Chapter 5
Five
Six months into the woods, miles from anywhere you’ve been before, you come upon a clearing.
A wide expanse of treeless meadow, with tall grasses and bright flowers—and a high stone tower, closer to the sky than any old tree.
Vines curl around the stonework like a dragon’s many fractured tails, and the dragon’s treasure emerges at the window: a maiden, who tosses miles worth of golden hair over the sill to a crone down below.
Kneeling by a trickling stream, you refill your canteen and rub Friend’s hide while she drinks.
Only the water matters to her, but you can’t look away from the maiden and the crone.
Like a mountain climber with a rope, the crone ties the hair around her middle and ascends the side of the tower to that impossible window.
“What a world we live in,” you mutter bitterly.
Towers and maidens and crones— witches, more like.
The idea of it makes your skin crawl, but what can you do?
You’re not a prince. You’re useless against a witch’s brand of power.
Besides, there’s something else for you—you can feel it, an itch under your skin, drawing you away from this story and toward another.
A little splash of water to your face, and you stand up.
Friend is slower to rise.
The white of her muzzle seems even whiter than it was just weeks ago. How did the years spin by so fast? I don’t have much longer with you, old girl, do I?
“Let’s get you a steak,” you murmur, not really to her, but more to yourself, to every version of yourself that has loved her. “A nice, juicy steak.”