Feared Fables Box Set: Dark and Twisted Fairy Tale Retellings, (Feared Fables Box Sets Book 1)

by Klarissa King

  I don’t like it. I don’t want him here, but I understand the need for warmth. After a mere hike through the woods, my body ached to be near fire. Colton has been out there all day.

  I take the catch to the herb room and lay it out on the worktop.

  As I scoop out the valerian root from the mortar, I keep my wary gaze on the back of Colton’s head. My stare is so strong and piercing that I can see the hazelnut hues of a few wavy strands.

  “Do you have any tea?” he calls out.

  I pack the valerian mulch into a cloth bag. “Should I offer you some, will you drink it?”

  His head turns, just enough for me to see the dirt-brown of his right eye and the shadows cast from the fire over his profile. He thinks over my meaning—a witch’s brew might not be so safe for those a witch takes unkindly to.

  Eventually, he turns his face away again and slides closer to the fire.

  “I did not think so,” I mutter, a dark smile on my face.

  Colton is not afraid of me, but perhaps he is not as much of a fool as I had thought.

  Abigail’s package is ready for whenever she arrives.

  At the small firepit in my herb room, I bring some water to the boil and squeeze in the scraps of lemon juice I have left. Not much, but enough for two small cups.

  I cradle the cups in my hands and join him by the fire. “I half expected you to camp out in the woods all night,” I tell him. “If only to make me wait for my owed rabbit.”

  Colton doesn’t deny the cruelty. He takes the cup and sniffs it. “It’s a full moon in two nights.”

  How could I have forgotten that?

  We villagers—even Grandmother—do not venture into the night woods on a full moon, or the nights leading up to it. The wolf is gone, but superstition sometimes works to keep us safe.

  I notice that Colton hasn’t tasted his lemon water yet. I bring my own cup to my lips and hold his gaze as I sip. This seems to reassure him. He drinks it with ease.

  There is something in his eyes. He looks at me, and beneath those long lashes of his I see swarms of questions and thoughts. They are veiled, behind mistrust and suspicion.

  I set aside my cup. “Why did you really come inside?”

  Colton licks a drop of water from his lower lip. He never leaves my gaze, not even as he leans forward and rests his empty cup on the table. Then, he brings his hands together and clasps them.

  “It’s no secret in this village that you’re a witch. Everyone knows it. And even some come to you for certain…medicines—”

  That is all he says before he is interrupted. A quiet knock taps through my home.

  I look at the door, and it’s as though I can see through it. It’s not Abigail. I feel it in my bones. It’s someone who needs my help much more than Abigail does.

  I stand. “You must leave, hunter. I have business.”

  Colton clenches his jaw and looks at me a beat. Then, as quick as lightning strikes the sky, he has risen and pulled on his cloak.

  “Out the backdoor,” I say as he moves for the front. “Now—hurry!”

  The quiet knock comes again, only this time it’s a bit harder, more urgent.

  Colton cannot hide the scorn from smouldering his eyes, but I shove him to the door in the corner. It’s locked most of the time, so I have to heave up the bar from its slot with all my arm strength. It pops out and I rip the door open.

  Colton has barely made it through the door before I slam it shut.

  “I am coming!” I shout as the third knock sounds, rapid like the thuds of a run. “Be only a moment!”

  I secure the door and look around for anything out of place. But then the pain inside of me grows stronger, and my palms drip sweat.

  This only happens sometimes, when a patron’s pain is at its highest. I feel her agony; her tears burn my eyes, the twist in her stomach churns my own.

  This is why they call me a witch.

  Because I am.

  When I pull open the door, a cloaked woman dips inside. Ahead, in the lane, I catch a glimpse of Colton. He strides back to the Square.

  Our gazes touch a moment, then I close the door on him a second time.

  “Marigold,” I utter and slide the bar in place. I haven’t seen under her cloak yet, but I know Marigold’s panic like I know my own. “Take a seat, warm yourself.”

  She does and peels off her coat with shaky hands.

