by Taryn Tyler
“I ended up in the dungeons. I don't remember how. I must have taken a wrong turn or been driven that direction, trying to stay out of everyone's way. It wasn't the first time I had been down there. It smelled of feces and the air was stale and hot. Most of the prisoners were asleep. Flies buzzed up and down over their faces and swarmed their tiny bowls of water.
“There was one prisoner. I have no idea what he had done
--something especially awful because . . . both his wrists had been broken. His hands were twisted, limp and unmoving so that I could see the bone trying to poke up out of his skin. He had fresh burn blisters on his neck and chest and dark purple bruises on his eye and cheek. His eyes were open. He saw me when I passed him but didn't say anything or even move. He just kept staring straight ahead as if nothing around him existed.
“I turned to go. I knew I shouldn't be down there, gawking at prisoners, but as I turned I heard voices. Footsteps. Small, quick steps almost gliding over the stone floor. I slipped behind the nearest corner only seconds before Lucille came sweeping down the hall with a servant at her heels.
“I don't remember what question they asked the prisoner. I just remember that it was the same one over and over and that he said over and over that he didn't know the answer. I don't remember . . .
“Lucille had these strange slippers. They were made of iron. I could tell the first time I saw her in them that they were too big for her feet but the iron was engraved with all sorts of patterns and designs so I had thought that they were some kind of northern fashion I didn't understand. As she questioned the prisoner her servant made a fire in a sort of makeshift stove. I thought that was odd since it was an already hot summer afternoon. Once the fire had come to life Lucille took the shoes off and placed them next to it. I thought that was odd too but I wasn't prepared for . . .
“They turned red first, then orange, then blue, then white. Then Lucille's servant put them on the prisoner. He had gloves and a pair of tongs but even he screamed out in pain as he slipped them over the prisoner's feet. He pulled the man upright so that he had to stand while the queen finished questioning him. Sweat gleamed off the prisoner's skin. His feet jerked up and down and back and forth in a cruel, sickening dance.
“I don't remember how long it took. I don't remember if he ever told Lucille what she wanted to know. I just remember the screaming and the rich scent of his feet cooking inside the shoes. Smoke filled the dungeons, choking out even the smell of feces. I closed my eyes and covered my ears but it did nothing to muffle the sound.
“When it finally stopped I knew that the prisoner was dead. I stayed where I was, huddled against the wall with my hands over my ears, until I heard the servant put the fire out and the soft silken brush of Lucille's gown as she glided back out of the dungeon.
“She wore the slippers to dinner that night. She smiled her warm welcoming smile and laughed at all of Papa's jokes. When the servants brought out the main course –a whole stuffed swan, still sizzling as they placed it on the table –she turned to me. Her laughing emerald eyes locked on mine, intense and malicious for only the flicker of a second. So brief that even I thought I had imagined it. Until she asked me if I wanted to borrow a pair of her shoes for a dance after dinner. It was all I could manage to mumble that I was too young to join her for dancing.”
I stopped. Rose stared at me, unmoving. She said nothing. It was frightening to see her speechless. As if I had killed something inside her. Why had I told her this? I had never told anyone before. Not Hans. Not Elise. Not Dana. Not even Papa. If I had told Papa perhaps he wouldn't be --
I clenched my fist then released my grip. I glanced at the fireplace then back at Rose. “We should start the soup for supper.” I said.
Rose nodded. Still watching me. Still speechless. It would take all day for the soup to simmer.
It was two days before the storm finally let up. The ice on the windows was still thick, painting even the gray and black outside white and cracked with veins. I pulled open the door. The pile of snow that had collected against the edge crumbled forward onto the threshold. Thick piles of white shimmered and glittered off the ground as far as I could see, spreading out into the woods in globs beneath the trees, winding like spider webs over the branches. A symphony of bird calls filled the air. We weren't the only ones who had been holed up for the last three days.
