Chapter 1
Winter trees wrapped in a crisp blanket of snow slumbered as far as the raven’s eye could see. For a long time he had searched this land for something he had lost. Yet now, he had forgotten what it was.
He veered north, beating his wings to take him higher. An abandoned castle loomed in the distance. Not his castle. That lay to the west, nestled in the embrace of an ancient forest.
The sun rose high above him. Floating suspended between earth and sky with the cold wind ruffling his feathers was the only time the raven knew peace, if only for a few moments. The rest of his days were filled with torment.
What was the key to regaining his freedom? His human form?
Whatever it was, the thing had once been precious to him. The raven knew he needed help finding it. Hemmed in by the witch’s magic and trapped in his bird form, there was only so much he could accomplish each day before the witch compelled him to return to her side.
There had been a girl once, covered in scars and barely into womanhood, who misguidedly sought the River Witch’s aid. He had taken her there hoping she would help him find what he had lost, but the girl had been lured by the witch’s questionable hospitality instead.
Unlike the others, though, she eventually escaped.
Unlike him.
He had been so arrogant and prideful, once upon a time. Back when he still possessed the thing he could no longer remember, that now made his heart ache with longing and loss.
An abrupt, shocking, new kind of pain speared his breast. Absorbed in his thoughts, he had flown low over the countryside. Glancing down, he found an arrow sticking through him.
Perhaps it was better to die. End this torment.
The raven folded his wings and tumbled from the sky.
Rowena
“Let nature take its course,” my mother insists. “You can’t help it. The bird is as good as dead.”
“The poor thing suffers.” I stroke its glossy feathers flecked with blood. The bird trembles beneath my touch.
“That will happen when one is pierced by an arrow,” my mother answers tartly.
“We’re healers, Mum. Help me heal him.” I grasp the shaft and snap off the point with a quick twist. The bird’s good wing flaps in protest. It’s just a raven.
Ordinary. Some would call them ugly. Certainly, there is little beauty to be found in its beady eyes or the hoarse caw that comes from its ebony beak.
Still, there is a harsh elegance to the creature’s curved claws and glossy, pitch-black plumage.
“We heal people. Not birds.” My mother sighs. “You’ve always had a weakness for helping wild creatures.”
True enough. This is hardly our first argument over whether to save an injured animal. There was the fox with the bleeding stump after it had chewed off its own leg to escape a trap. The owl with a broken wing. Countless others, over the years.
Now this raven.
“Hold it for me.”
Mum obliges me. She wraps a strip of linen around the bird’s body, leaving only the arrow exposed.
Although the bolt has gone clean through the raven’s breast, it doesn’t seem to have hit any major organs.
In just below where its wing meets its body, out near its neck, miraculously missing the lungs and heart.
“Ready?” I ask. She nods, her mouth a flat, grim line. I pull steadily. The bird flails, its beady eyes popping open and its beak parting to reveal a black tongue. Not a juvenile, then. Young ravens have pink mouths that darken as they get older.
Once the blood-streaked arrow is out, I toss it into the fire.
“The worst is over,” my mother coos as the raven tries to peck her.
She adjusts her grip. Sharp claws on scaly feet stretch wide but there is only air to grasp.
Fresh red blood as bright as poison berries glistens on its feathers.
I dab salve on the entry and exit wounds, careful not to get pecked by my ornery patient.
His sharp beak connects with my hand. Startled, I drop the lid, which rolls away with a tinny clatter. A streak of red drips down my wrist. I can’t tell how much of it is from me and how much of it comes from the bird.
Beady eyes alight with suspicion and triumph fasten upon me.
“You had better hope he isn’t a cursed prince or something,” my mother says over her shoulder as she places the bird into a lidded basket. “Commingled blood means your fate is entwined with his, now.”
“Don’t be so superstitious.”
“I’m not.” She passes me the hamper and taps her temple. “I know things that you do not, child. Put this somewhere safe. I don’t want an injured raven flapping around the cottage making a mess. We need to take that tincture to the farmer’s wife. She’s still recovering from a difficult childbirth.”
I check to make sure the lid is securely closed and place the basket on the floor beside my bed. Then, we head out into the brisk autumn afternoon to see our patient.
Until a few years ago, the kingdom of Montrace never knew winter.
Ours was the land of eternal summer. While many people, Mum included, grumble whenever the weather turns, I enjoy the crisp air of autumn.
I like wrapping myself in a warm shawl and walking for miles on a cold morning.
Coming indoors to warm myself by a crackling fire.
Mum complains that the cold makes her joints ache. Admittedly, I can see how that might diminish winter’s appeal. Still, I love it.
