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  © 2015 Matthew Cox

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  Cover Art by Chris Malidore

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-774-0 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-775-7 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-776-4 (hardcover)

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  ardy bristles raked over Emma’s toes as she worked her grandmother’s handmade broom, taller than she was, back and forth. She kept her gaze down, avoiding looking into the dark pines of Widowswood so close to her home. The murk among the trees felt alive―as if it stared at her―even though such things were the stuff of Nan’s nonsense tales. Yet, as much as she couldn’t believe them, she still refused to look up. Uneven boards shifted with her weight as she inched across the porch of her family’s modest house, accompanied by a steady rhythm of scratching.

  The wind whispered as it teased through the trees, but no breeze reached the village. She leaned on the broom while wiping sandy grit off the sole of her foot against her shin. An eerie roar, deep, pained, and not quite human, rang out in the distance, startling birds from the treetops.

  Emma jumped and clutched the broom handle to her chest, not breathing as she squinted into the woods. Darkness lurked in the gaps of the forest; nothing moved. The stillness broke a moment later; that time, the noise seemed less monstrous, merely an unseen huntsman’s shout echoing among the boughs. She relaxed, and resumed sweeping. Father would be home soon. His patrol would end when the sun set over the village.

  When she was three quarters of the way done, a sudden breeze carried spinning whorls of dirt from the road up onto the porch where she had swept, ruining her work. Emma grumbled, trudging to the right to start again from the beginning. Father had chosen to build their house close to the village edge, where the street was little more than a wide footpath worn through the grass. Emma scowled at the drifts of grit and rushed through the re-dirtied porch with a series of haphazard swipes.

  Why do I sweep this at all? It’ll just get dirty again.

  Satisfied with her slapdash effort, she stepped with care through the already-swept patches and worked the round-bristled broom back and forth at the point she left off. Her knees peeked out from under grey flax; she would soon need a new dress, having gotten too big to wear this one much longer. Emma had already worn it well past the point of Father’s approval. Mother seemed at ease with it, even if it did leave her looking like an urchin. The threadbare garment had a torn seam, frayed threads, several holes, and kept sagging down off her left shoulder. Emma adored it because Nan had made it for her. She would much rather wear it than something from the town tailor, made for no one specific. This dress was hers, and it made her feel safe.

  She stalled, leaning on the broom again with a somber stare at the distant buildings. The watch paid well. Father could afford to buy clothes―nice clothes―and seemed embarrassed at how she traipsed about. Emma wanted to wear this dress until it didn’t fit anymore. Nan was getting old, her fingers were not as nimble as they used to be, and she feared her grandmother would not be able to make another one.

  A lump formed in Emma’s throat. The wind picked up again, slipping through the forest and tousling her hair. Nan wouldn’t be with them for much longer. Two of grandmother’s friends had passed recently. It had been two years since Father’s old dog, Wooly, had refused to wake up. She was eight then, and still cried a little whenever she thought about the mutt. That dog had been old for as long as she could remember, and from the way Father spoke of him, he’d lived too long. Emma stared at her toes, wondering how much worse it would feel to lose Nan. She knew it was coming, but that didn’t make the idea hurt any less. She wanted to spend more time with her grandmother, but most of her day went toward taking care of her little brother while Mother went into town and Father kept everyone safe.

  It made her feel important, helping ease the burden on Mother and allowing her daily visits to the villagers to resume. Everyone loved Mother, and there would always be people coming to visit while she was stuck at home to watch Emma’s baby brother.

  A snapping twig made her glance into the murk of Widowswood with a twinge of unease.

  Nothing is watching me. Stop being childish.

  Emma turned the broom, spinning it on a long clump of bristles. It felt like forever ago since she’d been Tam’s age, and her only worry had been how she would play. She set her jaw in determination and resumed sweeping. It’s okay. Mother needs my help. Mother appeared as Emma made it to the far end of the porch, walking out from where the distant buildings grew too thick to see past. She waved, and Emma stood as tall as she could to return it. Mother chatted with a few wandering people on her way up the long, curved trail leading from the town proper to their home. Feeling guilty, Emma hurried back to the poorly swept areas.