  I follow slowly, making sure to study each line of fear etched into her grim face. I barely perch myself beside her on the couch before her sobs boil over like water left in a cauldron too long.

  I run my hands over my dress, sourcing her pain. My palms settle on the hem of my corset, at my womb. “Again?” I ask, with no judgement or disgrace, but with sorrow.

  Hemlock women were cursed with misguided care.

  Marigold was cursed with too much fertility.

  At a mere thirty years of age, she has birthed five live children and two dead ones. There have been many that didn’t make it to the birth. It takes a toll on her body, more than her husband can understand. He takes no measures to stop the cycle.

  It boils my blood and I itch to slip him some of my poisonous berries. But that will only bring more hardship to Marigold. She is not so well-to-do.

  She wrings her hands together and tries to speak through her sobs; “I-I-didn’t kn-ow w…where to-to go—”

  Silencing her, I rest my hand on her bunched-up ones. Marigold has no pence or shillings to give me. She has nothing to offer.

  Still, I take pity on her. And I am a firm believer in a woman’s right to her own body.

  It helps that she is kind to me when I join the markets in the daylight. Not many of the villagers talk to me, but Marigold does.

  “I will brew you something,” I promise her. “Do you wish to drink it at home or spend the night here? I can offer you my bed to rest on.”

  Marigold shakes her head, her hands battling with a handkerchief. “My husband … He’s at the tavern. It was my only chance to come to you. He’ll think it’s only another miscarriage…”

  Only another miscarriage.

  Those words will haunt me and further fuel my resistance to a husband.

  A miscarriage is a horror to a woman who welcomes the seed inside of her. A pregnancy is a horror to a woman who wants no seed inside of her. Neither is a horror to a man who will never know either.

  “I will fix you a brew and you can drink here. By morn, the worst should pass.”

  This is not Marigold’s first visit to me, and I shouldn’t think it will be her last. Not if she wants to live… The same way I felt her pain before, felt the anxiety in the pits of her stomach, I feel her future as I touch her hand with mine. Should she birth again, she will die. Just as she almost did the last time.

  I tighten my hold on her frail hands. “Does your husband like tea or is he a man of ale?”

  Marigold snivels and looks up at me with desperate eyes, though her pain seems lessened by my promise of help. “A-le…Why do you ask?”

  I search her eyes a moment, I want to know how desperate she is. Then, I find it. The shimmer of hope behind the tears.

  With a gentle smile, I shift closer to her. “There are methods…I have not tried them before, but I am aware of them.” I pause and doubt myself a moment. It passes. “There is a way to stop a man’s sperm from … performing. It’s a remedy,” I add at her sudden shock. “A mere concoction that can be slipped into his ale once every full moon. It causes no harm and he should be none the wiser.”

  Marigold wants this. Her eyes light up as the shock slips away and she thins her lips. Her gaze moves around my home, as if to make sure no one is here, then slides closer to me until our knees touch.

  “I cannot pay for that,” she whispers. “You help me, Red. More than I deserve to be helped. But to take something so potent from you each month, I cannot do so for free.”

  A smile slips onto my face. “I promised no free remedy but the one I give you now. I s
hall want payment each full moon for this concoction—it is a dangerous one to brew, and even more difficult than any I have tried before. But,” I add, “I shouldn’t want your payment in pennies or shillings.”

  “How else can I pay you?” She wipes a tear from her pasty cheek and shakes her head. Limp orange hair waves around her freckled face, some strands falling loose from the up-do. “I have no possessions, nor a garden to bring you vegetables and fruits. I am but a wife to a merchant—and he doesn’t even sell what belongs to us. He works for Knight Bennett up the hill there.”

  “I know,” I say, and it shames to admit I cannot hide the glitter from my eyes or my voice. “I imagine you visit the Knight’s estate often, yes?”

  Her brows knit together as she nods. “But I will not steal. My hands will be cut off!”