People from the village say the new seasonal shift is the work of a powerful fae witch who lives in a grand ice palace far to the north, who once cursed the King of Montrace.
His now-wife, Queen Gwendolyn, broke the witch’s spell, but she couldn’t defeat her magic entirely.
The Snow Queen sends winter to Montrace each year as a reminder of her power.
They say that when the fae abandoned the Five Realms, a few were left behind—terrifying witches who were driven into hiding. Monsters that haunt the land.
I have never seen one myself. But the common folk tell all kinds of stories. Our favorite pastime is spinning yarns and telling tall tales. I never put much stock in what people say.
Unless their tongues are wagging about me. Then I have to pay attention.
My mother commands respect from the local villagers.
I, however, am viewed with suspicion. I understand why.
I can’t blame them. Even if you discount my penchant for healing foxes that escaped a hunter’s trap or taking in creatures that others would leave to let nature take its course, like that raven, I am the one who allowed the village prefect to die.
More accurately, I poisoned him. Unintentionally, of course. Mum had gone to assist the midwife with a difficult birth. I was fifteen, old enough to stay alone overnight. But I was not old enough to know my own limits.
When the prefect staggered into our cottage leaning heavily on his wife and son, it was immediately clear how sick he was with fever. Nothing the family had tried worked. He continued to decline. It was bad luck that my mother was away that night.
I thought I knew how to help him. I mixed the herbs exactly the way she had shown me hundreds of times. I steeped them in boiled water and let it cool just enough for him to choke it down in between coughing fits. I used the strained leaves as a poultice on his chest to clear his airways.
Instead of easing his distress, foam formed on his lips, which turned blue. He was dead within the hour.
I’d mistaken witchesbane for willow bark. Deadly to the fae, and dangerous to humans, too, though useful for treating heart conditions in small doses. My mother cultivates it for this purpose.
The amount I prepared that night was enough to kill ten healthy men.
I’ve earned the wariness that lingers on the farmer’s craggy face when we arrive to check on his wife. Mum hands her a cup of tea. “This will help clear the fever. Drink.”
The wife’s eyes dart to me. “Your daughter didn’t prepare it, did she?”
“No. I did,” Mum lies. With an apologetic smile, she asks me to step out.
In the hallway, I let my skull fall back against the unpainted plank wall.
Seven years I’ve been an outcast in this village.
Mum’s aching joints won’t allow her to continue healing indefinitely.
It should have been my turn to take over years ago, but the villagers’ mistrust makes that impossible.
Nonetheless, she keeps dragging me to visits in hopes that one day I’ll be seen as competent enough to help them.
If my interest in helping wild creatures didn’t predate my accidental crime, I would say that’s why I prefer working with animals. But it does. At least when they look at you like you’re trying to kill them, they have good reason to fear me.
Plus, they’re more apt to trust me once I’ve proven I can be trusted.
Like that raven. I frown. I can’t stop thinking about him. The way he glared at me with nigh-human intelligence. Smart birds.
The minute we cross the threshold of our cottage, Mum prods the fire to life while I rush to check on my patient.
When I crack the lid, he leaps for the opening, scrambling to get out with those sharp claws.
I press the wicker down and twist the ribbon around the knob to secure it. He croaks indignantly.
“Surprisingly strong for a corvid pincushion,” Mum says. “Put that bird away and help me get supper ready.”
That night, I crack open the basket again to give him a bowl of water and scraps of food. Again, he pecks at me and attempts to escape.
“No, you don’t,” I scold, pushing him back in. The bird trembles, his ebony beak parted as if he wishes to speak.
Relenting, I wrap him in a towel tied in a knot on his back to keep his wings folded.
“What are you doing?” Mum says crossly.
“He’s cold,” I explain. “Shivering. I’ll bring him to bed and warm him up.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I can’t lose another patient, Mum.” I’m not talking about animals, and she knows it.
“What happened wasn’t your fault,” she says, her eyes soft. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“I made that tonic. I gave it to the prefect. I was so certain I knew what I was doing.”
“Anyone could have made that mistake, Weena–”
“But I was the one who did.”
She gives me a sad half-smile and a kiss on my forehead. “Get some rest. Don’t let your surly patient keep you awake. We have gardening to do in the morning.”
That night, with the bundled bird nestled in the crook of my arm, I dream of a tall man with broad shoulders, dark hair, and eyes hidden in deep shadows. His lips are full and soft, yet there is an unyielding hardness to him.
I have to go back, he says. I must find it.
Find what? I ask in the dream
I don’t know. I can’t remember.
I awaken with a gasp, pained by the despair in his voice, and discover the raven watching me with beady, intelligent eyes.