Chapter 7
Winter came early. Snow blanketed the village, which was unfortunate because they had not yet harvested all they could from the Fall garden. Serena had a stack of animal pelts to trade in the village square. They needed provisions, but the snow was thick and still coming down.
She peered outside the window in the kitchen, watching it with dismay and worrying her bottom lip.
The start of it seemed to be when she had visited the stranger demanding answers.
She couldn’t help but wonder if her desperate attempt to get the truth had angered him, and this was his retaliation. But that didn’t make sense. He could no more control the weather than she could.
Could he?
The animal pelts were lined up by the front door. The rabbit stew was simmering in a pot on the stove filling their small cabin with the rich aroma and warmth. Papa, thankfully, had chopped enough firewood to keep the fire stoked for the next few days. At least until the snow stopped. She hoped.
Maris was in their mother’s favorite chair, humming a low tune and tending to the mending.
Something she had groused about earlier that day.
But with the snow piling up, there wasn’t much else to do.
Papa was in his chair across from Maris reading an old book with a blue tattered cover.
He loved his forgotten lore books as much as Maris loved to complain.
As Serena slowly stirred the stew, dark thoughts clouded her mind. She wished she could run away from this life of poverty. She wished she could provide a better life for her, her sister and Papa. She wished…
Her thoughts trailed away.
She wished.
She stole a glance at Papa who seemed content enough to read and stoke the fire when necessary. And Maris with her needle and thread patching a hole in her cloak.
A restless feeling pounded through Serena.
She could not be cooped up in this cabin any longer.
She dropped the spoon and swept off the apron that was her mother’s and then padded to the front door.
She pulled her cloak off the peg and wrapped it around her shoulders, which caught her father’s attention.
“Where are you going?” Papa asked.
“I’m taking the pelts into town to trade before we run out of food,” she replied, pulling the hood up.
“In this weather?” He sounded incredulous. “You’ll catch your death.”
“I’ll take the horse. It will be easier and faster in this snow,” she said.
Papa set aside his book and rose from the chair. “I don’t think you should, Serena. The weather is dreadful, and the snow is still coming down.”
“Would you rather starve?” Her tone was sharper than she intended. She heaved a sigh, softening her words. “We are nearly out of flour and sugar and low on tea. If I don’t go—”
“I’ll go instead.” He started for his bedroom, his stocking feet silent on the wood floor. “Let me fetch my cloak and boots.”
“Papa, no.” She huffed her annoyance. She did not want to be trapped in this cabin another moment. “You’ve only just recovered from your illness. Besides, I know how to negotiate. You taught me, after all.”
Plus, it would give her an opportunity to see what the gossip mills were churning about her father’s miraculous recovery. And perhaps do some damage control.
“Are you certain you’re up to it?” Concern gleamed in his eyes.
“Oh, let her go, Papa. She clearly has a bad case of cabin fever,” her sister snarked. “She doesn’t want to be trapped in here with us.”
Serena bit off the acid retort she had ready and instead turned to heft up the pelts she’d claimed over the summer and early autumn. The heady scent of animal musk wafted to her nose.
“If you’re certain…” he said, his voice tentative.
“I’ll be back soon. Maris, keep an eye on the stew, will you? I’ll not have it burn and go to waste.”
She huffed.
“She will,” Papa said, his voice sharp.
Which made Serena’s gaze snap in his direction. His eyes were hard as he peered at Maris, his arms folded across his chest. It had been a while since he sounded so…fatherly.
“Yes, Papa,” Maris said, dropping her gaze back to her mending.
“Be safe, my girl,” he said, giving her a nod of farewell.
“I will.”
Serena was out the door and around the back of the house to their one-stall stable. But it was difficult to walk in the deep snow. Taking the horse was the right decision.
Her father was once a farrier, but when the illness took their mother and then him, he was no longer able to work.
They were luckier than most, though, as they managed to keep one horse for those days when she needed to travel swiftly into the village square.
She was grateful for the mare, who snorted her greeting, the breath pluming like steam in the cold air.
“Hello, old girl,” she greeted, her voice soft.
After securing the pelts on the back of the horse, she mounted and was away.
It was slow going with the horse picking her way through the thickening snow.
The village was quiet. All were inside their own homes, with their own fires burning.
Serena wondered what she would find in the village square.
Surely, the merchant would be open despite the weather.
As she neared the square, the snow turned to slush where other horses and carts had rambled into town, leaving deep rivets in the ground.
Still, she kept the horse slow and steady.
Only a few brave souls were in town with ruddy cheeks under thick cloaks and scarves wrapped around their necks to ward off the chill.
At the merchant shop, she tied up the horse and hefted the pelts off the back.
The door chimed her arrival. Once inside, she stamped her boots leaving behind snow drops.
Mr. Brightwood stood at the counter placing an order with the merchant, Mr. Fullhide.
They both looked her way as she paused in the door.
Mr. Brightwood’s dark brows winged upward while Mr. Fullhide’s face fell into an unwelcome expression.
But Serena did not let that sway her. “Oh, Mr. Brightwood, hello. How is your ankle faring? Better?”
