Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
For as long as I can remember, I have always been drawn to the massive forest surrounding Foxglove.
To the ancient trees that seem to whisper in a language I can’t quite understand.
My bare feet know the land and all her secrets better than I do, as if they have walked it for centuries before.
As if their destiny is right here among the weeds and brambles.
Every corner of my home and its surrounding wood holds something new and unexpected, some hidden mystery just waiting to be discovered.
It’s something understood deep within my bones, within the very rawest parts of me, though never spoken aloud.
This—this place where I was born, this place where I will die—is a place of secrets, of untold stories, of silence and of whispered messages, warnings, passed down through the generations of Wilde women. The ones who came before me.
While the meadow has always been free for me to roam, echoes of my mother’s stern voice can be heard in every corner of the house, warning me to stay close, to keep near her.
Still, as I’ve grown, so has my curiosity.
After all, what harm could possibly come to me in our home?
This place where I help Mama clean, help her cook, where she tells me stories and braids wildflowers into my hair.
Countless times I have been told fairy tales about Foxglove—that our home is filled with hidden places, packed to the brim with passages and tunnels. Secret, sacred places meant only for Wilde women.
The stories aren’t real. They’re folklore. Folly. Tales mothers tell their daughters to keep them from wandering too far.
This is why I’m not afraid tonight as I creep into the kitchen.
I’ve done it many times before when the house is quiet.
Though it’s been hours since Mama sent me to collect firewood, her voice still lingers in the air.
She has always been protective. Like my gran before her.
Her sharp eyes follow me around as if she can see through the very walls.
Perhaps she can. But in this moment, the house is silent, and I am alone.
The kitchen smells of herbs and smoke, and the warmth of the crackling fire in the hearth fills the space with a comforting heaviness, as if Foxglove were wrapped in a warm blanket.
In the drawing room, my hands trace the worn stone of the fireplace as I watch the orange embers crackle and dance, pulling me into a haze.
I blink away from the fire as a strange tug stirs somewhere in my stomach.
It draws my eyes to the floorboards, to a place where the grain of the wood seems to shift in a way I’d never noticed before.
Mama’s voice rings in my head, warning me to retire to my bedroom. Reminding me I should be asleep, that my chores will come early in the morning.
I ignore her. Ignore myself, rather. She’s sound asleep, not here.
I kneel down, pushing aside the corner of the worn rug that covers the floor.
It takes me a moment to understand what I’m looking at—what I’m looking for, perhaps, but there it is—a small crack in the board, barely noticeable.
My heart races, excitement bubbling up from within me as if I’ve found some ancient treasure, some hidden cove. Like the Wilde women from the stories.
I press my fingers into the crack, feeling the old wood give way as I carefully pry it open. There’s a loud groan and my heart seems to stall in my chest as I hold my breath, listening for the creak of the floorboards beside her bed, for the swish of her bare feet along the dusty floor.
There is nothing.
I release a long breath, steadying myself before I look closer at what I’ve found. Beneath the broken floorboard, hidden away like some forgotten treasure, I’ve found a narrow passageway. Just three steps down into the cool dark. I can’t see where it leads. Can’t see anything.
My heart goes mad in my ears, wild like the rabbits Mama catches in the traps in the back of the meadow.
It smells of earth. Of things buried long ago.
I feel the pull again—a sharp tug, stronger now, so strong it makes my stomach queasy. It urges me forward like a fierce wind pushing through the trees.
Without thinking, I lower myself into the dark space, one step, two, then three.
My feet scrape against the old wood, and I gather my skirt in my hands, trying to see what lies ahead.
Dust fills my lungs, along with the scent of the earth.
It reminds me of afternoons spent by the creek in the woods. Of muddy toes and muddy knees.
Mama would never approve. That thought makes me smile as I press forward.
I am a Wilde woman. This house and all its secrets belong to me.
The shadow-filled passage spreads out before me, narrow and winding, never-ending. It feels almost as though it were meant for someone much smaller than me, so tight in some places that I have to turn sideways or duck my head to fit through.
The air grows colder as I venture farther, deeper into the darkness, but the pull within me only grows as I explore. It’s like a voice, like a hand somewhere deep inside my soul guiding me through the dark. Telling me everything will be as it should.
