Chapter 2
She half-ran, stumbling once on a rock, but didn’t stop.
The well’s memory clung to her like fog.
She kept seeing his eyes. Hearing his voice.
What will you pay? With the weight of the satchel clutched between her hands, her heart raced.
Not only from the exertion of the climb but also from the sheer fear pounding through her from her experience at the well.
When she exited the edge of the woods, she paused to see the village in the distance. Quiet, sleepy. Not yet alive with the raucous noise of village life.
Dawn was burning on the horizon. Which meant the taxman would come to collect his debts soon. How was she to get the satchel into the village without garnering attention? By the time she arrived, the first stirrings would be happening. It was heavy, bulging and noticeable.
Serena chewed her lower lip, unsure of her next move. She had no choice and needed to get there before he came calling.
Taking a deep breath, she headed down the footpath once more. After trudging the long way, she made it to the edge. The sun rose higher in the sky and there, on the edge of the village, was the sheriff’s familiar carriage.
She swallowed hard. Whose house was he in?
The Brightwood’s? The Fullhide’s? Hornraven?
Not wanting to linger, she forced her feet to move and hurried into the village.
As she neared her small home, the door to the Hornraven home burst open.
Mrs. Hornraven ran out sobbing, her face red and splotchy.
Her cheeks were stained with tears. Mr. Hornraven followed, carrying the smallest child.
Their two other children were on either side of him.
And then, stepping out after them, the taxman and the sheriff.
Urbano Lackman strutted like he owned the village, his greasy hair matted to his head, that familiar sneer plastered on his face.
Cold. Heartless. He was glad to see them thrown out.
She could feel it. He craned his neck and looked up at the home that was barely more than a hovel. But it was all the Hornravens had.
“That should cover it,” he said to the sheriff.
“We paid what we could,” the woman sobbed. “Please! Please, I beg you. Give us more time.”
Her husband was at her side, reaching for her arm and tugging her toward him with a gentle nudge.
“No extensions,” the man said, his tone cold and unrelenting. “King’s orders.”
Guilt bloomed in her chest like fire. It’s them.
Not us. Not today. That truth cut worse than any blade.
The oldest boy’s face was devoid of emotion.
The middle girl clutched her doll, all she had left, as giant tears rolled down her face.
The man was red with fury but said nothing, for he knew the punishment for speaking out against the king’s men.
“Where are we supposed to go?” Mr. Hornraven asked.
The taxman shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” Then to the sheriff, “Next house!”
He knocked on the Fullhide’s door while Mrs. Hornraven continued to wail.
Serena fled, eyes down. She didn’t look back. She didn’t want to see another family fall. Her front door clicked shut behind her, and only then did she let herself breathe.
As soon as the door closed, she heard a deep cough coming from her father. Her younger sister, Maris, came from the bedroom with an expectant expression.
“Where have you been? Papa has been asking for you.”
Serena pulled the edge of her threadbare cloak closer to hide the satchel of gold. She hurried through the small cabin to the room she shared with her sister.
“I had an errand,” she called.
“An errand? For what? Today is tax day, Serena. How are we—”
“I know,” she said, cutting her off. She half-turned to look at her over her shoulder. “I’ll handle it.”
“But—”
Serena closed the bedroom door, cutting her off.
She stood for a moment in the solace of the room, closing her eyes and taking a long, cleansing breath.
She was trying to make sense of what she’d done.
What she’d seen. And what it might cost her.
She hurried to her narrow bed and dumped the satchel.
Coins clinked, forming a golden mountain.
Quickly, she counted, knowing she needed three hundred for the taxes.
When she surpassed three hundred and went all the way to a thousand, her fingers trembled. She’d asked for enough. But this…this was too much. Why? Was it a mistake? A trap? Or something worse? The man’s voice echoed again. What will you pay? Her breath hitched. What had she already paid?
A pounding on the door startled her. She scooped the money back into the satchel and stashed it under her pillow.
“Serena? He’s here,” Maris called through the door.
She smoothed her hair, but her palms were slick with sweat. She must remain calm. Smile. Lie, if she had to. She opened the door.
“Go tend Papa.”
“But—”
“Now. Let me handle it.”
Another pounding on the door. When her sister failed to move—her eyes ringed in fear—Serena gave her a gentle nudge toward their father’s bedroom. Once the door was closed, she greeted the sheriff and taxman.
The sheriff looked tired, haggard, annoyed. The taxman, though, had a gleeful gleam in his dark eyes. She hated him all the more for it.
“Wait here,” she said before he spoke.
Serena scurried back to her room and grabbed the satchel, then she returned with her head held high.
“For our taxes.” She handed over the bulging bag.
He took it, peered into it, likely doing a quick count. Then he looked back at her with narrowed eyes.
“What trickery is this?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Her heart rammed against her ribs. “It’s the gold you asked for. Payment in full.”
“This is more than what’s owed,” he snapped.
At that, the sheriff leaned over to peer down into the bag. His eyes went wide at the amount of gold there.
“I know.” Her voice was stronger than she had expected. “How much for the Hornraven family’s debt?”
