The wind died sometime after midnight, leaving a hush so complete I could hear the logs settling in the hearth, the soft whicker of embers. I sat by the fire, arms knotted around myknees, unable to rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the face of the rider. Not just the face but the way his shoulders hunched, the animal anger in his mouth, the tangled lines inked across his skin. But the eyes bothered me most. They were wild, yes, but not with hunger. It was shock I had seen, as if I was a ghost and he the haunted.
I rubbed my temples, willing the memory away. My hands shook with the effort. I had seen my share of men, but none that looked like him. The hair, cropped short and streaked with silver; the jaw, broken once and poorly set; the marks, which were nothing like the tattoos I’d glimpsed on soldiers after battle, but instead seemed part of him, not on but in the skin. And that beast he rode, the noise it made, the fire it spat. I had barely thrown myself from its path in time. The air behind it shimmered, and for a moment, I thought it would tear the world in half.
But it hadn’t. It was gone, or I was. The trees had done their work, and now I hid in a forgotten ruin, praying that neither man nor devil could find me.
A new sound cut through the stillness. Faint at first, as if my own mind conjured it: a man’s voice, deep and measured, speaking not to be heard but to be obeyed. Then a horse’s snort, the unmistakable jangle of harness, the yip and whine of dogs on the scent. The search.
I scrambled to douse the fire, smothering the coals with a scrap of cloth and my own bare hand. Pain shot up my arm, but I bit down hard and made no sound. The lodge plunged into blackness, and I crouched behind the table, knife drawn, breath trapped in my chest. I counted heartbeats, willed myself invisible.
Torches moved in the trees. Their light bent and wavered, distorted by the damp, casting monstrous shadows against the lodge walls. Men’s voices rose and fell, never shouting. Thesewere men who knew the woods, who did not need to raise their voices to be deadly. I recognized one at once. It was Brother Tomas, always so calm, so certain he was the hand of God in these matters. He called out in Latin, then English, mixing prayers with orders, sanctifying the hunt with every phrase.
“Bring the dogs round the hill. The girl cannot have gone far. She was not dressed for running. Remember, she is clever, but she is not invincible. Find her.”
Another voice answered, lower, colder, a voice I knew even though I had only heard it once before. Sir Aldric. There was no heat in his tone, only the scrape of iron. “No harm to her face, Tomas. The wedding must proceed. The rest is negotiable.”
Something in me went still. I pressed myself against the damp wall, fingers digging into the gaps between the stone. Through the chinks in the wood, I watched the procession of three men on horseback, the rest on foot. The hounds sniffed at the lodge but did not bark. They knew, somehow, that this was not my scent. Or maybe they simply knew better than to wake what slept here.
Brother Tomas led the search, his torch held high, the white of his surplice shining even through the smoke and rain. His face was set, eyes fixed ahead, mouth pursed in the way that meant he was thinking. He always thought, always watched. I imagined he could see straight through walls, straight through flesh to the soul inside.
Sir Aldric rode at his side, posture perfect, every inch the lord and master. He surveyed the woods as if he owned them, as if they were only another room in his house. He said nothing more, but when the hounds balked at the lodge door, he leaned from the saddle and spat on the threshold. It was a small gesture, but I saw it. I saw how his eyes lingered on the darkness within, and for a moment, I thought he could see me, even in the black.
But the hunt moved on. They skirted the lodge, torches bobbing away through the trees, voices fading with the wind. Iwaited, counting to a hundred, then a hundred again, before I dared move. My legs had cramped, and I nearly toppled over when I stood.
I didn’t cry. I refused to give them that satisfaction, even now. But my teeth chattered, not from cold, but from the terror I’d held back so long I’d forgotten how to let it out.
I waited until the last torch vanished, until the lodge was silent again. Then I let out the breath I’d been holding, felt the air rush through me in a single hot wave. They would be back. I had only bought myself a little time.
I crawled back to the fire, risked a single coal, and watched it glow with stubborn life. In the half-light, I wiped the sweat from my brow and tried not to think about tomorrow.
But I did. I thought of the men, the hounds, the certainty with which they hunted. And I thought of the man on the beast, the shock in his eyes. I wondered if he had been hunting, too, or if he was just as lost as I was.
I pulled my knees up, hugged them tight, and waited for morning.
***
The first hints of light found me awake, staring into the dim orange cradle of the last fire-ember. Sleep had come only in fitful scraps, each time shredded by nightmares of torches bobbing toward me through the trees, or of a machine roaring out of the darkness, its rider’s face split between animal and man. But the night had passed, and with it, the search party—for now.
I waited until the birds began their half-hearted morning calls before I dared move. The forest was so quiet it felt wrong, as if even the crows had been frightened into silence. When I opened the door, the world was heavy with frost, every twig and blade ofgrass rimmed in white. I pulled my cloak tight and stepped out, eyes scanning the woods for any sign of movement.
The stream wasn’t far, maybe less than fifty paces down the hollow, behind a shield of tangled willow and thorn. I took the knife, gripped tight in my sleeve, and made my way slowly, leaving as little a trace as possible. The air stung in my lungs, but I kept to the shadows and walked where the ground was rockiest.
At the stream, I knelt and filled the water skin, wincing as the cold bit into my fingers. The water ran so clear it looked like glass, and for a moment, I watched the pale drift of it over the stones, imagining it washing away every trace of me. Then I saw the prints in the mud. Deer, maybe, but enough to set my heart beating faster.
On the way back, I detoured past the old hollow tree. It was a place I’d used as a child to hide treasures like broken toys, wildflowers, and the bones of birds I’d found in the grass. It was a habit, nothing more, to check it. But when I looked, I saw the cloth bundle, clean and neatly tied, nestled deep in the heart of the tree.
I almost didn’t dare touch it. But I reached in, drew it out, and unwrapped the layers with shaking hands. Inside was bread, fresh and soft; a wedge of hard cheese; dried apples, golden and thin as saints’ bones. There was no note. There didn’t need to be. Only one person could have known both the need and the place. My mother.
I sat on the cold ground, bundle in my lap, and let the wave of feeling pass through me. Anger first, sharp and hot. If she could do this, why not more? Why not spirit me away to a convent, or tell Father she refused the marriage, or simply run with me into the woods? But anger was always the first flame, always burned out to ash. Underneath was gratitude, and a tenderness that stung worse than hunger.
She could not help me openly. That would be weakness, and she had survived too long on pride and silence. But she could leave me food, and trust I would find it. That was the best she could do, and I understood it, even as it broke my heart.
I rewrapped the bundle, careful to fold the linen back the way she would have, corners tight and smooth. Then I slid it into my sack and made for the lodge, footsteps erased as best I could. At the door, I looked once over my shoulder, searching for any sign I’d been followed, then ducked inside and bolted the canvas tight.
Inside, I ate one slice of bread and a piece of apple, savoring every bite. Then I set to work making the lodge even less inviting. I dragged the broken table in front of the door, covered the window gaps with a brush and rags, and swept away every print on the dirt floor. It wouldn’t stop a determined man, but it might buy me a little more time.
The rest of the day I spent in silence, listening to the woods, tending the small fire, letting the warmth of the food and the memory of Mother’s hands steady me. When the fear came, I let it rise and then pass, like the wind through the trees.
Tomorrow, I would need a new plan. But tonight, I had food, water, and the knowledge that someone still wished me alive.
