Donning her warmest fleece coat and cloaking her head with her warmest fleece hood, Holena went stomping off through the snow, annoyed at having to leave behind the cozy warmth of the little trailer. Despite her younger sibling’s frequent forays into the moorland, it would not be an easy journey to make, and she grew tired very quickly. Just when she decided to turn back, she noticed a reddish-yellow glow at the crest of a craggy hill. With the tangy taste of the apple still fresh upon her tongue, Holena clomped irritably upward toward its source. This must be the place of which her miserable stepsister had spoken…although she could see nothing even remotely resembling an apple tree. There was, however, a fire, and Holena fully intended to make use of it.
Gathered in a circle around this fire were twelve men at various stages of life, some quite young, some quite elderly. Strange that her detested relative should have made no mention of their presences! —particularly when there were so few men of any age about, other than that dreadful gap-toothed peddler with whom her mother kept trying to fix her up. Without asking for permission, Holena stepped boldly up to the crackling flames, only to seat herself comfortably before it. She even went so far as to remove her fleece-lined boots so that her large, flat feet could be more efficiently warmed.
“And what brings you out today?” inquired January, for it was hardly a day to be taking a stroll on the moor. In fact, it had almost come time for him to pass his club to his brother February.
“Mind your own fucking business, Gramps!” snapped Holena, sticking her middle finger up in the air for emphasis. Pulling off her thick woolen socks, she set about massaging her benumbed toes, which resembled a sequence of paddles of varying sizes.
A scowl fixed itself above January’s curly white beard. Because of his advanced age and the respect it commanded, he was not accustomed to being addressed in this fashion. Nor had he liked the look of that middle finger. From the manner in which this disagreeable Miss covered herself up, one might have thought she had something offensive to hide—as perhaps she did, if her toes were any indication. Suitably provoked, January waved his club high over his head until the somber sky above vanished behind clouds the color of smoke. The fire sputtered, dying out as a fierce wind blew through the small encampment, stealing away the last of the warming flames. Leaden balls of snow rained down from the darkened heavens, and within moments a thick blanket of the stuff covered the moor and everything upon it.
Including Holena.
Meanwhile, back at the trailer, the mother looked apprehensively out the window at the bleak landscape whose craggy contours were now completely hidden from view. Darkness would shortly be upon them, and still her blood-daughter had not returned from her visit to the apple tree. Finally she could wait no more. Dressing in her warmest fleece coat and donning her warmest fleece hood, she set off to follow the route Holena had taken, calling out the girl’s name to the barren moor.
Day after day Maruska waited at home for the return of her stepsister and stepmother. Yet neither would be seen again until the spring thaw, when a passing bear desperate with the hunger of an overly long winter took an interest in the pair and made of them a most disappointing meal. With the loss of her family, the trailer now belonged to Maruska, as did everything both inside and outside of it, including the scrawny goat and the patch of scrubby land surrounding it. She lived there for a time by herself. Then one sunny morning a handsome young man came up to the screen door seeking directions. Rather than continuing on his way, he chose to remain behind with the trailer’s pretty owner, who had taken an instant fancy to him. Indeed, he possessed a branch very much like the one handsome young April had had growing out from his lap—a branch of unswerving straightness whose supple bark oozed with a sap so sweet that Maruska could enjoy it on griddlecakes for breakfast, lunch, and supper.
Had she been more observant of the weather, Maruska might have realized that springtime had passed unusually swiftly this year—in fact, so swiftly that winter seemed to have gone directly into summer. For the young man she so willingly sheltered was none other than the month of April himself.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mitzi Szereto writes and edits across the genres. Her titles include Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers (Cleis), the Erotic Travel Tales anthologies (Cleis), Getting Even: Revenge Stories (Serpent’s Tail), The New Black Lace Book of Women’s Sexual Fantasies (Random House), and Dying For It: Tales of Sex and Death (Running Press). She’s the pioneer of the erotic writing workshop in the UK and Europe, and lives in London.
Her blog “Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog” is located at mitziszereto.com/blog. The creator and presenter of Mitzi TV, Mitzi can be seen on her own Web TV channel at mitziszereto.com/tv.
Copyright © 2000, 2009 by Mitzi Szereto
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
eISBN : 978-1-573-44483-5
In Sleeping Beauty's Bed Page 25
