Page 18 of Through the Wicked Wood

“Son? You’re Sorin’s…mother?” I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips. Scrambling, I try to correct myself as Agnes turns to look at me, narrowing her eyes slightly at my impulsive outburst. “Apologies,” I say with haste. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just… it’s just that…” Snapping my mouth shut, I clench my fists together at my sides.

You’re an idiot.

Agnes’ laugh bellows off the trees as she throws her head up to the sky. “My child,” she chirps between laughter, “I like you already.”

Turning from Sorin, she heads back in my direction. It’s only then that I notice a slight limp in her walk. Pulling my hand as she passes by, she leads us to a few open tree stumps being used as seats around the fire. I dare a glance back at Sorin who meets me with a smile. The stubble that lines his jaw is much more profound since we met several days ago, and I’m not entirely sure why I’ve noticed such a detail.

“Unfortunately, no,” Agnes says as she settles onto the tree stump. “Sorin is not my son by birthright.” Eviey ushers over to offer her a thick, gray wool blanket, gently placing it across her legs. She muffles a quiet thank you before she continues, “Sorin’s mother was a dear friend, she came to live with us in Loxley when Sorin was a small boy, maybe just barely four? Or was it five? I can’t remember to be honest. The two of us, Celia and I, became good friends.” Her eyes lose focus at the memory, her smile fades and morphs into something more somber.

Agnes shakes off whatever memory haunts her and glances at me. “She came to us in a moment of desperation. She must have known she’d find solace here, in Loxley. She brought so much to our village. Possessing a certain joy that was infectious, an appetite for life we could all admire,” she pauses and glances around the fire at the fellow villagers. I follow her gaze. Everyone around the fire nods slowly and I get the impression there is more to the story than they are letting on. Something deeper rooted, but I won’t press it. Not now, not tonight, when they’ve already dredged up this painful past for my sake.

I hold back from shooting Sorin another glance, itching to read his face, but I refrain. I want to let him know he isn’t alone in this loss. That in all the ways we are not alike, this is one thing we share. But the words don’t come. They are left frozen on my tongue, like bits of ice so cold they burn. Swallowing hard against the knot forming in my throat, I keep my attention locked on Agnes as she continues her story.

“When Celia arrived in Loxley, she was already ill. It was barely a year later that she passed. Eviey and Letty did their best to help her.” Agnes glances in the direction of the sisters. “Unfortunately, it was beyond their abilities. The Fates had made up their minds and there was nothing any of us could do to stop it.

“Before she passed, she asked me to look after her boy. Raise him as my own.” She lets out a soft chuckle then. “As if it was any question that wasn’t my plan already.” At that she looks over to Sorin, a smile returning to her face. Her eyes shift and fill with love and pride for this son she’s inherited. He dips his head into a bow as a small smile creeps across his face. Though he wears a smile, his eyes tell a different story. My heart constricts at their obvious love for each other, and for the sorrow that haunts me for a mother I miss so dearly.

“I’m so sorry.” Is all I’m able to mutter. I place my hand atop Agnes’ but my eyes remain on Sorin. He dips his chin again but says nothing. Agnes pats my hand, giving it a tight squeeze before I move it back to my lap.

“Well,” she says with a deep sigh. “I imagine the two of you are worn out from your journey. You came all the way from Copenspire, I assume?” She looks between Sorin and I. Her tone is questioning, prodding. Opening my mouth to explain, I’m quickly cut off by Sorin.

“You’re right, as usual,” he says, standing from his kneeling position and stretching his arms high above his head. “I’m exhausted.” Shooting me a glance with eyebrows slightly raised he adds, “I think we’ll turn in for the night.” Walking over, Sorin stops and plants a kiss atop Agnes’ head.

“I’m glad you’re home, son.” She turns her focus on me and gestures toward the line of stone cottages behind us. “Show Elora to the main house. There are extra clothes in Samaria’s room she can borrow, as well as an extra bed until she returns.”

“Ah, speaking of my dear sister,” Sorin says as he reaches for my hand and pulls me from my seat. “Where is she and the usual lot?” A fluttering sensation invades the pit of my stomach as his calloused hand wraps around mine. That now familiar spark from his touch shoots up my arm. Not wanting to feed this growing feeling, I quickly withdraw my hand, fighting the urge to wipe it against my breeches to get the heat of his touch to cool.

“Hunting trip,” Agnes says. Her eyes crinkle as she smiles at us before returning her face to the fire. “Let us hope this one is more fruitful than the last,” she whispers. “They’re expected back in a week for the full moon. Now don’t let us keep you two.”

She shoos us away with a gesture of her hands. Peering back at her over my shoulder, she sings lightly into the flames, “Sleep well, Enchantress.”

Chapter 10

Elora

Sorin guides me through the village. Small stone cottages line either side of the street, mossy roofs glow a deep green in the moonlight. Puffs of smoke from different chimneys float into the night sky but dissipate completely as they drift to the top of the ward that keeps the village hidden. Most of the cottages are dark inside, but a few have candles flickering in the windows, illuminating cozy kitchens and warm bedrooms.

We walk in comfortable silence as the faint sounds of music from the villagers whispers along in the night breeze. The air is starting to chill so I wrap my arms around myself to preserve heat.

“I truly am sorry about your mother,” I find the courage to say. Sorin, keeping pace next to me with his hands tucked into his pockets, glances in my direction but doesn’t stop walking.

“I appreciate it,” he says, “but it was a long time ago. She was sick and suffering…all I can hope now is she’s found peace in the afterlife.” I rub my hands against my arms to warm them up and debate continuing this conversation. I’m not sure why I suddenly feel so cold, it’s as if my cloak has evaporated entirely. Then, the warmth of something heavy drapes around my shoulders, as Sorin places his cloak over me. Startled, I glance up at him, halting my steps momentarily.

“Thank you,” I say, not sure why it comes out closer to a whisper. He smiles and my stomach warms at his small gesture. Now would be the time to say something about how I understand his pain of losing his mother. How, no matter how hard you try, the hurt never really goes away. But, as usual, I say nothing for fear of showing my hand too early. For fear of showing any sign of weakness.

Coward, the voices hiss.

Perhaps.

When we reach the end of the dirt street, a larger home sits perched atop a small hill. Its bones consist of wooden logs, instead of stone like the other smaller cottages. The gaps in the logs are filled with dark moss and dried mud. A large, crooked stone smokestack puffs out gray whirls and the roof is covered in thick moss much like the rest of the homes we passed.

Leading me up the set of stairs, Sorin opens the tall wood door. Its weathered blue paint reveals chips of the natural dark wood underneath and it gives way with an ancient creak. Peppermint and pine greet me as we enter the dark foyer. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, the only light in the entirety of the home is a warm flicker from the hearth softly illuminating the narrow hallway.

As if hearing my thoughts, Sorin steps down the hall. His boots are loud against the grainy wood floors, but he returns quickly with a brass candelabra lit with three white pillars.

“Sam’s room is just here, to your right.” He points to a small archway and steps around me. I follow his lead into a neatly kept room. It’s simple but comfortable. A wooden bedframe fills up most of the space, accompanied by a small faded red chest at the foot of it, closed tightly with a rusted clasp.

Next to the bed is a small shelf overly stacked with several books piled high on top of each other. The spines are cracked and the lettering worn, but I catch myself close to drooling at the sight of them. In Valebridge, reading was one of the few indulgences I often enjoyed as a child, and one that I haven’t had the pleasure of in years.

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