Chapter 8
Serena was on edge the moment she returned home and throughout the rest of the evening. She was grateful, though, she had chores to keep her busy while she thought about everything Mr. Fullhide said to her in his shop. He practically accused her of running up to the mountain to the Well of Wishes.
Which she had, but it was still unnerving. She didn’t want him to know.
She didn’t want anyone to know.
Maris chattered away about nothing while they ate their rabbit stew and fresh bread. Papa was quiet through the meal as he listened to her sister make useless conversation.
It grated on Serena’s nerves.
But she remained silent. Commenting appropriately when necessary. When at last the meal was over—their only one of the day—she picked up the wooden bowls and busied herself in the kitchen cleaning up. Papa wandered in.
“Do you need help?” he asked.
“I’m good here.” She managed a smile, her hands in the warm soapy water. She’d boiled a pot of water to warm it and wash the dishes.
He lingered, hesitation pouring off him as though he had something else to say.
“Did you finish your book?” she asked, trying to make small talk and perhaps find out why he continued to stand there looking at her with an unreadable expression.
“No, no yet.”
“Oh, which one is it?” She rinsed a bowl and set it aside to dry, then started washing another one.
“One of the old lore books. You know the one about wishes?”
Her heart climbed its way to her throat. “I can’t recall.”
“The one about the three wishes and the price the wisher pays for them being granted,” he said.
She paused her washing to look at him over her shoulder. He gave her a weak smile. “Merely an old folktale, that’s all.”
But she wondered why he brought it up. Seemed like he was trying to tell her something. Or perhaps get her to reveal some bit of information.
Yes, Papa. I found the Well of Wishes because I needed to pay the taxman. Because without the gold, we would be homeless, starving, and cast out into the cold and you would have died.
The words flickered through her mind, but she didn’t say them.
“What news from the village square?”
Ah, so there it was. He was interested in the town gossip. “The usual. Mr. Fullhide was his normal crusty self.” She forced a laugh at that.
She dare not tell him about the king’s visit. There was no need to add more stress to their already tension-filled cabin.
“I traded the pelts for flour, a pound of sugar, tea, and some dried meat. That should help us get through the winter,” she added.
“Very good, Serena.” He left the kitchen, sounding a bit forlorn. As though he wanted to say more, but was unsure what.
Serena heaved a sigh as she finished the dishes.
She should not be thinking of the stranger at the Well of Wishes, but he had been at the forefront of her mind since her return from the merchant.
Mr. Fullhide insinuated that he knew about the well—and possibly others in the village—and she worried if that was the case, others would climb the mountain and find their way to the stranger.
And it would be her fault.
She laid in her bed staring at the ceiling wondering what to do. Return to the well? Tell him what she knew? Warn him the king might be visiting?
What would that accomplish?
Nothing, that’s what.
But she couldn’t put it out of her mind.
Maris snoozed away. Nothing disturbed her or worried her mind. In a fit of agitation, Serena flung off the blankets and rose. She grabbed her dressing gown from the end of the bed and wrapped it around her, then crept out of her room.
The fire had burned down to nothing more than glowing orange and red embers. Papa was not in his chair, which likely meant he’d made his way to bed. She was relieved. He needed his rest, despite his renewed strength.
But he’d left his book behind. It was open and upside down in the chair.
Curious, she picked it up and scanned the page.
The story was called Three Wishes, and it was about a poor man who was granted three wishes by a fairy but warned that all wishes come at a price.
The man’s wife insisted on waiting to make the best wishes, but he did not and ended up squandering away two of the wishes on frivolous things.
This angered his wife and, in a fit of rage, he wished her away, which he immediately regretted.
He begged the fairy for another wish to bring her back.
The fairy told him if he could find her true name, he may have one more final wish to return his wife.
Serena stopped reading, her head snapping up as an idea formed. She clutched the book so tight, her hands cramped.
“Find the fairy’s true name,” she muttered.
What was it the stranger said to her?
A name is a lock, and the tongue that speaks it is the key.
“Stars above. That’s it.”
She placed her father’s book back in his chair, then hurried to her room. Maris slept on while Serena quickly dressed.
This was madness.
She could not believe she was considering returning to the mountain. It was a risk, she knew, but one she was willing to take. If she returned to the Well of Wishes, she could ask the stranger that if speaking his true name would release him from his bondage.
That stopped her. She froze, her boots in her hand as she stared into the murky darkness.
What was she doing? Why did she care? This stranger meant nothing to her.
But something about the way he looked at her tugged at her heart. That desolate expression in his green-blue eyes sent a pang right through her. He had not asked for help. Perhaps he didn’t need or want it. Perhaps he was content to be bound to the Well of Wishes.
But what if she could help him? What if she could find his true name? Would that, then, release him?
I pay, too.
She could warn him the villagers suspected he was there. She could tell him the king was coming to pay the village a visit.
And she would not make another wish, no matter how tempted.