  Mother walked up onto the porch, pausing for a warm hug. “How is the house?”

  “Good, Mama. Tam’s inside, Nan’s having a nap.”

  “No faeries steal anything?” Mother winked.

  “Mother.” Emma frowned. “I’m too old to believe in faeries. Bad luck and carelessness isn’t the work of faeries.”

  “So smart, Emma.” Mother gave her a light pat on the cheek. “Come help me with dinner when you’re done here?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Emma wiped the grit from her feet again and spent a few minutes chasing sand off the porch with the broom.

  “Apple for a bit?” chirped a voice.

  The sickly sweet scent of fermenting fruit lofted on the wind. Emma pulled her hair out of her eyes and glanced down the three steps to the road. A grimy redheaded girl a year or two younger than her shied away from Emma’s stare, digging her toes into the road and forcing a smile. Her once-white dress was ripped and stained, in worse shape than Emma’s, and she held out a wide, flat basket with a number of sorry-looking apples, most of which seemed to have been plucked from the ground. Small cuts and scrapes marked her legs, evidence of a trip through the underbrush. Faint dark discoloration painted the child’s cheek, below her right eye. Even at ten, the sight of the other girl filled her with a motherly urge.

  “Minnit,” said Emma, spinning on her heel and leaning the broom against the wall. She darted inside and found her mother cutting vegetables by the large iron cauldron.

  A plump robin perched on the tiny window above the cooking area chirped, tilted its head at Emma, and chirped again. Mother whistled on and off at it, as if mimicking bird noises.

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Mama, can I have a copper bit?”

  Mother stilled her knife and smiled at her. Like her daughter, her long raven tresses had a faint curl, and her eyes were deep blue. Everyone said Emma was a smaller version of her, and would look the same when she grew up―a fate Emma proudly accepted. She wondered if Nan had been pretty too.

  “For what, Em?”

  Emma raised an arm to point at the door. “Kimber is selling apples; she looks hungry.”

  A look of worry flashed through Mother’s eyes. She set down the knife and crossed the kitchen in two steps to peer through the curtained window. With a sigh, she
moved to a drawer and rummaged through a brown cloth pouch. Emma folded her hands in front of herself, waiting, eyeing a round wheat bread as big as a cat’s head among the vegetables.

  “Go ahead, Em.” Mother handed her two copper coins, and the bread. “Awful about that poor girl’s father. I’ve half a mind to have your pa pay that drunken lout a visit.”

  Emma smiled, hugged her mother, and scurried for the door. Kimber waited a short distance from the porch, swaying back and forth with an eager expression. When Emma held out the two copper bits, the girl’s eyes watered up. She hefted the basket.

  “Thank you, Miss. Take any two you please.”

  Emma sifted through the apples, searching for ones without obvious worms. Many still had bits of branch clinging to them. She chose two that did not look rotten, and left the large roll in their place. Kimber stared at it for a moment, almost afraid. She bit her lip and glanced toward town, turning as if to hide the bread from anyone in that direction. The wind gusted, making them both shiver.

  “Kinnae sit ‘ere an’ eat it?” Kimber shot a frightened, sad stare into the dirt path.

  “Kay.” Emma gestured at the porch, and joined her on the step.

  The younger girl held the round loaf to her face like a squirrel with an acorn and gnawed, tearing into it as though it would be ripped from her hands at any moment. Kimber peered up every few bites with smiling eyes. Emma’s happiness dimmed at the realization some of the dirt on the girl’s face was not dirt at all, but bruises.

  “Come back if you’re hungry again.” Emma traced lines in the trail with her toe.

  Crumbs fell out of Kimber’s grin. She mumbled something like “thank you” through a full mouth.

