Page 19 of Through the Wicked Wood

“You’re sure she won’t mind?” I ask, creeping farther into the room. Peeling my eyes from the books, not wanting to disturb the peacefulness of the space but desperately wanting to lay down.

Sorin chuckles. “Hardly. If anything, she’d be upset that we didn’t offer it up.” He places the candelabra on top of the stacked books, which offers a little more light to the space. “Sam’s a force to be reckoned with,” he continues, moving himself to the foot of the bed. Kneeling down he opens the chest and pulls out an ivory nightgown. “Strong willed and slightly feral when it comes to those she loves,” he says with a laugh, “but then again aren’t we all.” Still bent down, hands leaning against the wooden chest for support, he adds, “She’s more decent than I could ever hope to be.”

“Here.” He straightens and hands over the nightdress. “You’re about the same size. If you need anything, I’m just across the way,” he says, gesturing out the door. I crane my head to see another archway across the hall directly adjacent to this one, no doubt leading to his room.

“You live here too?” I ask. “With your mother?”

Sorin’s deep laugh makes my stomach coil into a thousand tiny knots. “Yes,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets, leaning heavily against the door frame. “But to be fair, I’m not home much.”

“Where is it that you’re always running off to?” I resist the urge to collapse onto the bed and fall straight to sleep.

“Copenspire, Wickersham, Davenport…anywhere there are trades being done with Valebridge merchants,” he says, pushing himself off the doorframe.

“Well, thank you,” I say, gesturing to the nightgown. The fabric is soft, almost silky as I slip it between my fingers. Maybe it would be good to change out of these soiled clothes after all.

With a quick nod, he takes a few steps out into the hall but stops before he gets to his room. “Bread and apples are in the kitchen, down the hall and to the left. Help yourself.” Without so much as a glance back to me, he enters his room and clicks the door shut.

To my surprise, sleep comes easily. Falling almost instantly into a deep slumber as my head hits the pillow.

* * *

The clanging of metal pots and promising smells pull me from a comfortable sleep the next morning. Stretching out my limbs, I indulge in the softness of the quilt above me and buttery sheets beneath me. As much as I tried to mimic these same comforts in the forest, nothing could quite compare to this. I fold the nightgown neatly before placing it back on the bed and return to my dirty breeches and tunic. Quickly plaiting my hair into a messy braid, I head toward the sounds and smells of the kitchen.

Down the hallway, large windows adorn the outer wall of the house. I easily count six rectangular, glass shapes and am certain there are more on the sides of the room that I can’t see. Warm orange sunlight spills through the glass, casting a glow to everything residing in the room. Though I walk on my toes, the wide planked floors creak beneath my bare feet as I inch toward the heart of the home.

At the end of the hallway, the house splits in two. On the left, there’s the kitchen. It has a tall, long wooden table that runs almost the length of the room. Atop it sits several loaves of freshly baked bread in a dark woven basket and a bowl of fruit that appears to have been thoroughly picked over. My stomach rumbles in response to the delightful aromas, a reminder I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.

The clanging of pots I heard earlier are replaced by the sounds of the crackling fire from the stone hearth. I scan the rest of the room to find it also empty. To the right of the kitchen are the living quarters. A round, worn rug with varying spirals of faded red and blue takes up most of the floor space. Centered on the wall is a large tapestry woven with wildflowers and sticks. The loudness of the artwork, so out of place with the rest of the house’s simple elegance. A few wooden chairs circle around a quaint table near the windows in the living quarters, the top stained with rings of brown. I smile at the circular tea stains, a testament that this table has heard many tales, many secrets.

Through the windows, nothing but bright sunshine and beautiful green trees span for miles. My hands twitch at the sight of the dense trees, a longing to be back in the woods.

“Good morning, Enchantress.” Agnes’ voice is soft and sweet as she makes her way into the kitchen. My heart skips a beat not only at her entrance, but because it’s been so long since I’ve been addressed as an Enchantress. So long since I’ve been comfortable enough to keep my eyes their natural color. I smile, masking my nerves instead of my eyes as she joins me at the kitchen table. Normally I would scold myself for being caught off guard, but since I’m a guest in this house, I let it go.

