Chapter 25
WINNIE
I’m running from the house before I fully understand why. Before I can question whether or not I should even be on my feet.
I don’t feel injured. I don’t feel ill or tired.
Hansel’s words are echoing through my head and burrowing beneath my skin like sharp slivers.
My daughter is a disgrace…
…a great dishonor…
Tears are spilling down my cheeks.
My mother always told me she didn’t know who my father was, that it didn’t matter anyway, because was he there with us?
No. From the moment I was old enough to understand, I believed that my mother and me, us Darling women, were not only cursed, but unwanted.
And so that meant I had to fend for myself. That I too, could not need.
I didn’t want to need love or compassion or kindness. Because in the end, the person I needed most would always disappointment me.
It started with the father I never knew and kept right on going with the mother I had, who was never there when I needed her.
Most of all when she was searching for a way to protect me from Peter Pan, unwilling to confront the fact that the pain she was trying to protect me from was happening by her own hands, one bloody sigil at a time carved into my flesh.
All of the trauma, the burdens, the disappointments come bubbling up to the surface and I’m crying so hard, I can barely see.
But I keep going. I need to run. I need to go. I need distance.
The fae don’t want me as their queen because I’m not good enough for them.
And the Witch Killers want me dead because I’m a disgrace.
Because who would want Winnie the Whore ruling over anything?
No one is stupid enough to think I have any value or worth. Most of all me.
Tree branches catch in my hair, slowing me down. I’m deep into the woods when I hear Bash calling my name.
I slow.
There are no lampposts here and not much light pollution from the nearby city. Only the moon filters through the trees, casting a silver glow on the ground.
“Bash?” I call and swipe at my face.
He’s making his way toward me from the opposite direction.
“Winnie,” he says and huffs out a laugh. “I thought I lost you.”
“I’m sorry. I…I can’t…Hansel…what he said —”
“Shhh.” He drapes his arm over my shoulders and envelopes me in pine and cloves. “Come on. Let me help you.”
We start walking but his pace is too fast, and I nearly trip over my own feet.
“Bash…I’m sorry. I think I need to be alone and—”
“It’s okay. You can talk to me.”
“I…I don’t know why I’m crying. I overheard what Hansel said and it just….”
“I know. What did he say that upset you?”
“That I’m, like, a dishonor. To the Witch Killers. Of all people. They kill people for having magic. And I’m the dishonorable one?”
The doubts are swirling in my head along with the rage.
They say I am not worthy, as if my very existence is in direct misalignment with their world view, and yet they operate from a set of rules I find revolting. I’ve met so many magical people who are beautiful and brilliant and good.
Am I not good?
“And Doren —” I start.
“What about him?”
“He thinks I’m a disgrace too. Right?”
“Mmm.”
“That I’m not worthy of being with you and on the fae throne.”
“Well, are you?”
He slows.
“Am I what?”
“Are you worthy?”
I lick my lips, my gut twisting.
The way he’s said it, it’s devoid of all of Bash’s usual warmth and charm. It comes out sounding accusatory. As if the answer is no, I am not. As if he is waiting for me to also come to the same conclusion.
A lump grows in my throat.
Does Bash not think I’m worthy to stand by his side? This whole time, was he agreeing with Doren?
Oh god.
I take a step back, but Bash grabs me by the wrist, hard, and yanks me.
“Hey. What are—”
There’s a rustling of leaves to my left and several silhouettes step into a slant of moonlight.
But it’s the purple glow of the bone shards hanging from their necks that tells me immediately who they are.
“Bash! Run!” I yell, but his boots are dug into the ground, his grip on my wrist turning almost painful.
I look up at him, pleading with him to move, but his face shifts, like a mirage disappearing on the horizon line.
Suddenly, it’s not Bash standing next to me and my stomach drops.
“Doren.”
How did I not know? Bash smells like cloudberries and fairy wine and sweet tarts. Not pine and cloves. Bash is warm and kind and always makes me laugh.
I should have known. All the power of the Shadow and I couldn’t even tell Bash from Doren.
One more disappointment.
One more failure.
A woman comes forward. A long blond braid hangs over her shoulder. She’s older, like Hansel, with fine lines around her eyes and bracketing her mouth.
“I’ll take it from here, Doren. Thank you.”
Doren jostles me forward and I stumble into the woman’s arms.
“Winnie Darling,” she says, looking down at me like I’m a piece of trash that sullied her clothing. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m your Aunt Gretel.”
And then a man steps forward and covers my mouth with a wet rag and everything goes dark.