  I wave away her distress. “I ask that you do small favours for me, that is all. Perhaps one month, you might sneak a strand of Lady Bennett’s hair for me. Another, I could ask that you pluck a leaf from a tree on their grounds. Small tasks, here and there. I am sure there will be whole months that pass in which I won’t need anything from you, Marigold. But on those months,” I say, my smile softening, “I shall still offer you the brew.”

  She hesitates. I have lost her.

  I almost curse myself, but then she warms all my insides and squeezes my hand in return. “I shall think it over.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  Marigold relaxes by the fire as I brew what she needs to expel the pregnancy from her unwilling body. I prepare it as a warm tea—strongly infused with mugwort and a pinch of belladonna. The belladonna will strengthen her sleep and take her away from most of the discomfort.

  “Drink it now.” I push it into her hands. “Hurry home and sleep well.”

  Fresh tears well in her eyes and she gulps it down.

  Marigold is an emotional woman. She cries often. Perhaps it is normal given her troubles, yet I cannot bring myself to understand why she cries. I have shed no tears in my life. Grandmother tells me that I was even a quiet baby, curious and calm.

  After I see Marigold out to the snow storm that is dawning on our village, I am ready for a night’s rest. But Abigail has not yet come for the valerian. Hours have gone by since nightfall, so it is strange that she is not on my doorstep, desperate for another of my special beverages.

  I wait a while.

  I rest by the fireplace, I have a tea of my own—perfectly safe, of course—and tend to my herbs. A half-hour passes before I start to skin, wash and prepare the rabbit. There is more to be done, but once I hear the chime of midnight come from the church, I pack up the rabbit’s meat in paper and leave the rest for the morn’s chores.

  Sleep is distant to me tonight. My thoughts stay on Abigail. But soon, I drift off and sag under the thick fur blankets that are heavy on my body, and I dream of Abigail swimming in a lake of valerian.

  Abigail drowns.

  Valerian: pink and white petals, sedative.

  6.

  To concoct Marigold’s infertility brew, there are many ingredients I need. Many that I don’t have within the confines of my home or even in Grandmother’s garden. In the dead of winter, I find it will be difficult to source most of these. Still, I write them down:

  1.Hedgehog liver;

  2.Tail of newt;

  3.Shrew testicles;

  4.Rabbit new-born;

  4.Two wolf fangs.

  I do not allow myself to be disheartened.

  Yesterday, I should not have seen an adder so far into the snow season, yet a freshly caught one is crammed into a mason jar to my left. The foetuses inside it will come in useful for this concoction.

  Coincidences, I do not believe in. But fate, I do, and it dances all around me.

  My lips bunch to the side as I drum my fingernails on the workbench. Where can I find these ingredients? Rabbit burrows shouldn’t be difficult enough to locate, but that would mean to betray my bargain with Colton. Is it a bargain I care much for?

  I’m not certain.

  Though, should I betray him, he could steal back the adder or cause more trouble for me than I want. At the thought, I draw away from the workbench and grab my coat from the rack by the door. The sun is not yet above the horizon. It is early enough to catch Colton before he heads into the woods for the day.

  I slip on my soft-soled boots, tuck my waves into the nape of my coat, then I am out the door and down the lane. At least the wind has settled somewhat. It no longer whistles through the gaps between the houses, and it has stopped its assaults on my face. All that is left of the storm last night is the snow on the ground that comes up to the tip of my boots and the nip of the calm air against my cheeks.

  I’m quick to reach the Square, where all the market stalls stand alone in rows. Soon, the merchants will be out in the chill to serve up the day’s offerings. My stockings are beginning to wear and I might like to replace them—and if my fancy takes me, I should like to buy grain and some fabric for my dress making.

  Those matters come later. Right now, I have business.

  As I rush through the cold, my legs bang against my petticoat and the miniscule hairs on my exposed cleavage prickle with goosepimples. Beneath my breasts, my cloak is fastened with buttons and I consider perhaps buying fabric to bring the coat’s neckline up to my collarbone. But to buy matching fabric could perhaps cost some shillings, and I am not certain how much I can afford to spend after I pay my month’s rent to my landlord, Knight Bennett.

