Chapter 20
ELLA
MAIER MANOR
“Come in, Ella,” Stepmother says. “No need to loiter in the hall like an imbecile.”
I swallow before stepping into my father’s office.
The room is visibly different after Stepmother packed up most of the books and oddities Father collected over the years and sold them off right before Christmas.
Many of the shelves hold Marianne’s potted plants now.
Even though my new family members have been living in the house for some time, I still can’t get used to it.
“As you are aware,” Stepmother says, shoving aside a stack of papers and settling onto the settee. Her shiny brown hair is pulled into a severe low bun, not a single strand daring to slip free. “We’re far overstaffed with our limited funds. I made a list of the help that must be let go.”
She passes it to me. I scan it in horror.
“You can’t release these servants,” I say. “Who will take care of the gardens once Kurt is gone? And if Marie leaves, who’ll do the laundry? And how will we run the household without Gertrud? Besides, these people are like family. They’ve been with the estate for decades. We can’t let them go.”
I look at Father, waiting for him to agree, but he simply puffs on his pipe, watching the snow fall in thick flakes outside the paned window.
I want to scream. If she hadn’t insisted on new Christmas gowns for Marianne and Bertha, and Father hadn’t thrown that extravagant party, we wouldn’t be in this situation.
Over the past few months, I kept my mouth shut, but this is too much.
“It’s best if you’re the one to tell them they won’t be working here anymore,” Stepmother continues, her spine ramrod straight.
“You cannot be serious.”
“And since they’ve already been paid a reward thanks to you, they won’t need any severance. It’s only fair.”
“There’s nothing fair about this.” I toss the list into the fire, watching the flames hungrily consume the paper. “I won’t do it. There has to be another way.”
“We’re all desperately working on saving the family name,” Father says, joining the conversation.
“Right now, Marianne is making the rounds, further introducing herself in society. After our grand Christmas party, she’s already been invited for tea by several prestigious families. It’s quite impressive.”
“She’s always been the admired socialite,” Stepmother says proudly. “I’ve asked her to keep her eyes open for potential husbands for you, Cinderella. If we can get you married off to a wealthy man who can take care of your father’s debts, maybe you can save some of your beloved servants’ jobs.”
“I’m not going to marry any man to pay off your party debts. That’s absurd.”
“It’s your duty.” She draws me to sit beside her on the settee, grabbing my hand between her cold palms. “Let’s be honest. You’re pretty in the country, simple sort of way.
That’s the most important asset you have.
Remember your place, Ella. You’ve run wild here in these forsaken woodlands long enough.
If you care for your servants and have any love at all for your father, you’ll wed and help support this family. ”
I know her demands aren’t unreasonable—if not expected—but Mother always said she wanted me to only marry for love.
The room presses on me, stiflingly hot. I rip my hand free of Stepmother’s grip and race out of the study, down the hall.
With Mother gone, the only person who understands me is Cook.
I really could use one of her warm hugs.
But when I enter the kitchen, it’s oddly quiet without Cook’s loud voice singing off-key as she worked. A stew is bubbling on the hearth, and the air smells of freshly baked bread. She must be at the market.
A light tap, tap, tap at the window draws my attention. A raven is perched on the sill, staring at me. Curiosity pulls at me. There’s something about the gleam in its eyes, as if it not only knows me, but understands me. Finally, it flies over the snow-blanketed garden to Mother’s hazel tree.
It’s been a long time since I fed the birds. They’re probably hungry since I’m the only one brave enough to get close to the tree. I grab my cloak from its peg and the basket of day-old bread that I always have ready and hurry out to the tree.
The boughs are barren, branches stretched out like bones. The words of my father, warning me I could become a witch by following in my mother’s footsteps, haunt me. Even Jacob, a hunter, had been wary of the birds. Could there be something evil with Mother’s tree?
No. My mother wasn’t a witch. A tremor wracks my body so hard, I drop the basket.
Breadcrumbs spill across the ground. Lately, it’s been hard controlling my hands from shaking, not to mention the random heat flashes.
Even my headaches have been increasing. The shock of my new stepmother and stepsisters has been tough.
The raven appears on the branch above my head. It caws as if it’s trying to say something.
“I hope that was a thank you,” I say, tossing the remaining crumbs onto the ground.
Once finished, I step back, expecting the bird to dig into the food, but instead it cocks its head to the side, watching me with one eye.
“Go on.” I wave my hand at the crumbs. “Have at it. I’m freezing, and you must be starving.”
The raven flutters to the ground to my right by a pile of crow feathers. The snow is tinged with blood. I bend down, inspecting it.
“You’re trying to tell me something, aren’t you?” I say, heart diving as I search the area, terrified a wolf is prowling about. “Do you know what happened to this crow?”
The raven flaps its onyx wings and flies into a hole in the tree. My body shakes, and my toes are numb. I should head back inside, but something is compelling about the tree.
“Ella,” the wind whispers. Or is that the tree?
Curious, I creep to the tree’s base. There’s a crack along the trunk that I never noticed before. I trail my finger over the rough bark, and memories race through my mind.
Mother holding my hand as a child.
A basket filled with seeds.
Singing to the birds.
A book of poems.
Feathers floating through the air.
I jerk my hand back. Those memories are beautiful and terrifying at the same time. It’s been over a year, and I’m still not ready to deal with the pain they bring. Tears trickle down my cheeks. Angrily, I brush them away and straighten my shoulders, breathing one simple breath at a time.
The tree groans, and I startle. The crack in the trunk swings inward, revealing a narrow stairway spiraling up inside the tree. I rub my eyes, completely confused and utterly shocked. This can’t be happening. It’s the grief. Or maybe I’m passed out on the ground, dreaming.
A breath of warm air courses out of the tree, smelling of fresh blooms on a spring day. I peer inside, wondering what this place is. Could it have anything to do with my mother?
I glance back at the manor with darkened rooms and a single trail of smoke winding into the dusky clouds.
I don’t think anyone is watching. With trembling fingers, I reach for the doorframe, testing to see if it’s real or just my imagination.
Solid bark scrapes my skin. I dare step inside.
The wooden staircase is solid under my boots, and the walls are made of rough bark.
Sconces blink to life, flickering like glistening knives.
The narrow stairwell spins impossibly upward.
This place is dripping with magic. Indecision freezes me. Do I go up the steps and discover what’s there or flee?