by Shari Cross
Elizabeth is playing in front of the fire while the others are sitting in the chairs. The boy’s hands are in his lap, his fingers folding and unfolding nervously, his attention set on my uncle.
I strain my ears to listen.
“. . . know you have been happy here,” my uncle is saying. “But I promise you would be happy living with me as well. You will have your very own room and . . .”
I stop listening, my mind swirling around Uncle’s words. He wants the boy to live with him? That means he doesn’t know he’s from Incarnadine. But that also means the boy wouldn’t be here with me. I pull myself out of my head and focus again on my uncle. There’s a trace of hope in his eyes that I haven’t seen in five years, and that hope immediately pulls me back to the past.
I’m standing in the front room of our home. It’s dark, and the fire in the hearth seems menacing. My heart is pounding, and I’m clutching a doll that I rarely touch. But Aunt Lucinda gave it to me, so I want it with me now. My uncle’s shout of pure agony pierces the air. I’m scared and I only want my mother.
“Mama,” I call, but the word comes out smaller than a whisper. Fear has eaten away my voice. But somehow arms find me, my brother’s arms. He pulls me onto his lap and holds me by the fire, but I don’t like the fire, not tonight, so I bury my face in his shoulder.
I pull myself out of the memory. I don’t want to relive the day my uncle lost my aunt Lucinda and their newborn daughter. Looking again at my uncle’s face, I see the hard lines that trace his eyes and mouth. The sorrow aged him, painting his hair grey and leaving his face lined with sadness. But there’s something different about him today. His blue eyes are still clouded and bereaved, but there’s a light in them, one that hasn’t been there in a very long time. I can’t continue to be selfish. The boy would be happy living with my uncle and my uncle needs someone. He can’t be alone forever, besides my uncle’s cottage is just down the road so—
“Addalynne!” My mother’s shout startles me away from my thoughts. I look toward her and at first I’m confused by the look of shock and anger on her face, but then I remember where I am: crouching outside the window, eavesdropping on a conversation I’m not supposed to hear.
I jump to my feet and turn to run, but something hard slams into my head. Pain shoots through me and my vision blurs. My body sways slightly before falling to the ground.
“Addalynne, are you okay?” Gregory is crouching over me, but my vision is still spinning and I can’t bring myself to answer.
After several dizzying seconds, the sound of footsteps rushes toward us. The boy gets to me first and kneels down next to me, his fingers gently brushing aside the hair from my forehead. It stings when he touches me and I wince in pain.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, his green eyes darkening with concern.
“What are you doing out here?” Father asks as Mother takes her place by my side. Gregory and I look at each other. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to be in trouble again, but I should be honest. I open my mouth to speak, but Gregory’s words come first.
“I wanted to hear what you were talking about,” he begins with a shrug. “Addalynne only followed me out because I asked her too. I’m sorry, but we’re part of this family too and we should have been included.”
The look on Mother’s face is suspicious, but it doesn’t matter. She may not believe Gregory’s lie, but neither of us are going to contradict it. He owes me for taking all the blame for being at the Glass River and he knows it.
“You’re right. We should have included you, but eavesdropping is not a solution,” Mother responds and I’m surprised that I don’t completely pass out. She would have never conceded to me in such a manner.
“I’m sorry,” Gregory says with more sincerity than I’ve ever been able to fake. “But right now we should just get Addalynne inside before she runs into any more trees.”
I lie on my back and pull the fur blankets up to my neck. The orange light of the fire illuminates most of my chambers, leaving only the top of my bed engrossed in shadow. I turn to my side, my head aching in protest, and stare at my reflection in the mirror near the door. My face looks pale, but my cheeks are still flushed. My black hair is tangled, falling like snakes around my head, and the white bandage, that mother wrapped around my forehead, is stained with a small line of blood.
After a few minutes of silence, my door creaks open. I raise my drowsy eyelids and see the boy standing in the doorway. He makes his way to the side of my bed and stops near the table where he begins to shift his weight from one foot to the other while staring down at me in awkward silence.
“How are you feeling?” he finally asks, his eyes traveling to the cut on my forehead.
“Better. My head hurts, but I’ll be fine.”
He averts his gaze to the floor and runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m leaving tonight,” he says quietly. “I’m going to live with your uncle. But I think you already knew that.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
He chuckles slightly, but doesn’t lift his head.
“I’m sad you’re leaving,” I admit. I want him to know the truth.
He looks up, his expression slightly guarded. “You are?”
My stomach tightens with nerves and my face burns. This time I look down. “Of course I am.”
“I can say no. I can tell him I want to stay here.”
A lump rises into my throat. I swallow it down and shake my head. “No. You’ll love it there. My uncle’s a very kind man. He’ll be good to you. Besides, there you’ll have your own belongings, instead of sharing with Gregory.”
“He said I would have my own loft and my own horse. He also said he would train me to become a blacksmith and teach me archery.”
I look back up at him. He’s smiling, his dimples barely visible with his head directed toward the ground. “That’s wonderful,” I reply. “Because then you can teach me archery, too.”