I turned around to face Rose, still making her way down the repaired loft ladder. “Does your grandmother have any traps?” I asked. “It might be nice to have some rabbit.”
“We can look.” Rose dropped herself down. she skipped the last two ladder staves and leapt for the door. She snatched her cloak off the hook and draped it around her shoulders. It rippled around her in a cascade of deep red. Like funeral posies. Like blood. It wasn't the best color for hunting.
“Gran made it.” Rose said, noticing my gaze.
Hazel-gold eyes. Red hair. Red cloak. It was as if she were made of flames. I looked down at my own attire. The simple brown dress that had once belonged to Rose's grandmother fit me loosely in the arms and waist. I had hemmed the skirt but it still sank down to the toes of my boots.
It wasn't black, I realized. I had been out of mourning for weeks and hadn't even noticed.
Rose stepped past me into the freedom of the morning. She spun around to face me. Her cloak rippled around her. Her boots pounded through the layers of snow. “Are you coming?”
I grabbed my own black cloak off the hook and rushed after her, crunching my feet hurriedly into the snow to catch up.
The air was still. Almost as if it were frozen in place. Our hot breath sizzled through it in tiny moving clouds. I shivered. Dormant gardens tumbled around us. Thick brittle thorns and long winding bits of gray and brown stiffened with frost from the storm. A single green vine snaked its way through the ice covered mess, smothered in white and red roses. Only a few lone drops of snow clung to the thin delicate petals, somehow unmarred by the storm.
Rose slowed her long impatient strides. She twisted one of her curls, wrinkling her nose as she looked down at the roses. “Out of everything I've seen in these woods those roses scare me the most.”
“They weren't there before.” I said, catching up to her at last.
“They weren't.” Rose agreed. She laughed. “I like them.”
The toe of my boots hit a stone hidden in the snow. I tottered forward to keep my balance, almost catching Rose by the arm “You like things that scare you?”
She turned to face me. Her long lashes, already frosted with ice, fluttered over her hazel eyes. Soft. Playful. She looked like she were about to laugh again. She always looked like she were about to laugh. “Don't you?”
I shook my head. The rust sting of blood touched my tongue as I realized I'd been biting my lip.
Rose wrinkled her forehead. She stared at me as if I were one of her grandmother's letters she didn't know the name of. “But the way you jumped at that wolf creature with your knife --like you had nothing to lose. Like--” She stopped. It had been the first either of us had made mention of the wolf creature since the first day.
“I didn't.” I said. “Have anything to lose.”
We had both stopped walking. I looked down at the sagging brown fabric of my dress then behind my shoulder at the cottage. Smoke shot up out of the chimney in a thin winding stream. The stone walls stood straight and solid, a shield against prying eyes and the press of the wind, almost sacred in the solitude it afforded. If the wolf creature came again maybe I would be more hesitant to risk my life.
Rose and I found half a dozen cage traps and some skinning knives in the shed. One of the cages was water damaged and another had three snapped styles but we could still use the other four. I cut up some apple pieces to bait the rabbits with and we set off into the woods.
It was strange to have Rose chatting beside me as we walked. She seemed to grow more vibrant with each step as if the trees themselves gave her strength. Her nose and cheeks grew rosy as she po
inted out the winter birds and evergreens we passed. I couldn't tell if the redness was from excitement or cold. Perhaps both. Or perhaps it was only the shadow of her cloak that made her skin look flushed with fire. She flitted back and forth in the snow as she spoke, kicking up bits of ice and jumping from stone to tree stump along the path. Her steps were so buoyant that I could imagine she was running barefoot in the grass instead of pounding her way through powdered ice in boots too big for her feet.
It took all morning to find places with enough brush to set the traps. I scattered apple scraps inside and around the cages and propped the door so that it would fall if anything stepped inside. When we finished my hands were numb and red with cold so that I could hardly move them. My stomach rumbled for food. Rose and I sat together against a tree trunk and devoured the last of the apples. They went down my throat almost as cold as the ice but they were crisp and sweet and stopped my stomach from cramping.