“Yes, thanks.” He turned back to the merchant and picked up a large package wrapped in brown paper. “You’ll put this on my account, Gerald?”
“Of course.” He gave a nod.
Mr. Brightwood turned from the counter and paused next to her as he passed by. “I hope your father is doing well, miss. His recovery is truly a miracle.”
There was a sharp edge to his tone. One she didn’t like. But she plastered on a smile, anyway. “I agree it is. My sister and I are thankful he’s better.”
“Hmm,” was all he said as he cut another glance back to Gerald Fullhide.
Then he was out the door. Serena approached the counter, releasing the pelts with a sigh. Her arms were shaking from the exertion. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fullhide. I’ve come to trade.”
He lifted a brow. Mr. Fullhide had been the village merchant since before she could remember.
He was a grizzled old man, tall and reedy, with a face hosting a map of wrinkles and eyes that peered through old spectacles that had seen better days.
The lenses were scratched, and it was a wonder he was able to see out of them at all.
His thin gray hair stuck up around his head in spikes.
“I see. That all you got?”
“Yes.” Coming here didn’t seem like the best idea. Her nerves rattled.
His gnarled hands rifled through the pelts, looking at them each with a critical eye. “How was it your father made such a recovery?” he asked, clearly more interested in the local gossip than the furs.
“Oh,” she breathed. “A tonic.” It was as close to the truth as she was willing to get.
His icy gaze lifted as though he didn’t believe her, his eyes clouded behind the old lenses. “I heard it was a witch’s brew.”
“What?” The word sailed out of her before she stopped it. Then she shook her head. “No. Of course not. Wherever did you hear that?”
“Dr. Graves says he didn’t treat him,” he said.
Ah, so, since the old physician didn’t care for her father, then it could be nothing other than a magic concoction.
How preposterous. Though, telling him she got the elixir from the stranger at the Well of Wishes seemed preposterous.
And what could she say to that? The truth was that the doctor didn’t treat her father.
But if she told Fullhide the truth, he wouldn’t believe her, anyway.
“Mrs. Cartweaver said she saw faded tracks leading up to the old mountain a few mornings ago. Know anything about that?” One eye squinted, as though he was trying to pull the truth out of her by glaring.
Curses. She’d left tracks in the snow on her return trip from speaking to the stranger. She’d hoped it would have gone unnoticed, but the slow falling snow didn’t cover her footsteps. And Mrs. Cartweaver was the village busybody, anyway.
“Mr. Fullhide, I’m sure I don’t know what that means. Now, about the furs—”
“Mrs. Cartweaver said she saw someone coming from the mountain. With a lantern.”
Serena forced a laugh. She clenched her jaw. Stars above. What was the old bat doing peering out her window at that time, anyway?
“And?”
“Was it you?” His question was harsh and direct.
She forced herself to remain calm. “What if it was? Am I not allowed to have an early morning stroll?”
“In the cold while it’s snowing?” His brow lifted higher.
“The furs, Mr. Fullhide,” she said, tersely, trying desperately to get him back on track.
But he continued to peer at her with suspicion.
She didn’t owe him an explanation. She didn’t owe anyone an explanation. It was difficult to squelch the rumor mill, though.
“They’re good enough. I’m sure I can use them.” He counted them again. “Legend says the old wishing well is up there. Or used to be.” Then he lifted his gaze and peered at her over the tops of his spectacles.
“Is it? I wouldn’t know.”
Her gut clenched. What was he getting at? Was he trying to find out of she’d gone up there, made a wish and…it came true? If she told him that, then it would spread like wildfire through the village and then the stranger…
The stranger would have no peace.
I pay, too.
This was getting out of hand.
“What do you want for the furs?” he asked.
Relief sputtered through her. They were getting back to the business at hand. “I need the usual. Flour, sugar, tea. A bit of dried meat if you have it.”
He packed up her requests adding them to a large brown paper bag and sliding it across the counter to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Fullhide,” she said, taking the bag.
“I heard the town folks talking about King Leonidas,” Fullhide said, lowering his voice as though the rafters themselves might listen.
That caught her attention. She quirked a brow. “Oh?”
“There’s tell he might visit our village.”
“Why would he come here?” she asked, truly unnerved by the notion of royalty coming to their poor village.
“Word of your father’s recovery—and your generosity with paying the taxman—has reached his ears.”
Oh, dear. This wasn’t good.
“Has it?” She tried to keep her voice even and steady.
“Mm-hm,” Mr. Fullhide said, his gaze piercing her. It was clear there was an unasked question or perhaps an accusation ready to fly off his tongue.
The door chime sounded followed by the stomping of boots on the doormat. “Ah, Fullhide. It’s a grand afternoon out there, eh?” The man belly-laughed at that.
Walter Ironroot stomped up to the counter, giving her nothing more than a head nod in greeting. That was all Serena needed to scurry out of the merchant’s shop, her heart in her throat.
If the king was coming here, because he’d heard of the things she’d done…the wishes she’d made…well, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen to her and her family.
Dread pooled in her stomach as she climbed into the saddle and headed for home.