Chapter 5
Mother’s ladle hovered over the simmering stew when a cold droplet splashed her cheek. She pressed her lips into a tight line and glared upward at the rough-hewn rafters. “Saints preserve us,” she muttered, “the roof is leaking already.”
I paused in my work on the wolves’ pelts. Across the wide wooden table, Snow froze mid-stitch, the silver needle poised in the lantern’s glow.
The cottage had grown strangely hushed these last days.
Bear—my Bear, though I’d never admit it aloud—had taken to wandering.
He slipped away at dawn’s first pale light—or whatever passed for light, in the perpetual winter gloom—and padded back only under the cloak of night.
He always returned with his thick coat crusted and cold, each strand of fur dripping icicles that tinkled like little bells.
He would grunt in greeting, then lumber to the hearth and settle on the flagstones with a mournful grumble.
Snow and I would abandon our tasks to rub him with old woolen towels, coaxing warmth back into his damp hide.
By day, I felt the silence keenly. I craved the heavy comfort of his presence by the fire, his golden eyes glowing as he lay between us, his snorts and grunts filling the empty corners of the room. Without him, the cottage felt like a hollow shell.
Mother’s voice drew me back. “We must mend that leak before the thaw comes, or we’ll all be rowing boats in here.”
“I’ll see to it,” I promised, springing from my stool. My gaze flicked to the rough shelf where the resin jar sat. It was scraped nearly bare, the remaining pitch a sticky smear clinging to the bottom like captured sunlight.
Snow and I exchanged a look as the hearth crackled. Drip—drip—another cold bead plinked into the stew.
“Well,” I said, forcing a bright edge to my tone, “we’ll fetch more.”
Snow’s eyes widened in delight; her pale face lit up in a way I hadn’t seen in weeks. “Truly? It’s been too long since I’ve felt the wind on my cheeks.”
Mother sighed, still swinging her spoon. “It’s bitterly cold out there. Perhaps patching the one leak will do for now—”
I shook my head and tugged my cloak tight. “Where one gap shows, others lurk hidden. Better to gather enough resin at once, before the thaw turns all to slush.”
Snow was already buckling her boots, excitement dancing in her eyes like tiny stars. Mother’s sigh softened into something fond as she touched my cheek. “Very well, my heart. But mind yourselves, the forest is never empty.”
I bent to kiss her fingers. “We will.”
The moment I stepped beyond the doorstep, a perfect silence embraced us.
My breath blossomed into mist, and my boots crunched deep into pure white snow.
Beside my own prints lay broader, deeper ones, Bear’s.
I felt the tug to follow him into the hush, but Snow set off along the winding path toward the pines.
I wanted to call after her, then chided myself and rushed to catch up.
The forest welcomed us like a glass cathedral. Frost-laden boughs arched overhead; the branches glittered with icicles that caught stray sunbeams and scattered them like fractured rainbows across the snow. Every footstep sparked a shower of crystalline dust. My heart swelled with wonder.
Snow walked beside me in silence, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.
For a long while, all I heard was the steady rhythm of our boots on ice and the whisper of pine needles underfoot.
Then, at last, she spoke with a sense of longing in a voice I barely recognized as hers, “Don’t you ever want more? ”
Her question took me completely by surprise. “More what?”
“More than this,” she said, sweeping a hand at the endless white, the dark trunks rising like columns around us. “More than resin and rabbits, more than Fable Forest.”
I laughed, soft and incredulous. “What could be more, when every need is met here? The forest feeds us, shelters us—and look how it sparkles.” I pointed to an ice plume hanging from a branch, refracting gold and rose.
Her lips pressed together. “But don’t you wonder what lies beyond? Beyond the villages with their narrow minds, the distant castles, and the woods? What world waits outside Fable Forest?”
I should have drawn her back then. I almost did. But the hunger in her gaze—fierce and bright—stilled my words. “You mean the Outside world?”
She nodded, barely able to contain her excitement.
I hesitated. “If that world is so fine, why do Mother’s tales always end with wandering souls racing back beneath the pines?”
Snow had no answer to this, but I felt her longing tremble between us. I wanted to urge caution, to keep her close where I could protect her. Yet I loved her too fiercely to stifle her heart.
We walked on in silence until the pines arched above us like ancient sentinels.
Their trunks dripped resin in glistening amber tears.
I drew my knife and began to scrape the thick pitch into our clay pot; the sticky shards fell in bright chunks.
Snow held the vessel steady, her breath warming the rim even as her fingers turned numb.
A rasping voice shivered through the trees. “Well? Are you simpletons going to ignore me, or will one of you help a man in need?”
We froze. I spun. At first, I thought a stump had sprouted legs.
But no—it was a man, if one could call him that.
Barely taller than my hip, with a beard so long it dragged across the snow and—gods help me—was thoroughly tangled in a gnarled root.
He thrashed against it, his face red as a beet, and he was kicking his little boots like a toddler in a tantrum.
Snow gasped and gripped my arm. “Rose, leave him. He’s… wrong.”
The creature thrashed, dragging his beard this way and that. “Don’t stand there like gawping pigeons! My beard is worth more than your very souls, and it’s trapped! Free me at once!”
Snow shook her head. “Mother said—”
“I heard what Mother said,” I muttered, sighing. “But look at him. If he yanks any harder, he’ll rip his own face off.”
Snow groaned. “Better his face than ours.”
The little man’s nose crinkled. “Useless girls! I’ll curse your names for three generations if you leave me here!”
“Well, let me see then.” I crouched down, reaching for the tangled mess of hair and roots. The beard was coarse, wiry, and so filthy I wrinkled my nose.
“Careful,” Snow whispered, hovering. “You’ll tear it.”
“As though I’d let these oafs handle my beard,” the little man spat, jerking when I touched a knot. “Mind your clumsy paws, girl! Saints above, have you never worked with hair before?”
“I work with pelts,” I said dryly, tugging at one of the knots. “Yours is worse.”
Snow smothered a laugh, then leaned down to help, carefully prying the strands apart while I held them steady. Bit by bit, we loosened some of the snarl, the man yelping every time we gave the slightest tug.
“You’re pulling my chin clean off!” he screeched. “Deliberate cruelty, that’s what this is. I’ll have the crows peck your bones for this!”
Snow flinched back. “He’s impossible.”
I blew a strand of hair from my face, glaring at the stubborn clump wound tight around the root. It was hopeless. “Well, that’s as much as will come free.”
“Keep going!” he barked.
I tapped the knot with my knife. “The rest is too stuck. It’ll have to be cut.”
His eyes bulged. “Cut? CUT? You wicked wench! Do you know how long it takes to grow a beard of such magnificence?”
I sighed and drew the blade. “Longer than I’ve patience for.”
Snow groaned again, but she steadied the beard while I sliced through. With a sharp snip, the root gave way, and the man tumbled backward in a heap, clutching the ragged end as though it were a mortal wound.
He scrambled up. “You witless, graceless meddling brats! May the crows peck out your eyes and the snow bury your bones!” He stomped off through the pines, his curses trailing behind him like black smoke.
Snow and I stood breathless, then burst into helpless giggles.
“Did you see his face?” I gasped, tears of laughter stung my cheeks. “As if we’d lopped off his head!”
Snow shook her head, still pale but smiling. “Fable Forest grows stranger by the moment.”
We bent again to our work, the resin falling in golden chunks into the pot. The cold air smelled of pine and magic, and somewhere far behind us, the troll's howls faded into the hush.