by TARA GALLINA
“Life isn’t fair,” he says. “Why would death be any different?”
I shake my head. This is too much to think about right now. My brain hurts. My body is still too weak to move, but I don’t feel like I earned the right to rest.
“The next time I break the rules,” I say because I surely will, “and I am punished, let me freeze.”
Daceian exhales, and I feel his body tense. He’s disappointed in me. For some reason, he thinks I’m special. I’m not. I’m stubborn, desperate, and now a murderer, or at the very least a murderer’s accomplice. By the end of this week, I might want to return under the river with the Hag.
Then I think of my sisters and father and know I can’t let that happen.
“Sleep,” Daceian says. “Things will be better in the morning. I promise.”
“Why are you being so nice?” I murmur as sleep starts to claim me. “You’re supposed to be cruel.”
“I am cruel,” he murmurs, but I’m too far gone to care.
***
This time when I wake, I’m in the pretty bed with lavender flowers on the canopy. The cottage is light and cozy. I’m dry and in a nightgown. My muscles are soft, my body revived.
Daceian springs to mind and his final words before I passed out. I am cruel, he’d said.
How can he think that? I don’t. He saved me from that horrid pain. He brought me back, tucked me into bed, and made everything better for me. Better, when I didn’t deserve it.
I killed a person last night. A kind, loving person. A woman who didn’t turn me away when others in the village did.
She gave me a discount, too. She’d never admit it, but I know she did. And now she’s gone. Who will run her bakery, the only bakery in town? Will it close and life go on as if it had never existed? Will people forget her like they do all the maidens who have been sacrificed to the curse?
The families of the Messengers mourn them by wearing black for seven days. It’s all they’re allowed. No one dares to challenge the rules or complain about who is sacrificed to the Council, though.
Mr. Dunn, the head Councilman, holds service every Sunday in the castle’s great hall. He tells horrific stories of past families and fathers who went after their daughters and the Hag, and how the moment they entered the woods they were never seen again.
He says during the week the Washer Woman rises, the curse wraps the woods in its cold claws, taking aim at anyone who enters in challenge.
There will be no one to save me, not that Father would try. Once strong and proud, he’s withered mentally and physically since losing Mother. He was more like his old self than he’s ever been on the day of the Choosing Ceremony, but I ruined that for him, too.
Maybe, I have withered along with him. The younger me, the girl angry at the world for losing her mother, would have risked her life for any chance to destroy the Washer Woman. Last night, I stood before her, a coward.
Daceian is wrong. I’m no different from the other maidens. I’m not strong and brave.
Time has changed me into a girl who spends her days caring for the manor and Father, making sure he remembers to tend the sheep, so we can trade the wool and milk for coins. When I’m not giving lessons to the twins and loving them as Mother would have wanted, I care for the gardens she adored, preserving them the best I can so the girls can know the beauty our mother had created.
A sharp pain unfurls in my chest. I bury my head in a pillow. I miss the girls so much. I miss their soft curls, golden like Mother’s hair had been. The way they laughed and begged me to play chase in the maze as Mother had done with me so many times.
My chest burns with shame and guilt the way it has since this started. I should have mated with Espen like Father arranged. I should have forced myself to submit. I should have—I stop the thought and sit up.
Tears soak my cheeks and dampen my pillow. I’ve never cried this much in my life. I should be ashamed of myself for being so weak.
Is this how the other Messengers felt? Did they become depressed to the point they didn’t wish to survive?
I’ve taken only one life and I’m a mess. How will I react after I’ve taken more? How many more will I have to claim?
In the beginning of the curse, tales say the Washer Woman killed for seven straight days. In my lifetime, as well as my parents and grandparents, the number of killings has varied. Some Messengers have reaped only three lives, while others have taken five.
The Council likes to recall a summer, decades ago, when only one life was claimed. One life. They say we had sent a worthy maiden that week, and she must have served the Washer Woman well for the village to have been so blessed.
If she were so worthy, why didn’t she earn her freedom and return home? The Council was wrong about losing only one life that week. We lost two, the maiden and the fated victim, but no one speaks of it in that way.
My shoulders slump. Now isn’t the time to sulk. I need to be strong.
At least, I’m not alone. I try to think positively. I have support.
Daceian helped me last night. He could have left me writhing in pain. Instead, he stopped it and cared for me in a way no one ever has. It may be his duty, something he’s done for other maidens, but I suspect otherwise.
I should ask him about it and thank him for what he did. Maybe doing so will help me feel better.
I shove my hair back, climb from the bed, and open the sheer curtains. I used to do this at home when I was tired or sad and needed a boost before starting the day.
To my surprise, the woods are lovely and alive, glinting with morning light. Like rain drops, sunrays sprinkle the shrubbery and leafy ground. Trees with moss-covered trunks stand tall, their bushy green leaves glinting yellow.
Such a beautiful day after such a tragic night.
Sadness weighs on me and my shoulders slump, again.
“Fight it,” I whisper to myself. This is what comes of being the Messenger. I’m not the first or the last.
A bird flies by the window and lands on a sunlit branch near the cottage. Its feathered body is gray while its wings are a shimmering blue. How rare.