She pulled on her cloak, wrapping it tight around her, then tiptoed to the front door. She snagged the lantern off the floor, put on her boots, and slipped into the brisk night.
The climb was cold and long, but she was determined to make her way to the Well of Wishes.
The stranger stood next to the well, as though waiting for her. His eyes glinted with expectation, his lips in a firm, straight line. The wind flapped at the edges of his cloak. He did not look pleased to see her.
She held up her lantern to get a good look at this face. Her breath caught. He was handsome in an otherworldly sort of way. The hood was up, as it always was, shadowing most of his face. But his eyes…they pierced right through her.
“Again you come.” His voice strained. Displeasure lined his features. “Why?”
“I—” She pressed her lips together, unsure what to say. “There is gossip in the village.”
He lifted a brow, curiosity replacing disdain as it flickered across his handsome features. “What is this gossip?”
“They are calling my father’s return to health a miracle.”
“Is that not what you wished for? A miracle?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then why does that vex you, Serena?”
She sucked in a breath, expelled it. Her breath crystalized in the air. “I’m worried that…the villagers suspect something.”
“I see,” he said. “Have they branded you a witch yet? Do they wish to convict you for a crime you have not committed? Is that why you are here?”
“No!” she gasped. Though it occurred to her Fullhide asked if it was a witch’s brew she gave Papa. “It’s not that. It’s—”
He lifted a brow and stepped closer to her. As he did, she noticed his height. He was at least a head taller than her, which made her tip her head back to look up at him. A fluttering erupted in her chest as her breath pooled in her throat. His gaze searched her face, then his features softened.
“You are frightened.”
“I think the villagers suspect the Well is still here.”
“It is still here.”
“But I mean…the villagers don’t know that for sure. They think it’s nothing more than folklore. I thought it was, too, until that day I—”
She broke off, thinking of that desperately frigid night as she climbed the mountain with the last shred of hope. And then there he was. But he did not appear immediately.
“You sought the Well of Wishes,” he finished for her.
She nodded. Her gut burned as she peered at him, trying to find the words to tell him…to ask him…to warn him.
His shoulders dropped, and he stepped back toward the Well. “You fear for my safety.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“That’s why you came?”
The lantern glinted in his eyes as he peered at her. She saw emotion there she did not understand. Was he…glad she came? Or annoyed?
“I thought I should warn you.”
His puffed breath fogged before him as he sagged against the edge of the well, looking off into the distance toward the village.
“I confess you are the first person I’ve seen in a long time.
The first person who dared climb the mountain.
Who dared find the Well.” He tipped his head to one side. “How did you know about it?”
She thought of her father’s book collection.
“There are…old tales that speak of a magical wishing well that can grant wishes. I read it in a storybook long ago.”
He scoffed. “A bedtime story, no doubt. Those are for children.”
“But it’s real. You are real.” She moved toward him and he flinched, as though he did not want her to get so close. “Do you not wish to be released of your burden?”
He narrowed his gaze at her. “What are you playing at, Serena?”
“N-nothing. It’s—I thought…that…” Her words trailed away. She took a step back, clutching the lantern tighter in her hand. It swung at her side, sending a garish slashing of light across the leaf-cluttered ground.
“You thought to break my curse?” He gave a humorless laugh. “Many have tried. None have succeeded.”
She lifted her chin a little higher. “What if I did?”
This time, he laughed out loud. “You may try, I suppose. But I have my doubts you will succeed.”
“You know how to break it, don’t you?” she asked, determination edging through her.
He said nothing as he pressed his lips together into a thin line.
In desperation, she said, “If I guess your true name, will it free you?”
The stranger froze. He was so still, he looked as though he’d turned to stone. He stared at her out of those green-blue eyes that now glinted with something she could not understand. Fear? Remorse? Hope? She wasn’t sure.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I read it in a book. And…something you said. That a name is a lock and the tongue that speaks it is the key.”
His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking along the edge, though he said nothing.
“Is that it?” she pressed.
“Why do you wish to help me?” he demanded, then, his voice hard and cold. “I am nothing to you.”
“Because you …” Her breath hitched as she glanced down at her snow-crusted boots. “You gave me hope when I had none.”
When she looked up again, his eyes searched her face, sharp as glass, wanting to believe her. But then he turned away, shoulders bowed beneath an invisible weight.
“Hope is dangerous, Serena Windriver,” he murmured. “It will betray you in the end.”
She wanted to argue. But the words lodged in her throat. And so she stood in silence, his warning echoing in her ears and her heart pounding like a drum. His cloak snapped in the wind, his face hidden once more in shadow.
“Go home, Serena,” he said softly. “Before the Well decides your fate, too.”
Lantern trembling in her hand, she stumbled back a step as her throat tightened. Tears threatened. She should leave. She should run. But all she could think was that somewhere behind those green-blue eyes, he was begging her to stay.
“But, I—”
“Go,” he said again, his tone sharp.
As she stumbled away into the snow, she wondered if he was right—if hope was already the most dangerous wish of all.