There’s no way to know how long I wander or how far the passage stretches. I move only on instinct, like a wild animal—as if I’ve sprouted whiskers and can sense everything around me.
That’s how I feel down here. Wild and free.
Eventually, I find myself standing in a small chamber deep in the ground. It’s as if I’ve come out of a trance, as if my feral senses are warning me of danger. I’ve wandered too far.
I look back the way I’ve come, and I feel sick. If Mama finds out, I’m terrified of what she’ll do. Tears sting my eyes as I take in my surroundings.
The walls here are covered in moss and ivy, and the stones are cold and wet.
Running my hand along the stone, it’s as if I’m in the bottom of a well, and I suddenly feel very trapped indeed.
This must be the secret place my mother warned me never to enter.
This place is the reason for all of her stories.
The weight of what I’ve done presses in around me so tightly I can’t breathe, and I sink down to my knees.
I should turn and go back, but I can’t breathe even to stand. My head hurts, my chest aches, and I feel very strange. Like the walls are closing in around me. I see no way out except back through, and my heart… I… I can’t… I can’t breathe… This space is too small for me. It’s too… I’m too…
Darkness creeps into my vision like droplets of ink.
“Sarah!” Mama’s sharp voice echoes through the air above me. Then…light. Moonlight hits my eyes all at once, and I hear footsteps overhead, followed by her calling my name again. “Sarah Elizabeth Wilde! You answer me this instant!” The panic in her voice sends a shiver down my spine.
In mere moments, the air seems lighter. I can breathe again. I scramble back to my feet, heart still pounding. My body is a trembling mix of fear and relief. I don’t care what she does to me, only that I am alive. Only that I can fill my lungs once again.
“I’m here!” I call, clasping my hands as I wait.
In front of me, I begin to make out a tall, spiraling staircase, and then my mother. She descends the stairs, holding her skirt in one hand. The moonlight illuminates her from behind like an angel, and as she gathers me in her arms, I’m convinced she must be.
She scoops me up like she hasn’t done since I was very young and carries me up the stairs. I close my eyes against her chest, listening to the thud, thud of her footsteps, the heaviness of her breath.
The moonlight hits me fully when we reach the top of the stairs, and she sets me down on the ground. My bare feet hit the damp grass, and I stare around.
We’re in the meadow. To my left, I can see Foxglove, the firelight illuminating her windows, smoke rising from her chimney and leading us home.
We’re at the base of the oak tree, and I watch as Mama closes an iron door before covering it back with stones and leaves. A secret door in the earth.
Just like the stories.
Mama takes my hand without saying a word, and, together, we make our way through the meadow. The moon casts shadows across her face so I can’t prepare for what’s coming. Instead, I just walk, head down, awaiting my punishment.
The weeds in the meadow catch my dress, scratching at the skin on my ankles and feet, but I don’t dare complain.
She waits until we are back inside before she speaks. She stands me in front of the fire and strips my muddy dress from my body, so I’m standing there in my shift, shivering despite the warmth from the hearth.
Her eyes find mine for the first time, and there’s something behind them I don’t understand. Not the anger I expected, but something sad, I think.
She eases me down into a chair, then disappears into the kitchen, opening the cupboard. She digs into the back where she keeps her salves and tinctures, eyeing bottles and tins before she finds what she’s looking for.
When she returns, she kneels in front of me, wiping my legs and feet carefully with the hem of her skirt. It stings something awful, but I don’t dare complain.
Then, she unstoppers the bottle and pours a bit of brown liquid onto a cloth. She gives me a warning look with her eyes, one that tells me this will sting more. She doesn’t need to say a word for me to understand.
When she’s done, she wipes a salve across my wounds with gentle fingers.
The waiting for her to speak is almost worse than if she’d just taken a switch across my backside. The silence is heavy, full to the brim with disappointment.
“Mama, I’m sorry,” I tell her softly, my voice breaking the silence. Breaking the spell.
She looks up from my feet, brushing a bit of hair back from my eyes. “Sarah,” she says softly, her voice low but steady, “do you know what you’ve found? Do you realize where you were?”