The bird chirps in a rhythmic way as if it’s singing.
If I were home, I’d open the window and welcome him inside like I did the little sparrows that used to visit my room.
I touch the glass. “Hello, little birdy. Good morning.”
It looks my way.
“Are you enjoying the warmth of the rays?”
The bird springs from the branch and swoops toward me.
“Slow down.” I tap the glass. Can it not tell the window is closed?
It keeps coming.
“No. Don’t.” I smack the glass pane.
The bird crashes into the window and bounces off, falling to a bed of leaves on the ground.
I gasp and jump back in shock. No. A whimper rattles from my chest. I creep closer and stare down at the lifeless bird. This is my fault.
Without thought, I grip the bottom of the window and lift. A breeze wafts through cooling my skin. Realization hits, and I freeze. I opened the window.
My gaze shoots to the closed bedroom door. Why isn’t the plant squawking? Does it not know, or is this allowed? It can’t be. A maiden could escape.
Perhaps, a protective barrier blocks the way. And lets a breeze pass through? Not likely.
I bend and inspect the opening, then I chance it, and stick my hand outside. It passes through with ease. I snatch it back and wait for the plant to react. Nothing.
I do it again. Cool air and warm sunrays caress my skin. Could it be this easy, a glitch in the curse? A determined maiden would take advantage of the situation.
The thought of seeing my sisters and Father sends excitement whirling through me. Has no maiden ever discovered this?
I take in the poor bird still on its side. Its furry chest puffs with a short breath. It’s alive? The urge to save it overpowers me. I might not have been able to help Mrs. Potterfield, or whoever else I’ll be forced to claim, but I ca
n save this innocent bird.
I push the window open all the way. The plant still doesn’t squawk. Maybe that’s why I keep going. I send my legs through the opening and try to reach the ground with my foot. It’s farther down than I thought. Turning, I rest my belly on the wooden sill, my upper body still in the room, and ease myself down slowly so I don’t land on the bird.
The inside of the cottage darkens, the dinginess returning. I freeze, unsure of what to do. Climb back into the room—will it even matter at this point—or continue to save the bird?
I glance over my shoulder to check on the little fellow. He’s no longer on the ground—there is no ground. Blackness swirls below my dangling feet. Bony fingers made of dark fog clasp my ankle and pull.
I shriek and slip further outside.
The bird, trees, woods, breeze, everything is black. Fear sends me scrambling to get back into the cottage. I tighten my hold on the windowsill.
The bony hand tugs harder on my leg, pulling me closer to the abyss. The darkness twirls faster with the center spiraling inward, like a throat opening to swallow me.
My arm muscles burn, straining against my weight and the force trying to drag me down.
Sweat moistens my palms and my fingers slip. One of my hands loses its grip.
I scream and cry out, “Daceian! Please, help me!”
A second bony hand clasps my other ankle, and I’m jerked down with more force. I slip further, my body completely outside as I struggle to hang onto the windowsill with only my left hand. One more tug, and I’ll be gone, consumed by the darkness.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I sob to the cottage, my family, and anyone else who might be listening. Tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t want to die. I’m not ready.
A loud bang sounds from inside the room. A strong hand clamps onto my wrist. Hair covers my face, blocking my view to who is helping me. “Daceian?” I ask.
My body jerks and I’m pulled upward. My chest slides over the windowsill followed by my waist, hips, and thighs. The bony hands tighten their grip on my ankles, keeping me from going further.
Wind whips through the window, sending leaves and dirt over my body and into the room. Everything turns black like the darkness is following me inside the cottage.
The person holding me roars and wrenches me so hard the force lets go. I skid across the room and slam into the wall. Face down, I stay that way, working to catch my breath. Panting sounds from the person who saved me. He must have landed nearby.
“Daceian?” It has to be him. I roll onto my back, too weak to do more. Pale tendrils cover my face like a blanket. I leave them.
“You were trying to escape?” Anger and disbelief sharpen his tone.
“I wasn’t. I swear.”
“Then why were you climbing out the window?”
“A bird flew into the windowpane and fell to the ground. I thought it was hurt. I wanted”—needed—”to save it. I didn’t think beyond that. I climbed out to care for the bird. Nothing more, but the ground disappeared, and something tried to pull me down.” I shiver at the memory of the cold, bony hand around my skin. “I wouldn’t have left. I was helping the bird. I just wanted to save it. I don’t know what happened.”
“The curse happened,” he sighs, sounding both weary and annoyed. “Like the cottage, it punishes and rewards. It also lures you to do wrong when the opportunity presents itself. Earn the cottage’s trust and it will protect you.”
“The cottage tried to kill me?”
“It was teaching you a lesson. You wouldn’t have died, but you would have suffered more. Treat the cottage with respect and it will do the same to you.”
A shaky breath leaves me. “I just wanted to save the bird,” I murmur. “I can’t save anyone else, not even myself. It was stupid of me. I realize that now. I—”
“Need to be smarter,” Daceian sighs.
“Thank you for saving me. Again.” I turn my head toward him. My hair stays over my face, blocking my view.