“I think I can agree to that,” he says with a small laugh as he finally lifts his head to look at me again. He brushes his hair back from his forehead, exposing his fresh scar and making his hair stick up in disarray. A blend of uncertainty and doubt sinks onto his face. “He said he wants to call me Drake. What do you think?”
Drake. “I like it. I read in a book that Drake means ‘dragon.’ Dragons are . . . mysterious.” My lips twist into a smile, hoping he’ll find humor in my words. The answering curve of his lips tells me he does, and it gives me the courage to continue. “They’re also strong. It’s a perfect name for you.”
“So, you like it?”
“Yes, I already told you I like it. Plus it will be much better than calling you ‘boy.’”
He laughs, “You’re right, I like it too.” A few seconds of silence stand between us before he continues. “I have to leave now, but I’ll see you tomorrow.” His words come as a question, and there’s a trace of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Of course, Drake,” I say with a smile. He returns my smile with one of his own, and this time it reaches his eyes, showing the deep dimples in his cheeks. As he leaves my chambers, I close my eyes and let sleep pull me in. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
Chapter 6
HER
3 Years Later
Where are they? I lean against the stone wall that surrounds the woods, twirling the tips of my hair with my fingers as the sun travels farther across the sky. I hate waiting. It’s boring and I don’t have the patience for it. I bend down, pick up a stick from the ground and toss it in the air a few times before grabbing it with both hands and snapping it in half.
“What did that stick ever do to you?”
I jump at the sound of Drake’s voice, dropping the stick halves on the ground. “You know I hate it when you sneak up on me!” I spin around to face him. He’s only a few feet away, his black tunic rolled up to the elbows, his arms crossed over his chest.
“It’s not my fault,” he chuckles. “You’re so lost in your
own head, a troll could sneak up on you.” He walks toward me and I have to tilt my head back to look up and meet his gaze. His green eyes are bright with humor, and his dark brown hair is falling carelessly across his forehead. I want to brush it out of the way, but refrain, as I always do.
“Where’s Gregory?” I ask, not bothering to mask the annoyance in my voice.
“He’s not coming. He was in the middle of a game of skittles and didn’t want to leave.”
Typical. “Were you playing too?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave? Didn’t you want to stay and finish the game?” I lean back against the wall and cross my arms in front of me.
“I did, but I knew that would make you angry, and you’re pretty scary when you’re angry.” He offers me a crooked smirk, only one of his dimples showing. That face may work on other girls, but it’s not going to work on me.
“Well, if you would rather be there, then go. I don’t need you to keep me company.” I turn my back to him, walking through the gate and into the woods. My aggravated footsteps press heavier into the ground, causing the birds to scatter from the trees. Within seconds Drake is smirking by my side.
“I’m joking, Addy. Well, not about the angry part, because you can be rather frightening. But I left because I wanted to come meet you. Besides, now that I’ve left, someone else may actually have a chance at winning, and it’s only fair that I give them that chance,” he says with a slight shrug and a tone of mock sincerity. I begin to laugh, but stop myself. I’m still mad and I don’t feel like letting go of my anger yet. I know it doesn’t make sense to be mad that he was a little late, but no matter how much time has passed, I’m still afraid the day will come that I’ll be waiting for him and he’ll never show, that he’ll disappear and go back to the life he has forgotten.
Drake nudges my side with his elbow. “Come on, Addy, if you stay mad at me then I can’t teach you to shoot the bow today.”
I stop walking and turn to face him. Sure enough, the leather strap of his hunting bag is strung across his shoulder.
“Are you really going to teach me to shoot today?” I ask, the excitement erasing most of my anger.
“I am, but I can’t teach you if you’re still mad. You have to be calm and level-headed to hold a bow.” He raises an eyebrow. “Two things I’m not sure you’re capable of.”
“I wish you were capable of keeping your thoughts about my temperament to yourself.”
His shoulders shake with his laughter. “Is that your way of asking me to stay?”
I try to hold back my smile, but fail miserably. “Maybe.”
“Fine, I’ll stay, but I know you only want me to because of the bow.” He playfully ruffles my hair and then continues down the path, heading farther into the woods, knowing I’ll follow.
“That’s true,” I call out as I follow him. “Did you tell Uncle Geoffrey?” I hope he didn’t. If my uncle knows, he’ll feel obligated to tell my parents, and they’ll never allow it.
“No. Don’t worry.”
Good. I shudder to think of what Mother would say if she knew. She already disapproves of my going into the woods. “It’s as though I had two sons instead of two daughters,” she always says with a deep sigh. Over the years I’ve learned to ignore this comment, knowing she’s only looking for me to pity her and start acting like a “proper young lady.”
Drake stops several feet ahead of me. We’re in a small, oblong clearing. Thin grass brushes against my feet and gives way to random clusters of yellow wild flowers. My favorite part of the clearing, though, is the overturned tree. The trunk is broken at about a foot from the ground. The remainder of the trunk lies next to the stump, moss clinging to it like snow. I take a seat on the trunk and watch Drake as he carefully places the bag on the ground.