He studied her. Perhaps a little suspicious or a little impressed. She didn’t know which.
“You’re paying for them?”
She nodded. “I am.”
He named the sum. She didn’t react, didn’t move a muscle. But the amount was far more than she expected.
“Then that should be enough,” she said.
He stared at her, as though he wanted to object, but didn’t.
“Very well.”
He spun on his heel and stalked away from the door. The sheriff lingered there a moment longer, confusion on his face, before he turned and left, too.
Only when the door shut did she feel a tug beneath her breast. Pulling, as though something came loose.
She staggered back, gripping the edge of the table.
The tug beneath her ribs was sharp, aching.
Like a thread yanked loose from her soul.
She gasped, clutching the table. Something’s gone.
A song? A name? A face? She reached for it, but it was already dust.
The door to her father’s room opened, and Maris stepped out, her wide-eyed gaze going from Serena to the closed front door and back again. Question was written all over her face.
“The taxes…?”
“Paid,” Serena said, her tone calm and steady. Much calmer than she felt.
Maris’s eyebrows drew together. “But how?”
“I told you before I would find a way, and I did.”
Her heartbeat increased as she thought of the mysterious man and the wishing well. She did not dare tell her sister about either, or her father, because she didn’t want to have to explain how it was even possible that he made her wish come true.
Maris had more questions, but her father called from his bed.
“Find Papa something to eat,” Serena said.
Maris huffed, but she ignored her and entered the room, trepidation skittering through her.
Her father was propped up on the pillows of his bed. His arms resting by his side, the blankets tucked underneath them. His face was deathly pale, eyes closed, lips pressed together. A sheen of sweat beaded his forehead. His dark hair was plastered against his head.
The room smelled of death.
She hated it.
She hated seeing her father succumb to the sickness that had plagued him these last few years.
She forced her feet to move to his bedside and perched on the edge of the chair beside him. Her hand shook as she reached for his, patting his cold, clammy skin. She wanted to recoil, but forced herself to hold his hand. To give him the comfort he needed. To know he was not alone.
His eyes fluttered open and fixed on her. A weak smile creased his pale lips.
“Serena, dear girl. There you are.”
A cough wracked his frail body, his chest rattling with consumption.
A pang went through her, making her chest tighten.
“How are you feeling today?” It was a rhetorical question. One she did not expect him to answer.
He wheezed as he tried to answer. She reached for the damp rag to wipe his brow. The water in the bowl was murky. Annoyance flashed through her. Maris did not freshen the water.
When her sister pushed open the door, Serena looked up. The girl carried a wedge of stale bread.
“This is all we have left.”
Serena took it from her, holding it in her hand as she reached for the bowl.
“Take this. Refresh the water from the well. Bring clean linens,” she ordered, her voice terse.
Maris frowned. “But I haven’t slept all night. And I’m hungry,” she whined.
She was hungry too, but she didn’t whine about it. She was tired too, but she forced herself to go on.
“Do as you’re told,” she snapped. “Then you can rest.”
With a pout, she snatched the bowl from her hands and stalked out.
“Don’t be so hard on her,” Papa said, his voice weak. “She’s all you have left.”
Serena placed the bread aside. She stood and slid an arm behind him, lifting him enough to fluff the pillows.
“I still have you.”
He coughed again as he leaned into the pillows. Serena busied herself with arranging his blankets to ease his discomfort.
Maris stomped into the room again with the bowl of fresh water and clean linen rags. She gave her a nod of thanks before the girl scurried off to their bedroom to rest.
“Serena…” He gasped her name, his voice raspy. “I do not have much time.” He closed his eyes, leaning heavily into the pillows.
Fear stabbed her heart. “Don’t talk like that. You’ll be—”
“No. Sit, please.”
With her heart clawing its way to her throat, she sat, her hands clasped in her lap to keep them from shaking.
“How about some bread?” she asked.
He shook his head, a slow movement from side to side. “No. Tell me a story.”
“A story?”
“Yes. When your mother lived…the flowers were in bloom. I can see the flowers in bloom and smell their sweet scent.”
He was delirious. She searched her memory for that time, but came up empty.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I don’t remember that.”
He wheezed again, trying to draw in a breath. His eyes cracked open as he looked at her and smiled.
“You were eight. Maris was four. Your mother wove flower crowns for festival day for both of you. Flowers from her garden. You wore pink. Maris wore yellow. Dresses your mother made.”
His eyes fluttered closed, as though speaking was an effort. He grew quiet then, falling asleep at last.
As he did, Serena searched her memory for the flower crowns and the garden and the festival he talked so fondly of. She had no memory of it, as though there was nothing but a black void there.
While he slept, she rose from the chair and crept from the room. She hurried to the one she shared with her sister, her steps light on the wood floor.
Maris slept, curled on her side. Serena stood there for a long moment, unsure what she was searching for.
Her gaze swept the room. Her sister’s boots, the cracked windowpane, the faded ribbon tied to the bedpost. Familiar things.
But something inside her had shifted. The well had taken something. Left a hole she couldn't fill. She clenched her fists at her sides. One wish. One family saved.
How many more would it take before she forgot who she was?