“Gran used to bring apples to roast in the winter.” Rose said “We would stick them over the fire after dinner and wait for them to turn brown and soft, then gobble them down while they were still hot enough to burn our fingers and lips. Even Greta.”
The thought of anything warm was enough to make me shiver with longing. I swallowed my last bite of apple and jumped to my feet. The sooner we checked the traps the sooner we could get back to a warm fire.
Something rustled in the bushes behind me. The movement was too heavy for a squirrel or rabbit or even a fox. My heart's rhythm quickened. The only just healed wounds in my shoulder and foot ached as if the flesh were freshly torn. I whirled around to face the sound.
My foot sank into the snow, deeper than I had thought it would be. I lost my balance. A moment later I was on the ground, coated with cold shatterings of ice that melted through my skirts and bodice. My back pressed against Rose's stomach. She coughed, choking on a mouthful of apple. Or maybe she was laughing. The soft rise and fall of her belly tickled against my spine.
I sat up, untangling myself from Rose. I shivered in the cold. “What was that?”
Rose sat up beside me. She swallowed. Her eyes watered as her bite of apple slid down her throat. “Probably a hobgoblin. They're all over the wood.” She stood up and brushed snow off her dress. She shook the small white particles out of her cloak, flapping the bright red like a flag in the cold air, then reached her hand down to help me up.
The first two traps we checked were empty. The apple pieces lay untouched beneath the wooden styles. The third had been triggered. The apples were gone but nothing remained but a trail of fox tracks leading to and away from it. We approached the oak I had set the last trap under without much expectation.
The shadows of the tree branches glided over my skin as I approached the trap. The stick had been nudged, the cage door dropped. Staring up at me with wide, round eyes and twitching noses were two young rabbits.
I knelt beside the cage and lifted the hatch. Cold snow bit through my skirt into my knees and shins. I slid my hand into the cage and grabbed the closest rabbit by the back of his neck. His flesh was warm, his fur soft. I pulled him out and dropped the hatch again. He wiggled in my grip. His long ears twitched backward.
I drew my knife. One quick slice across the jugular and he was still. Something crunched in front of me. I looked up to see Rose standing still in the snow. I hadn't noticed her approach.
I laid the dead rabbit down and pulled his brother out of the cage. He fought harder to get away. Because he had seen what I had done to his brother or because he had a wilder nature. When he too had stopped moving I wiped the blood off my fingers and palms in the snow. I looked back up at Rose.
She stared at me. “You scare me sometimes, Snow.”
I almost answered that she scared me too. With her song that scared away ghosts and made roses grow in the dead of winter. With her fearlessly bright scarlet cloak and the way she moved through the trees. But how could I be afraid of someone who had already saved my life so many times?
I reset the trap, sprinkling more apple bits inside, and lifted the rabbit carcasses off the ground.
The journey back to the cottage seemed shorter, almost abrupt, as if we had hardly stepped out of it at all. As much as I longed for the warmth of the fire I was sorry to leave the open stillness of the wood behind us.
I prepared the rabbits in the shed. I stepped into the tiny thinwalled building and pulled the skinning knives off the wall. Alone.
This morning I had thought it strange to have Rose beside me as I worked. Now I found it stranger not to have her. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I had been away from the quiet crackle of her presence for more than a few minutes. The shed felt too silent. Too still. Too much like the manor after Lucille had sterilized it with her soldiers.
It was nearing dusk when I stepped out of the shed with the cleaned cuts of rabbit meat wrapped in linen. I stopped.
Animal tracks. Round, fresh paw markings almost the size of my hand obscured Rose's footprints leading up to the cottage. I could see the deep holes around the edges where claws had pierced through the snow.
My shoulder and foot began to ache. Hans had said that the wolf creature wouldn't come back.