Agnes wears a long brown apron covered in flour over a pale blue dress that’s cut short at the sleeves. Delicate gold bangles from the night before still adorn each wrist, clanking lightly as she sways into the space. In the daylight, I can make out her features much clearer, the radiance in her honeyed eyes is fierce as I position myself across from her at the long table.

As she reaches for a loaf of bread, my eyes catch on her knuckles, each one marked with an intricate symbol. The ink is dark, much like that of Sorin’s arm. She moves quickly, slicing the bread so I’m unable to make out what any of them are, and before I can ask, she catches my eye and casts me a smirk. Though they are not blood-related, I can see immediately where Sorin gets his signature look.

“They’re for protection,” she says, noticing my gaze. She sets down her knife and stretches her fingers. “An old legend, really. I’ve had them since I was a young girl. My mother swore they would keep me safe, so she had them etched into my skin. I’m not sure how much I believe in it now, but one can never be too careful, I suppose.” She winks before returning to her work. Looking down at my own hands, I grimace at the dirt stains across my knuckles and under my fingernails.

“Is there somewhere I can wash up?” I don’t know why I’m nervous to ask, maybe because Agnes’ energy fills the room to the brim, it leaves little space for much else.

She gestures to a small room off the back of the kitchen. Inside of it houses a small bowl and pitcher with a cube of honey scented soap. I scrub at my hands until they are red and raw, then move on to my face and cheeks, making sure to cover every spot. The water from the pitcher is cold and refreshing as I splash it on my face and coat my hands. Most of the dirt from my hands has been freed, but I imagine how much more is lodged in my hair. A problem to deal with another time, I decide, heading back toward the kitchen.

“Smells wonderful,” I say, motioning to the bread. Agnes shoots me a full smile, placing the slices of bread in a cloth before nestling it into a woven basket. Her lips are stained a deep berry which only accentuates the whiteness of her teeth.

Gesturing to one of the wooden chairs near the window she says, “Sit. I’ll bring you some breakfast.” I don’t dare argue as I make my way to the table and plop myself down into one of the chairs, basking in the warmth of the sunlight through the glass. I’m unsure what to do with my hands, nerves of being in a foreign place pitting in my stomach. So, I cross them lightly in my lap to keep from fidgeting and hope the vibrant greens of the trees and yellow light of the sun will settle the panic that always lingers just beneath my skin.

“I appreciate your generosity,” I say, drawing my eyes toward the kitchen. “Please know I’ll repay you in any way I can.” Agnes drifts over to the small table, the hem of her dress skims the hardwood floors creating a soft whooshing sound. Scoffing, she sets down a worn, silver plate and mug of hot tea in front of me before turning back toward the kitchen.

“Nonsense, child,” she speaks over her shoulder as she busies herself with the rest of her morning chores. Dusting remnants of flour off of her apron, she says, “Any friend of Sorin’s is a friend of mine. Let alone an Enchantress. Offering you what little we have is the least we can do.” Distracted by the warm bread with apple butter staring up at me from the plate, I almost miss what Agnes says. Friend? Is that what Sorin and I are? Friends?

I’m unsure if it’s the peppermint tea Agnes handed me or the thought of having a friend, but my stomach fills with warmth as I finally allow myself to bite into the bread. Still warm from the hearth, the apple butter creates sweet notes that dance along my tongue. I try to pace myself, but it’s been years since I’ve had anything this delicious and I end up devouring it within three bites. Washing it down with a few gulps of the tea, I fail to notice Agnes staring at me from the kitchen.

“Delicious. Thank you.” I smile, trying to hide my embarrassment. Inhaling my breakfast was likely not considered ladylike. I wipe a few droplets of tea off my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt, debating if I’m courageous enough to ask for seconds.

Silently, Agnes nods her head, her eyes still scouring over me. There is something in her stare that turns my stomach, and I fear I’ll lose the breakfast I just ate if she looks at me like that much longer. Like she can tell my darkest secrets, see me for what I really am. What I’ve done.

Murderer.

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