallowed it down, reaching for the second carefully. The mushrooms were slimy, the potatoes were covered in sprouts and soft, and the pork was sticky and foul. My nose burned with the smell of it, and I gritted my teeth hard to keep from retching.

“Now, pretty thing, there is a cauldron over the fire. Fill it with water.”

The water came from a barrel near the hearth. I was hopeful that it might be fresh, but when I removed thelid, it smelled like rotten eggs. Still, I ladled bowl after bowl until the cauldron was full.

“While you wait for it to boil, pretty thing, you can clean the dishes and scrub the floor.”

I crossed to the sink where stacks upon stacks of dishes were piled. I wondered where they had come from, though I suspected the witch had many visitors, and not all of them had a companion like the fox. I tried not to think about what happened to those unsuspecting guests, the ones who trusted their eyes and not their guts.

The dishes were tedious, but I was used to the chore. I took my time clearing the sink so I could fill it with water, which I boiled in a heavy teapot. My hands burned as I worked, but I didn’t care. The scalding water made me feel a little better about all the horrible things I had touched within the witch’s house, though it still smelled like sulfur.

At least the sink was near the window, and in my periphery, I could see Lore slicing away at the grass in the field. He was shirtless and sweating, his muscles and scars on full display.

I battled a wave of electrifying lust, but it was too late. My mind had already wandered to last night when he lay beneath me. I thought of how he felt against me and how desperately I had wanted him inside me. I crossed my legs as the ache grew worse, which only seemed to heighten my need, and in some ways, I suddenly understood why Lore might consider this feeling a curse.

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