  “Sorry you get hit.” Emma scowled in the direction of town. “I should tell my pa. My pa’s a guard.”

  The red-haired girl stopped eating, a mournful stare at the half-loaf in her hand. “Is okay. Da’s not bad alla time. Only when he’s got his pay and ‘as silverberry wine.” Kimber shoved the bread into her face, nibbling.

  Emma smirked and leaned back on her hands, gazing into the waning daylight. Nan would say she should ask the spirits to aid the other girl. Father thought people should pray to the gods for help with events outside their control. She picked at a frayed thread by her hip. Spirits and gods weren’t real, and even if they were, they wouldn’t care about one tiny waif among all the people of the world.

  Kimber spent a minute picking crumbs out of her dress and eating them before she jumped up and curtsied. “Thank ya for the bread, Miss Emma.”

  “I’m not old enough to be a ‘Miss’ yet.” Emma frowned. “Thank my mum for lettin’ me.”

  Mother’s laughter leaked onto the porch.

  The girl stood, faced the house, and raised her voice. “Thank ya, Miss Emma’s Mum.”

  Kimber carried her basket of pathetic apples off down the street, and Emma resumed her task. Tam, her little brother, hated chores. Emma didn’t mind. The more she did, the less her mother had to do, and that was okay. The boy was only six, too young to understand much beyond the faerie tales of dragons and knights that Nan read to him. In many ways, Father was like a bigger version of Tam. Both demanded Mother’s constant attention to keep their clothes in order. Neither could cook, and more often than not, it seemed neither could dress themselves.

  Emma giggled.

  It took her another fifteen minutes to sweep to the edge of the porch. Nan’s face appeared in the window, smiling. Emma grinned in response, still working the broom. A moment later, a chance shift in the wind blew into town from the woods. It gathered strength, as well as the dirt from the porch, and carried it in a tiny whirlwind down the street. Emma cringed at the gust that almost knocked her over. When it died down, she held the broom up and blinked at the porch, ready to sweep again, but it was spotless. With a satisfied grunt, she turned to go inside, but startled at a sudden motion on the road.

  An older girl, perhaps sixteen, stumbled down the path leading from the village into Widowswood. She emerged from the gloomy tunnel of twisted, leaning trees, looking wan and dazed, in a garment made of leaves and twigs. Emma stared at her, transfixed. The figure moved only her legs, arms dead at her sides. Sickly and thin, every rib showed through her skin. Her mouth agape, she staggered forward in a rickety gait, almost as though she had forgotten how to walk. She paid no attention to Emma. Her grey eyes held no spark of life. Unkempt brown hair hung down to her ankles, loaded with twigs and scraps from the forest floor. The young woman halted twenty paces distant and swayed in place. She raised one hand to cover her mouth; the look she gave the village was one of utter astonishment.

  The clack of the wooden broom handle striking the porch made the strange girl yelp and startle. She looked up, staring at Emma as if she had no idea what another human being even was.

  “Mama!” Emma wanted to shout, but whimpered. She swallowed, backing away into the wall. “Mama!” she yelled as she sidestepped closer to the door. “Mama, come here.”

  Mother appeared at the door. “What’s the matter, Em?”

  Emma pointed. Mother’s eager smile fell away to a look of worry. She gathered Emma into the house with a hand on her shoulder.

  “Go inside, Em. Help Nan.”

  mma walked backwards into the house, unable to pull her gaze away from the wasted figure now standing motionless in the road until Mother, still outside, closed the door. Warm air and the scent of garlic and baking potatoes did little to ease her nerves. Emma kept going until the edge of the table touched her back. An unlit candlestick fell over. She whirled at the sudden contact, gasping at the sight of her grandmother so close behind her.

  Nan’s gnarled fingers slid through Emma’s hair. “What’s got your blood hiding? You’re pale like a banshee.”

