She glances back over her shoulder, a cautious look in her wild eyes, blonde hair falling across her face. “What was that?”
I’m quiet, thinking. I definitely heard something, but before I can answer, I hear it again. Footsteps outside the cabin.
Someone is tiptoeing around out there.
Someone is outside.
CHAPTER FOUR
SARAH WILDE - 1630
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 lookingfor, 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 someancient 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 someplaces 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.