  My eyes drift from the stalls to the shutters drawn at the windows around me. Above the tavern is one set of shutters painted white that lures my attention. Behind them, Abigail should be resting in her above-tavern dwellings. Though how she finds rest without valerian, I cannot guess. It is possible she sought treatment from the Priest Peter, or even the dreadful physician who runs the apothecary shop beside the tavern. The physician knows sweets better than he knows medicine. Hence, why my penny-jar only grows heavier as more villagers come to me.

  Since I moved into the village last autumn, I have built my list of patrons with a gradual success. Soon, I hope to steal all of the physician’s patrons for my own. That should secure my place in the village so much that even the Priest Peter cannot run me out. And who knows, I might want to open my own shop one day—a shop not unlike the apothecary.

  A witch can dream.

  I pass the shop I have my future eye on and draw my hood further over my head to hide my face. Gaze on the ground, I veer off into a lane at my right.

  Metal gates greet me at the end of the lane, standing tall, foreboding and proud, not unlike the man I have come to see. The fire behind the gate burns strong in the stone pit, so I know he is inside.

  I rap my un-gloved fist on the gate and wince at the icy metal’s touch on my bare knuckles. Seconds tick by before I knock again, louder. I will not knock a third time—I will call out his name for all in the homes above to hear my visit to him.

  A third knock is unneeded.

  Colton steps out from a door behind the firepit and the orange light catches his dark his earthy eyes. There is a pause in him, a moment of surprise to see me there at his blacksmith shop. Well, he hardly sees me, but he would be colour-blind to not notice the only red cloak in the village at his gate.

  Coming to his senses, he storms toward me and unhooks the gate. It creaks so loud that I wonder if it will wake his neighbours. Before I find out, I slip inside and shuffle to the fire, where my spread-out hands seek instant warmth.

  Huddled by the pit, I let a shudder run through me as though the cold is ejected from my body. The clang of the gate behind me comes before the loud thuds of Colton’s footsteps.

  He rounds on me, but I face the firepit still.

  “Why have you come here, witch? I told you I would bring the bounty to you. Was I not clear about the terms of our arrangement?”

  I rub my hands together and stare at the flames. “No,” I say. “You weren’t. In fact, you said nothing abo
ut such details being absolute. And,” I turn my cheek and smile at him, a dark one that sometimes has villagers scurrying away from me, “I am not here about our bargain. I want something from you, something I hope to barter for.”

  Colten sneers, a horrid twist to his otherwise pretty lips. He draws away, his gaze on me, and moves around the pit until the fire is all that is between us.

  “There is nothing you hope to tempt me with. Nothing you can offer me.”

  “Now, let us not lie,” I say. “There are many things I can offer you that you might be tempted to accept. I am open to suggestions.”

  My hands are warm enough to slip into my cloak pockets. I am quiet a moment as I run my gaze around the room, from worktops to iron rods and sheets of metal. There is a door in the corner. Behind it, his mother lurks. Ever since her husband ran off all those years ago with whatever pennies and shillings they had, she wears black to mourn, and rarely does she walk the streets of the village. Colton does much of the work. His mother stays in the home behind and above their shop.

  I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of her.

  I wander over to a row of daggers, not yet finished. He follows me like a shadow.

  “You once killed a wolf,” I say. “What did you do with its remains?”

  As I reach for a silver blade, he hits my hand away then slides in between me and the daggers. “What could you want with wolf bones?”

  I tap my canine tooth with my sharp fingernail. “I want these.”

  “Its teeth?”

  “Do you have them?”

  “I might.”

  He runs his gaze over me, a brief pause on my bosom, then meets my gaze again. The flush of his cheeks betrays his thoughts. The very thoughts that allow me to feel safe enough to visit the hunter. Colton might claim to loathe me, and perhaps he does. Still, he is a mere man and his desires are easy to read.

  “I also require a new-born rabbit,” I say and count with my fingers, “a newt, a shrew, and a hedgehog.”