  “There’s a sick lady outside. Mama told me to help you.”

  “Well, now Emma. Sick people don’t often scare you.”

  “Uhh.” Emma gave her grandmother a helpless look. “Something’s wrong. She felt strange.”

  Wisps of Nan’s white hair drifted to the side, dangling from her black shawl. The wind seemed to blow right through the house. Despite the glowing orange fire, Emma shivered. Nan leaned her head as if to peer through the wall, milky eyes widening.

  “She’s alive,” said Nan. “Go wash your hands.”

  Emma ran out the back door and over to the pump ten paces away. She worked the lever until a spurt of water came out and rubbed it over her hands and arms. A sprawling meadow filled the land between the rear of their house and the tree line where Widowswood curved around the side of the village. Bugs of all sizes zoomed and fluttered above the grass. A large, white butterfly caught her attention as it meandered in a drunken spiral, stark against the distant forest. She froze, water dripping from her fingers. The puddle around her feet seemed to turn cold all at once. For no reason she could explain, she found herself staring at the forest again.

  Something unseen among the trees was watching her.

  She darted back into the house, slamming the door and leaning all her weight against it, hard enough to knock Father’s spare riding tack from its peg on the wall.

  “Emma!” shouted Nan, clutching her chest. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Her heart raced. Emma looked at the door, at Nan, back at the door, and then at the bit, bridle and gloves at her feet. She felt silly for being afraid of the dark. “Nothing.”

  The eeriness faded away as she scolded herself for acting like a little girl. After she hung Father’s things up, Nan guided Emma to the table and slid a bowl of dough in front of her before dropping a cloth next to it.

  Emma dried her hands and set to task without protest, kneading. Tam sprawled on the floor closer to the bed, his stick-knight battling a shrub-dragon. She smiled, watching him play while she worked for a few minutes in silence. Nan portioned out various spices and herbs for the rest of the baking.

  Minutes later, soft thumps on the porch approached the door; Emma lo
oked up, hoping it was Father. Whatever was in the woods wouldn’t dare try anything with him home.

  You’re being childish again. Emma sighed at herself.

  Mother rushed in. She did not look at anyone, hurrying to gather a few items from Nan’s cabinet, the one they forbade her from going near. Emma froze, forearm deep in dough, while her mother collected a few pouches and ducked back outside without a word.

  “Nan? Who do you think that lady is?”

  One of grandmother’s few remaining teeth peeked out of a grin. “Oh, Emma… nothing you’d believe. I shan’t waste my breath on it.”

  Gooey dough slid between her fingers. Nan poured herbs into the mass as Emma twisted it around. She gave it two squeezes before puffing a strand of hair out of her face and staring. “Nan.”

  “Fine, fine.” The old one settled into a chair. “Her name is Hannah. Before today, the last anyone saw of her was ten years ago.” Nan rocked back, tapping a finger to her chin. “I believe she vanished only two weeks after you were born. She was about Tam’s age then.”

  At the sound of his name, the boy perked up. Sensing an imminent story, he scampered over and scrambled up to lean his elbows on the table, knees on a chair. Emma took more pinches of herbal seasonings, adding them to the dough between folds.

  Shouts rose up outside, the din of a growing assembly of cheers and praise to various gods, mostly Rhiannon the Matron or Baragen the Harvest Lord.

  Emma rushed to the window, holding her hands up to keep from getting dough all over. Smooth glass chilled her forehead as she strained to peer towards town where a crowd had formed. Hannah shivered at the center, wrapped in a bright blue cloak of the kind worn by the town watch. It seemed as if everyone had come out to welcome the lost daughter of Widowswood home. A wobbly, heavyset woman with a shock of white through her chestnut hair required the aid of two men to avoid collapsing.

  “Em, you’re making Nan not tell the story!” yelled Tam. “Come back.”

  “Hannah! My daughter!” shouted the woman before breaking down in sobs. “Are you really here?”