51. April 12, 1501 Lancaut, England
Run.
The forest flashes by in a blur. She can’t stop. She sprints through the trees, weaves between the giant oaks, dodges tangled roots. The underbrush snags on her skirts. Her breath comes in gasps, her heartbeat frantic.
Run.
The whole of Lancaut knew the woods would be empty, that the forester and his son had left before dawn. It has been years since she last spoke to William, but she always knew he was here, sensed his presence beyond the trees. She thought she’d have a day of peace, alone beneath the canopy.
Beatrix had gone farther, deeper into the quiet dark. It smelled of rich earth and rotting leaves and damp. She searched for mushrooms and shivered in the shadows. The underbrush rustled. She turned to see if it was a doe. She had given up on the wolf years ago.
It was a man who stepped from the trees. Such an incongruous sight that Beatrix stood frozen, staring at him. He sneered at her, and her heart leaped into her throat. It was her neighbor, Mr. Brown.
She took a step back. There was movement in the underbrush beside her. His eldest son. With a blade in his hand.
She bolted.
Shouts rang out around her—the man, his sons, more. So many more.
Run.
She’d gone too deep, too far. She’ll never make it. But then she is in her clearing and she knows her way. Her heart leaps. She’s so close.
A patch of damp leaves sends her skidding—her knees crash into the earth.
They are on her in an instant, flattening her, pressing her into the mud. Someone pins her arms. She can’t move, can’t turn her head, can barely breathe with the weight of someone on top of her, his knee grinding into her back.
She catches a glimpse of the knife, its sharp blade glinting in a shaft of late-afternoon light. She thrashes like a wild animal caught in a snare, can’t shake off whoever is holding her down. He wrenches her arm and the bone snaps. She screams.
Someone grabs a fistful of her hair at the scalp and tugs, hard.
The tip of the knife presses into the skin near her temple. Warm blood runs into her eyes.
“Quit messing around.” The voice is softer than she expected.
Rough hands grab at her, drag her to her feet, hold her upright. Keep her still. The widower’s eldest son sneers at her. He looks just like his father.
He steps close. Closer. Close enough to smell his sweat, the staleness of his breath. She spits in his face.
The young man swears and strikes her, a cracking blow across her cheek that sends the clearing spinning. Her arm twists. Her knees give out. They haul her up again.
He presses his knife to her chest. Digs it into the flesh over her heart as he stares into her eyes. Warm blood spills down her skin, but she refuses to cry out. He presses the blade deeper. She squeezes her eyes shut.
“Look at me,” the man growls. “I want to see the light leave your eyes before I cut them out.”
She doesn’t open them. She can deny him this, at least.
Thunder rumbles in the distance. Someone shouts. The blade vanishes. The hands, gone.
Beatrix collapses. It takes everything in her to open her eyes, to not let the darkness pull her down.
Her vision swims, but there is no mistaking the creature in front of her. Not the sound of thunder. Growling.
The men scatter as the wolf charges, snarling and snapping, baring its fangs. They flee in chaos, leaving Beatrix alone with the beast. The clearing blurs, darkens around the edges.
If she is going to die, at least she is in the forest.
The wolf quiets. It turns toward Beatrix, and their eyes lock. Beatrix gasps. She understands now, what William meant. The wolf isn’t looking at her. It is looking into her with the wisest eyes she has ever seen.
One green. One brown.
It’s the last thing Beatrix sees before she tips into the darkness.