Chapter 9 Scarlette
Scarlette
Iwoke to a world divided in two, the thin crust of ice rimming the window, and the heat of my own sweat, sticky as sap, running down my back.
I coughed once, and the sound startled a murder of crows into flight from the woods beyond the lodge.
The sun was just a finger’s width above the hills, yellow and timid, as if ashamed to look too closely at what the storm had left behind.
The fever was gone. The ache in my joints remained, but it was ordinary, familiar, the kind of pain that means you are alive and the body has not yet surrendered. I curled my hand into a fist, found the skin dry and cool, and let myself rest there for a moment, savoring the absence of burning.
Moab was at the hearth, kneeling in front of the small fire.
He turned when I stirred, face half-lit by the flames, beard shadowed in a way that made him look older, or else more dangerous than I remembered.
He watched me with that same measuring silence, a balance of caution and care that always left me uncertain which way he’d tip.
I tried to speak, but my voice stuck. I coughed again, swallowed, and finally managed, “How long?”
He rose, moved to my side, and knelt without a word. He pressed the back of his hand to my cheek, then my brow, his touch clinical but gentle. His fingers were cold as the window glass. After a moment, he said, “Three days.”
The weight of it sank into my bones. I remembered fragments of heat, voices, the world flickering between nightmare and the haze of sleep.
Once, I’d dreamed Moab left and never returned.
Another time, I thought I saw him sitting at the end of the pallet, teeth bared in a rictus that was not a smile.
“Three days?” I said, voice smaller than I liked.
He nodded. “You nearly didn’t come back.” He didn’t say it with reproach. Just fact.
My stomach growled, loud enough for both of us to hear. The shame of it made me laugh, though the sound was brittle. “I suppose the world didn’t stop turning while I was gone.”
He didn’t laugh. Instead, he stood and rummaged through a battered sack by the door, returning with a handful of withered roots and two berries so shriveled they looked like the eyes of a dead bird.
“Eat,” he said, handing them over.
The roots tasted of earth and bitterness, but I chewed them anyway, grateful for anything real. The berries were so sour they made my jaw ache, but I ate those too.
“Nothing else?” I asked, not wanting to sound ungrateful.
Moab shook his head. “We’re out of time.” He glanced at the window, then back at me. “If you can move, we should leave.”
I tried to sit up. The world swam, but I forced myself upright, bracing with my arms. I wrapped the fur tighter around my shoulders, the smell of smoke and animal skin clinging to me like a memory. “Where?”
He was already lacing his boots, jaw clenched with purpose. “South. There’s a ravine. If we keep low, we can reach the river before they double back.”
I eyed the sack, then the empty room. “You said we’re out of time. And food.”
He nodded. “I’ll hunt.”
I blinked at the simplicity of it. “With what? The men took every blade when they searched. There’s no bow, no spear.”
He shrugged, and for a moment I saw a flash of something in his eyes, a brightness that startled me. It was gone before I could name it.
“I’ll manage,” he said, as if the world owed him a meal.
A shiver ran through me, not from the cold but from the way he spoke.
I tried to push aside the memory of his hands, the way they had pressed my wound, the strength in them.
There was a story old Nan used to tell, about wolves that walked as men, about hunger that could never be sated.
I shook my head, telling myself not to be a fool.
We packed quickly for the hunt. He tore a strip from his shirt and fashioned a sling for my ankle, winding the cloth with more care than I would have guessed. When he touched my foot, he was gentle, but the pulse in his wrist beat so fast I could see the vein jump.
“You’re not afraid?” I asked, meaning more than the hunt.
He looked up, a flicker of surprise on his face. “Of what?”
“Of me slowing you down,” I said, because it was easier than the truth.
He grunted, almost a laugh. “I’ve carried heavier.”
The sun had risen fully by the time we stepped outside. The air was sharp, cutting through the fur and wool like knives. I limped behind him, the world spinning only a little. The snow was crusted over, footprints clear as writing. The men had been through here, and recently.
We kept to the trees, branches snagging at my hair.
I tried to keep pace, but each step set my teeth on edge.
Moab glanced back every so often, eyes narrowed, the amber flecks in his irises catching the morning light.
Once, when I stumbled, he caught me under the arm, his grip hard enough to bruise.
