Page 1 of The Beast of Ashwood Manor

Tolburgwasteemingwithpeople, and I had to be the most out of place one of them all. Not that I pitied myself by any means, but when I arrived in the busy town a year ago, I imagined my life much differently: full of excitement and new friends.

But that was then, and this was now.

Town life supposedly came with greater opportunities than anything I could find in a small village like the one I was raised in, but I hadn’t really found them yet. The hustle and bustle of Tolburg was more than what I was used to after living in the countryside for so long, but after a year of living here, I also found the town life to be bland. It didn’t help that I still looked like a farm boy.

“Chase any pigs around today?” Mr. Porter, the butcher, laughed as I walked by.

I gave him a tight smile, as always, and stood before the fruit stall, twiddling with the moon charm around my neck as I looked over the apples.

A woman in a heavy looking dress walked by, and I couldn’t help but notice how nice it looked. Dark colors were all the fashion these days, rich hues of burgundy and black-and-white striped shirts beneath dark-colored vests and trousers. I hadn’t yet earned enough money to buy myself anything more suitable than what I had on: faded brown trousers, worn boots, and a rather outdated vest over my cream-colored shirt.

“You getting anything or not?” the man behind the produce stall barked at me.

I snapped to attention and glanced over the display of red, yellow, and green apples. Greta, the tavern’s cook, would want the yellow apples for pies. At least, that’s what I hoped.

Yellowiswhat she told me to get, wasn’t it? I can’t remember.

I’d always seen my mother bake pies with yellow apples and assumed the same with Greta.

After packing a basketful, I paid for them and left. Along the path to the tavern, I spotted a small whitish rock—‍a wonderful addition to my collection. I picked it up and pocketed it before coming into the warm, spacious kitchen of Leigh’s Tavern. I placed the basket down and set to work peeling the fruit.

Greta came up and peered at me. When she eyed the apples, she smacked me with her rag, making me flinch. “I said Granny Smith!” she barked. “When are you going to listen to what I tell you to do?”

“I wasn’t sure if I heard you right,” I replied. “Gold Delicious is usually the best for pies.”

“Says who?” Greta placed her hands on her hips and looked up at me, her round nose pink and her plump cheeks flushed. “Next time I tell you Granny Smith, you’d better get them, or I’ll make you leave the kitchen with no leftovers!”

The memory of my mother and I going at least a month without much food washed over me, and I could feel my stomach rumbling already at the mere thought.

I don’t want to go hungry ever again. I don’t think I could bear it.

“Yes ma’am.” I turned away with a sinking feeling in my chest at making a mistake. If only I’d listened more carefully to Greta, paid attention to her more closely.

I kneaded the dough for the pie faster, but once it was rolled out, Greta took over the rest. She gave orders to the other girls in the kitchen, and one of them giggled when Greta walked out.

“She’s in an extra foul mood today,” Julia said, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder.

Bella snorted, rolling her brown eyes. “Probably because she caught her husband being handsy with the new barmaid last night.”

I listened in silence, as I always did. Julia and Bella were the best at gossiping. If you needed to know something, they were the ones to find to get the juicy details. Affairs, drunks, lies, or dabbling in witchery, if the word sparked, they spread the rumor.

I steered clear of them as best I could. While I was still fairly new in their eyes, there were many things I didn’t want them to know about me. They’d tried to pry many times, but I never once told them where I came from, who my mother is, or that I prefer men over women. Eventually, they’d find out the latter, but for now, it didn’t have to be known.

“Bella, I forgot the cherries!” Julia looked over at me and then down at my dark-red hands as I mixed them. “Cale, are those . . .‍?”

“They’re not ready yet,” I said, wiping my cheek on my sleeve.

“I didn’t know you were still mixing them. I forgot to put them in the mixed berry pie.”

“Sorry, I had a late start today.” I added a bit more sugar in—some grains sticking to my hand—and stirred as quickly as I could. “Greta was already on me about the apples.”

Bella looked in the brick oven. “The apple pies still have a while. Just open the berry pie and add the cherries before she gets back.”

I brought the bowl over as Julia pulled back the strips of dough, and I mixed in most of the cherries and watched as Bella spread the concoction out.

Sometimes, I wondered if I would be doing this for the rest of my life, making food in a kitchen and being forced to listen to people gossiping and barking orders. I would probably die a lonely man with no friends because of how inept I am, though I’m sure my mother would at least come to my funeral, should I die before her.

When Greta came back into the kitchen, she was ready to snap back on us. “Get those pies out in ten minutes,” she told the girls. Her eyes narrowed on me. “By the way, Cale, I forgot a letter came for you yesterday.” She pulled the small envelope from her pocket and held it in front of me.

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