“No,” he repeated more firmly.
Before she could plan a rebuttal, let alone deliver it, he stalked off. Tasia rolled her eyes at his rudeness—a luxury she couldn’t afford at home. Then she lugged the water back to the house, aware that her short reprieve was quickly ending.
At the house, Pagona and her bunch barely noticed Tasia’s arrival. They were deep in a discussion about the scandalous behavior of someone she didn’t know or care about. The tea was made and served without a fuss. The girls threw out a few desultory aspersions for the rest of their tea party, but Tasia could tell it was mostly out of obligation as Pagona’s friends. Evidently, Mr. Ennio’s poetry-inspired behavior was simply too outrageous to focus on anything else.
The morning of Tasia’s second delivery dawned crisp and clear. The days were still warm—if not hot, in the afternoons—though the mornings promised autumn was gaining a foothold. Pretty soon a cloak would be necessary. Her feet were nice and toasty in the new boots Anthi had brought home. Tasia had been wearing them for short periods of time around the house for the last four days. Time would tell if that had been sufficient to break them in.
As she walked, she absently noted that the full moon was setting in the morning light. It made a pretty picture as she marched to her doom. Determined to make the best of it, Tasia slapped a confident smile on her face as she approached the ramshackle hut masquerading as an apothecary. The smile helped as she knocked on the door. Then it began wavering asher wait lengthened and she wondered if she was supposed to walk right in or had mistaken this mouldering shack for another one.
When a frowning dwarf opened the door, her smile dropped. Then she remembered her task.
Throwing on her best let’s-be-friends face, she chirped a greeting. “Hello! Are you Markel?” One of the last bits of wisdom Dino had bestowed was the name of Grandmother’s supplier.
The dwarf grunted. As he eyed her, she returned the favor.
Markel wore a cape with a deep cowl that obscured most of his face. What Tasia could see seemed to be completely mustache. Under a barely visible nose, a veritable sheet of ruddy-brown facial hair formed a sizable triangle. Nothing else was visible on the faery.
Tasia was startled when the mustache moved.
“No basket?”
“Oh.” She looked down at her empty hands. “Was I supposed to bring it back?”
From the full-body sigh that lifted and dropped his shoulders, Tasia concluded that this was the case.
As he turned aside, she promised to bring it back the next time. He leaned back into view, shoved a basket with a gingham cloth at her, then slammed the door. The whole structure shook but stayed upright. Tasia wasn’t familiar with dwarven magic or abilities, so she couldn’t say if it remained intact with assistance or out of an innate orneriness.
Her musings about architectural magic carried her into the village. The original plan had been to skirt around the village to avoid repeated snubs, but her distraction had eliminated that option. Come to think of it, that might be why she got lost so often.
Early as she was, several folks were out and about on this fine rest day. The beautiful weather provided a lovely backdropfor the many sour looks, flagrant sneers, and cold shoulders. Leaving the frosty village behind for the idyllic, sun-kissed forest was a pleasant change, deadly predators notwithstanding.
Tasia approached the greenery-crowded path with a straight spine and a calm but confident air, much like she faced the larger palace-hosted gatherings that included every rank of nobility. Acting like you belonged there was half the battle. Sadly, the woods didn’t care that she was pretending to know what she was doing. No helpful servants appeared offering refreshments or directions, nor did any signposts spring up exactly where she needed them.
Initially, Tasia felt she was doing well because she passed the troll boulder early on. But nothing looked familiar soon after. A memory of crossing the stream teased her, but Dino had used words like “south” and “based on the position of the sun” to describe their movements. None of that meant anything to her.
Tasia hadn’t thought of herself as strictly a city girl before this. Mainly because their estate had rather spacious grounds with a variety of plant life, and she loved being in the garden. Clearly, none of that translated into actual woodcraft. Each rustle and chitter was beginning to set her on edge.
Thankful for her new boots as she clomped over sharp twigs and pebbles, Tasia continued forward. A red squirrel spiraled up a tree trunk on her left. While she searched her memory for which tree the red one had been in last week, the furry critter turned to stare at her. Its tiny claws and pronounced teeth looked infinitely more sinister now that it was targeting her. She held her breath and froze mid-step, one boot held above the dirt.
The moment stretched out to agonizing lengths. Her leg couldn’t maintain that position forever, so she slowly eased it down. With a fierce chitter that was assuredly laden with tree rodent profanity, the squirrel dismissed Tasia as a threat (or food source?) and darted up the trunk and into a hollow.
Tasia waited a brief second to see if it would return, then lifted her skirt and ran past the tree. She didn’t stop until she couldn’t see it anymore. Setting down the basket, she tilted forward to rest her hands on her knees and worked to slow her breathing. As unnerving as the encounter had been, she recognized that it was a bit silly to be scared of a creature that could fit inside her boot. Especially with the small folding knife in her pocket.
Laughing at herself gave her the strength to pick up the basket and move on. It also gave her the idea to speak aloud as she walked. If she couldn’t bring along a friend to chat with, she would just have to talk to herself. The sound of a human voice in the woods, albeit her own, went a long way to calming Tasia’s fears. But not even vocally admiring the last of the summer’s wildflowers could prevent the inevitable conclusion that she was lost. Really, really lost.
“Bother,” Tasia sighed. She scanned the undergrowth beneath the thick trees. Nothing pretending to be a path caught her eye. “Wait! Do I hear . . .?”
Barely breathing, she strained her ears.
“Yes! Thatiswater. I bet that’s the stream I need to cross.”
Tasia hurried in the direction of the sound. She was soon rewarded with the sight of a small stream winding its way through the woods. It didn’t look as wide or as deep here as where they had crossed, but she figured the makeshift log bridge had to be somewhere. Following the stream would take her either to the log, where she could pick up the trail again, or to civilization, where she could beg for assistance.
Walking alongside the stream soon became an ordeal. Due to the dense foliage that grew next to—or over—the waterway, Tasia found herself having to leave sight of the water time and again in order to maneuver around the obstacles. Signs of a bridge or people continued to elude her. One good thing about her growing irritation with the constant detours was that she nolonger worried about all the creatures that were simply dying to eat her. When a low-hanging branch connected with her face for the third time, she was ready to send out a dinner invitation.
Eventually, the forest brightened up ahead. Tasia had long since stopped talking to herself. And because the underbrush had cleared up a bit, she wasn’t crashing noisily anymore. A fact that may have saved her life when she reached the meadow and was met with a sight that erased her irritation and replaced it with cold dread.
A shaggy brown wolf lay in the warm sunlight. She would have thought it was sleeping except for the tail that beat a drowsy tattoo against the grass.