I listened but could hear nothing but the quiet rustle of dusk. Wind through the tree branches. The hoot of an owl. I followed the tracks, pressing my fingers tight around the bits of meat in my hands. They reeked with the mildew scent of death. My stomach felt hollow. Empty with dread.
I turned the corner. The tracks led up to the cottage door then away from it, circling back toward the back of the cottage. Back to the shed where I had stood only moments ago. I resisted the urge to look behind me and darted for the cottage door.
The pattering of footsteps. My own. The deep heavy fall of breathing. My own.
I reached the door and ripped it open. I slammed it closed behind me and bolted it shut. The sound of the iron against wood shattered through the cottage.
The quick pulse of a heart, beating too fast. My own.
Rose turned toward me with a chopping knife in her hand. She set it down next to the bits of onions and root vegetables on the table.
“Animal tracks.” I said. “Outside. The size of ---”
“The wolf.”
“It could be a bear.” I said.
It could. The tracks I had seen up close had been blurred, meshed into Rose's. But I remembered how intently the wolf creature's eyes had followed Rose, how much it had seemed to want her.
Ghost pains burned in my foot and shoulder. “Hans said the creature wouldn't come back.”
Rose's eyes flared. “He was wrong.”
I turned to look at the bolted door. The wolf creature had seemed so sentient. Would a single lock be enough to keep him out?
I gave the cuts of rabbit meat to Rose. She placed them over the fire with the chopped root vegetables. The scents of garlic and onion filled the air as I slipped behind the drapes in the far corner to bathe. Time moved like the slow burn of a candle, dripping bit by bit into a hardened, shapeless slab at the bottom of the pillar. Any minute the wax would run out.
Rose hummed while she cooked. I tried to focus on the clear, steady purr of her voice instead of the threat lurking outside. Probably circling us. Waiting for the right moment to strike. We couldn't stay inside forever.
At last I managed to scrub the last remains of rabbit blood out from underneath my fingernails. I slipped into my spare shift and got to work on my dress, ringing out every last trace of red and black out of the sleeves and bodice. The scent of searing flesh filled my nostrils, until finally it mingled with the garlic and onions, melting into a rich, pungent gravy. I hung my dress on the wall to dry and stepped out from behind the drapes. My skin felt fresh and light, almost as if it would float away without my body. I sat down at the table a few feet from Rose.
Rose stopped humming. The juice in the apples on the fire dripped down into the ash. A growl sounded from outside. A blur of fur brushed past the window.
Rose glanced at the door.
“Will the lock hold?” I asked.
Rose didn't answer. I reached for my knife but I was only wearing a shift. I'd left my knife with my other clothes.
Another growl scraped against the wind outside. Louder. More persistent. Something scratched against the door. The wood moaned. The iron bolt rattled.
Rose reached for the tongs next to the fireplace. I darted behind the drapes. My dress hung on a hook on the wall, dripping water like saliva onto the floor. I fumbled through the clinging fabric for my knife. The creature's breath heaved outside in clear steady swells. Or was that the wind? Rising and falling, rising and falling, like the great tumbling roar of the sea.
Another growl. Another creaking scrape across wood. The door rattled again beneath the creature's weight. Footsteps pattered across the wood floor.
“Rose?”
No answer. I could see silver at last drowning in the dark brown folds of my bodice. I fumbled through the wet fabric.
“Rose?”
My hand closed over my knife hilt. The lock unbolted with a sudden snap.
“Rose.” I flung the drapes back, knife raised to strike.
Rose stood with the fire tongs raised in both of her hands over her head. A mess of fur and claws barreled through the open doorway. The animal's shoulders were almost as high as my chin, his teeth the size of my fingers. But there was something . . . different. He was much too round, his snout too short, his neck too long --too thick --and his fur --the same shiny orange red as Rose's hair.
“Rose. Don't.” I lowered my knife. “It's only a bear.”
“Only a bear?” Rose's voice was shrill but she didn't strike. It still had claws and teeth. It could still chew us to bits.