“First, I’m going to show you how to hold the bow. Once you can do that correctly, I’ll bring out the arrows,” he says as he retrieves the bow from the bag. He gently strokes it with his fingers and then beckons me forward with a curl of his hand, his attention still on the bow.
Once I’m standing next to him, he begins his instruction, starting first with all the safety precautions. I try my best to listen while he rambles on about how to properly hold the bow, how to never aim anywhere near any bystanders, how to always remain calm. But all I can think about is getting my hands on the bow.
Finally, after what feels like hours, he carefully places the bow in my arms. It’s surprisingly heavy. Drake watches me, the corner of his mouth curved with amusement, while I struggle to lift it to its proper position. He really is annoying sometimes. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for me to learn how to hold it, and after another short lecture, he lets me shoot my first arrow.
I pull the arrow out of the quiver and carefully load the bow, keeping it aimed firmly on my target, a large oak tree about twenty feet away. With the hemp string from the bow pulled back and pressing against the right side of my face, I count to three, release the arrow, and watch it sail straight past the tree and lodge itself into the ground.
“That was good, Addy. It takes time to learn to hit your target. You can’t expect to have perfect aim on your first try.” Drake walks toward my shameful arrow.
“Were you able to hit the target on your first day?”
He laughs while bending to retrieve the arrow. “Not in the center.”
Not in the center? Then that means . . . “But you were able to hit it?”
He rises to his feet and turns to face me. There’s a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He shrugs and moves toward me. “I think so, Addy, but I can’t really remember. That was a long time ago.”
“I know you remember, Drake. Tell me.”
I look up at his face and see that he’s clearly trying to suppress a laugh. “Why does it matter?” He reaches forward and brushes several stray hairs away from my forehead. He tucks them behind my ear, before dropping his hand back down to his side.
I don’t respond. I just wait for him to tell me because I know he will.
“If I remember correctly, I hit my target on the first day, but it took me several days of practice before I was able to hit the center. Archery takes time to master, and you’ll get no closer to hitting your mark by wasting your time questioning me.” He hands me the arrow and we continue practicing, but while he hits every tree directly in its center, I get no closer to hitting any part of one. After several more hours, I’m completely frustrated, and my arms are aching.
“Can we stop now?” I ask, wiping the sweat off my brow and looking at another arrow that missed its mark by at least three feet.
“Giving up so quickly?” he teases while again retrieving my misguided arrow. My only response is a glare, which he of course laughs at. I’m glad he finds me so amusing. “Do you want to go to the Grey Tree?” he asks with his crooked, half dimpled smile, knowing I won’t resist. I open my mouth to respond, but my stomach makes a strange rumbling sound, reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. “We can pick some berries along the way,” he adds. I nod, and after packing his bag, we begin to walk toward the Glass River. It’s been three years since I’ve seen anything strange at the river, three years since I pulled him out. But still, almost everyday I watch, hoping I’ll see something that shows me the truth of the Faenomen Forest.
When we arrive at the Grey Tree, I climb up first and settle myself on my favorite branch, letting one leg dangle over each side.
He comes up after me and sits on the branch next to mine. He extends his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, and leans against the trunk as his eyes slide closed.
Though the Grey Tree is bare, the leaves on the trees around us are beginning to bud, filling in the lifelessness of the past winter. It’s spring, and that means it’s almost his birthday. In our minds he’ll be turning seventeen, since we figure him to be the same age as Gregory. I turn toward him, a smile twisting my lips, the wind blowing several wild strands of h
air across my face.
“It’s almost your birthday. What do you want to do to celebrate?” I ask excitedly.
He slowly opens his eyes, looking sideways at me. “It’s not my birthday, Addy. I really don’t understand why you insist on celebrating it.” He’s trying to sound irritated, but I can sense the amusement in his tone and face.
“Because it’s the day you came into our lives, and that is worth celebrating.” I could recite this argument from memory because we have it every year. I was the one who originally thought of celebrating his birthday on the day I found him, and everyone else wholeheartedly agreed, except for him, and so this moment repeats.
“Well, since it seems to be more important to you that we celebrate, why don’t you tell me what you want to do,” he says and lazily turns his head toward me.
“No, Drake, it doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to back out of this.”
“I’m not backing out, I’m just asking what you want to do. Whatever you choose will be fine with me. You know that.”
“I’ll choose in a couple months, on my birthday. I’m not choosing on yours.” I cross my arms in front of me and raise an eyebrow. A laugh escapes his lips, though he tried to hold it in.
“Then I choose to do nothing.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Why not? You’re the one who said that since it’s my birthday, I get to choose. And I’m choosing to do nothing.” He once again leans back on the tree, his eyes closing and his lips turning up in a satisfied grin.
“Fine! I’ll choose then!”
“Too late.” He shrugs.
“Drake!”
His eyes open. “Addalynne!” he yells back, mimicking my tone.
Sometimes I honestly don’t know why I like to spend so much time with him. I turn away, setting my sight on the tree nearest us. I hear him laughing beside me and the slow burn of frustration spreads through me. “All right. All right. I surrender. You choose.”
“Does that mean I win?” I set my chin, still refusing to look at him.