He did not apologize, just steadied me and pressed on.
When we reached the edge of the ravine, he stopped. The wind howled up from the hollow, bringing with it the smell of rot and something wilder, an animal scent I could not place.
He turned to me, voice lower now, almost intimate. “Wait here. I’ll be back before dark.”
I wanted to protest, to insist that he would need my help, but the look on his face told me it was not up for debate.
“If you’re not back by nightfall?” I asked.
He thought about it, then said, “If I’m not back, don’t wait.”
I nodded, heart thumping in my throat.
He crouched, running his hand over the ground, then straightened. He looked at me, as if searching for something, then turned and vanished into the trees.
I waited. The hours crept by, marked only by the slow movement of the sun and the growing ache in my ankle. I tried to keep warm, huddling under the fur, but the cold gnawed at me, relentless.
At some point, I drifted. I dreamed of the circle, of the oaks, of Moab standing at the center with the wolf’s head tattoo glowing on his arm. In the dream, he turned to me and smiled, his teeth too white, too sharp.
I woke to the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow. My heart leapt into my throat, and I reached for a stick, knowing it would do nothing.
But it was Moab. He was breathing hard, sweat slicking his forehead despite the cold. He carried a rabbit, limp in his hand, the blood staining his knuckles. There was a wildness in his eyes I had not seen before, a brightness that frightened and fascinated me in equal measure.
He tossed the rabbit down and crouched, knife already out. He skinned and cleaned it with a speed that was almost brutal, hands working with a precision that spoke of long practice.
“Time to eat,” he said, not looking at me. “Missing my grill right about now.”
“Grill?” I asked, and he smiled. He wanted to laugh but, like a gentleman, kept it to himself.
“It’s how we cook where I’m from.”
He added to the fire he’d built before leaving and then cooked the meat, the fat spitting and hissing. When it was finished, I tore at it with my teeth, not caring about the taste. I had never eaten anything so good, not even the cakes from the manor kitchens.
After, we sat in silence. Moab cleaned the blade he’d had hidden in his boot, the motions slow and deliberate. His hands shook, just a little.
“You’re not like other men,” I said, watching him.
He flinched, barely. “No.”
There was a question in the air, but I did not ask it. Instead, I said, “Thank you.”
He looked up, and for a moment, the wildness faded. “You’re welcome.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I dozed, waking to the sound of his pacing, the crunch of his boots in the snow. Once, I caught him staring at the fire, the muscles in his jaw working as if he were chewing through a problem he could not solve.
As dusk fell, the world grew colder. The trees pressed in, shadows lengthening. Moab grew restless, unable to sit or stand for more than a minute. He kept touching his arm, the one with the wolf tattoo, rubbing it as if it itched or burned.
When night came, the moon rose full and bright, turning the snow to silver. I watched him by the fire, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
Suddenly, he stood, fists clenched at his sides.
“I have to go,” he said, voice strained.
“Go where?” I asked, panic rising in my chest.
He didn’t answer. He turned and bolted from the circle of firelight, vanishing into the trees.
I called after him, but the only answer was the echo of my own voice, and the far-off, lonely howl of something that was not quite human.
***
I stared into the dark, listening to the wild sounds of branches snapping, snow shrieking beneath something’s weight, the world itself flinching from whatever Moab had become.
I could have stayed by the fire, could have told myself it was not my concern.
But the memory of his face, something hungry, something lost, gnawed at me until the thought of waiting in the warm seemed a kind of cowardice.
I pulled the battered fur cloak from my shoulders, bundled it close around my body, and stepped into the cold.
The moon was a day past full, riding high and mean in the clear sky, throwing a false daylight over the world.
The woods looked like a graveyard, frost on every surface, the bones of trees pointing skyward, every shadow doubled and sharpened by the silver light.
Moab’s footprints were easy to follow, each one deep, the snow kicked aside with reckless force. He had not tried to hide his trail. I wondered if he even could, in this state.
The tracks led me to a small hollow ringed by brambles and ancient stones.
I paused at the edge, heart pounding hard enough to rattle my teeth.
At the center of the clearing, Moab was on his knees, doubled over, his hands clawed into the ground.
His shirt was torn, the muscles of his back moving in ripples under the skin.
Every breath came out as a snarl, low and broken.