Chapter 11 ROSE #2
Mother’s eyes closed for a moment. “Alarion is too clever for his own curses. It turned him strange, half-mad, more beast than man. He can’t bear to be alone, so he collects things.
Treasures. Trinkets. Every lovely thing the forest produces, he tries to own.
” She touched the base of her throat, as if remembering something precious.
Snow and I exchanged a look at that—two halves of one question.
“Why did you never tell us?” I asked, my voice as sharp and mean as the wind outside. “All these years. Why wait until—”
“I was afraid,” Mother said softly. “Every mother is afraid for her children. Would you rather have grown up in the shadow of his name? Hunted, angry, or worse—like him?” She leaned toward us, urgent. “Better a plain life in a happy cottage than to hunger for what you cannot have.”
I wanted to be angry, but I heard the tremor in her words and remembered the hundred little sacrifices she’d made for us.
Still, it felt like standing on a frozen pond and hearing the first spiderweb crack; you know you are warm for now, that you are safe, but beneath it all, you can feel the ice giving way.
From outside, the sound of a faint rumble of thunder reached us. Or was it the distant voice of a bear, calling from the dark?
I shivered, and Snow slipped to my side, wrapping her shawl around us both. “So what do we do?” she asked quietly.
“Stay alive,” Mother said. “And remember, your own stories have yet to be written.”
The fire snapped high, and outside, something enormous rustled through the trees, as if the forest itself was listening.
“But how can you be so sure Alarion won’t find us here?” Snow asked.
Mother smiled wistfully, “Because, when I came to this place, when it was nothing but rot and ruin, I swore to you both you’d be safe, no matter what I had to do.”
Her hands folded in her lap, as though remembering the ache of that night.
“I had no spellbook. No charms. Only fear…and love. I pressed my palms against the threshold until they bled. I begged the forest to hide me, to shelter us. I promised it my grief, my hope, my very heart, if only it would keep you safe.”
The fire snapped loudly, and the first drops of rain pelted the window.
“And the forest answered,” Mother whispered.
“From that day until now, Alarion has never found us. His eyes slide past this place as though it is no more than another hollow in the trees. Wolves circle, but they do not cross. Storms batter, but the roof holds. It isn’t witchcraft, not truly.
It’s a promise. And promises,” she added, her eyes glinting in the firelight, “are magic enough. So long as we live under this roof, girls, you are safe.”
Snow exhaled shakily, her sewing forgotten in her lap. My heart beat hard, full of wonder and gratitude and something like awe.
I stayed awake long after the others had drifted off to uneasy sleep, listening to the sound of rain against the roof and tracing in my mind the story Mother told and the one Derrick had tried to tell me.
It was my father who cursed him. With that realization, I renewed my vow to find a cure for him. I owed him that much.
The next day, the snow had melted just enough to show patches of black earth between the drifts.
I drew water from the well, hauled it back to the hearth, and watched Mother’s shoulders relax with every mundane task I performed.
As if normalcy could knit together what had been torn.
Snow hummed while she set the table, the tune more hopeful than any I’d heard from her in weeks.
But in the afternoon, as the light faded and the chill crept back up from the ground, I saw the print of a massive paw in the slush beyond the woodshed. Not a wolf. Not a dog.
For a long while, I just stood and stared at it. Then I pressed my hand into the track, palm to pad, fingers splaying into the hardened mud.
A perfect fit.
That night I dreamed of Derrick—the man, the bear, and something in between—waiting patiently just on the edge of our little clearing, where the woods grew thick with secrets.
He didn’t speak, but I felt his longing, like a rope thrown across the dark.
I woke with my heart hammering, the taste of pine and honey in my mouth, and for the first time, I was not afraid.
When the thaw came at last, and the first crocus pushed through the snow, I packed up a wedge of bread, some honey, and a twist of smoked rabbit, and set out for the edge of the wood. The forest air was sharp as a slap, bracing and sweet with the scent of meltwater.
I left a note for Snow and Mother, telling them not to worry about me, that I would be fine.
I didn't tell them that I went into the woods to find my father—I just said I was going to try to find a cure for the curse.
I didn't want to lie to them, not even by omission, but not worrying them too much seemed more important—that evil bastard owed me. I wasn’t naive enough to think he would acquiesce to my demands from the goodness of his heart; I had prepared my arrows with sacred Hawthorn, and for good measure, I had added Rowan berries and ash.
Threatened with his own life, I was sure he would tell me how to lift the spell.
Now all I had to do was find him.