A gloved hand covers my eyes. “Don’t look at me,” he scolds.
I flinch. “I wasn’t. I couldn’t see you through my hair. I swear. That’s why I didn’t brush it away.”
He doesn’t respond.
Does he not believe me?
For moments, we lie on the floor, our breathing the only sound in the room. I focus on Daceian’s heavy rhythm and listen as it slows to a calmer pace. Does it mean I’m forgiven?
“Daceian?” I venture.
“Hmm?” His tone softens, his anger waned.
“Why am I not allowed to look at you?”
“I can’t tell you,” he murmurs, and I hear the frown in his voice.
“You can’t tell me, or you don’t want to?”
Silence.
“Is it for the same reason I can’t see your mother?”
“No.”
“Is it because you’re disfigured?”
“I can’t say.” Frustration echoes in his tone, but I don’t think his upset is directed at me.
Is he ashamed of how he looks? Bothered by something that might be different? Could he have an anomaly, like I do with my eyes?
“Daceian?” I start again.
“Yes,” he draws out, his voice a mix of annoyance and something else. Amusement? I must be mistaken.
I don’t let it deter me from what I have to say. It’s important. “I want you to know your appearance, no matter how different it might be, won’t bother me. How you look cannot and will not change the way I feel about you. I know you too well for that. I even consider you … a friend, no matter how warped that may be. I don’t have many, or any really, unless you count my horse, Daisy. My point is, as my friend, I’d like to be able to put a face to your name. It’s incredibly challenging not being able to look upon the person I spend all my time with. Can you understand that and believe I would never judge you based on your appearance?”
He’s quiet for a while. Considering my request? Finally, he says, “Yes. I can understand your needs. But I can’t show myself to you. Not yet.”
Yet? Hope blooms inside me, along with ideas I should squash at once. Have I learned nothing? Still, for clarification, I ask, “Are the rules I break to you different than the rules I break to your mother?”
“You know they are,” he says, shifting around like he’s sitting up. “But don’t get any ideas. I can control only so much.”
“Can control.” I shoot upright, keeping my eyes closed. “What does that mean?”
“It means no more breaking the rules,” he says, his tone reprimanding in a way that almost makes me laugh.
“I don’t mean to break the rules. I truly don’t,” I explain, wanting him to understand me better. “I’ve always done things my own way. It’s not an excuse. It’s a habit. I wasn’t raised to think my defiant nature is bad. If anything, my mother praised me for it. Passionate and fearless, is how she described me. And when kids in the village ridiculed me for my unusual eyes, she told me the difference made me special. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you, and I’m thankful for your help. You saved me last night from agonizing pain and you saved me again today. I will try to be more like the other maidens.”
I brush my hair behind my shoulders, straighten my dress, and lift my chin.
“I never asked you to do that,” Daceian whispers in my ear, suddenly beside me.
My breath hitches, and I fight the urge to open my eyes out of surprise. “You don’t want me to be like other maidens?” I ask, confused.
“No. I want you to be like you.” His warm breath flutters my hair.
“I don’t understand.”
He slides away, his body heat gone from my side.
A frown tugs at my lips.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says from nearby. “I’m sorry I did.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me. You had every reason to be upset. I keep messing up. I promise I’ll try harder. I’ll be better. A better me. Not like the other
maidens.” Per his request. “But better than I was.”
He makes a soft noise, similar to a chuckle.
I turn my cheek toward the sound. “Did you just laugh?”
“I think I did.”
“You think?” He doesn’t know?
“Laughter has never been a part of my life.” His voice turns solemn. “Most maidens are filled with sorrow, always crying and begging me to free them. When they’re not sad, they’re terrified of breaking a rule and becoming enslaved for a year, which always results in death.” He pauses. “You are different in so many ways. It gives me hope.”
CHAPTER 8
“Hope?” I angle my body toward the sound of his voice.
“Let’s take a walk,” he says.
“Where? The cottage isn’t that big.”
“Outside.”
“Outside of the cottage?”
“Yes.”
“Outside in the woods?” I ask in disbelief.
He laughs softly. “Yes, Preya, in the woods.”
“Can we do that? I thought it was against the rules.”
“I told you, there are some things I can control. Now remember, no peeking.” Long fingers curl around my hands and pull me to my feet. “Get dressed. I’ll meet you by the front door.”
The new lightness to his tone fills me with warmth.
I suspect I’m the reason for his happiness, but I don’t know if the pride running through me is warranted. For all I know, this new emotion of his could work against me and go against his mother’s rules. The curse’s rules.
I don’t want to take it away from him, though. To have never laughed is such a sad thing. I want to hear him do it again, harder and louder, so he can experience one of the best feelings in the world.
The bedroom door closes with a soft thud. I open my eyes. As soon as my vision clears, I spy my white dress on the hook. It’s freshly laundered, the butterfly brooch polished and safe in the pocket. The cottage is spotless, too, the ragged condition it changed to now gone.
The wonders of the place. “Thank you,” I murmur to the cottage.
I ease into my dress, put on my clean beaded slippers, and hurry to the bedroom door. Before opening it, I bow my head, staring only at the wood floors.
