Turner and Ely Fabel—the Village Elder’s sons. Turner, the older one, had a satisfied smirk on his face as he stepped outside, still fastening his trousers. In the naivety of youth, Corabeth had once found him handsome. Had imagined her fingers running through his dark hair. But that was before she had discovered the sharp cruelty that lied just below the surface of those features.
Ely, on the other hand, was perfectly average. He wasn’t handsome or tall or particularly smart, which left him often where he was now—keeping to his brother’s shadow.
Isamella hurried down the steps to the muddy road, as if repelled by their presence.
“Are you…” Corabeth tried again.
“Hold your tongue,” Isamella spat as she hurried past Corabeth, nothing but rage in her eyes.
Turner and Ely stood on the porch, backs straight and eyes cold, watching Isamella’s retreat. Then their gaze fell on Corabeth.
She straightened, dread gripping her heart, forced herself to look forward, and resumed her walk home. She didn’t see the way Turner nudged Ely’s side, and when his younger brother hesitated, shoved him to follow her.
“What have you got there?” Ely called and hurried after her.
“Flour,” Corabeth simply said and tried to pick up her pace. But the mud was thick, clinging to her feet, as if the very earth was trying to keep her in place.
“Here, let me help you. That looks heavy,” Ely said, glanced behind him somewhat warily, and reached for the sack of flour on her shoulder.
“No need, almost there,” Corabeth replied, sidestepping Ely so his hands grabbed only air.
“Don’t be proud, let me help,” Ely insisted. This time, she felt as he easily lifted the weight off her shoulder. It would have been a kind gesture if she hadn’t witnessed what she had. If Turner wasn’t trailing behind them.
“Thank you, but it’s really not necessary,” Corabeth said. She grabbed the sack that now sat on Ely’s shoulder. She prepared to pull with all her might, but she was no match for Ely’s strength, who was still taller than her. Corabeth felt the rough fabric of the sack between her fingers and then nothing, as she lost her balance. Feet stuck in the mud, the force of the pull knocked her back, and Corabeth landed on her behind.
“Oh no, look now what happened,” Turner said, coming up from behind, but there was no kindness in his voice. Dread made a nest in Corabeth’s chest.
Ely dropped the flour, leaning the sack against the side of a house that was already boarded up and closed. The brothers stepped to either side of Corabeth and grabbed her arms to easily lift her up and out of the mud. Looking down at her filthy hands, she took a few steps back to get out of the soft muck.
“Your pretty dress is all dirty now,” Turner commented, swatting at her skirts to flick the dirt off, coming unpleasantly close to her hips.
“I’m all right,” she assured, backing up further, out of the reach of the brothers’ hands. When she lifted her eyes, Corabeth realized with a sinking feeling that Turner and Ely had backed her into the shadows between two houses.
“I really must go now,” she insisted and went to sidestep Ely, but his arm shot out, bracing on the wall of the house, blocking her escape. When she looked at Turner, he simply shook his head with a smirk.
“Go on, Ely. It’s time for you to become a man. I’ll keep watch,” Turner said, not taking his eyes off Corabeth. His gaze slithered down her body in a way that made Corabeth sick to her stomach.
“Her?” Ely asked, hesitating for a moment.
“It doesn’t matter. A hole is a hole,” Turner said with a coldness that made Corabeth’s skin crawl. “Besides, if she tells someone, who would believeher?”
How many other girls had he done this to, Corabeth thought as a shiver ran down her spine. He sounded too brazen for it to be his first time.
“No!” Corabeth shouted and sprinted for the opening between the brothers, but Ely caught her easily. He wrapped his arms around her slender body from behind, picked her up offthe ground, and pushed her against the side of the house. The wood was rough against Corabeth’s cheek, scraping her as she struggled.
“Hold her neck, like I told you,” Turner said in a hurried whisper and then retreated onto the road to keep watch. Just as he had promised.
Ely’s hand wrapped around Corabeth’s neck, restricting the blood and air flow, making it hard for her to even swallow.
“Hold still,” Ely ground out desperately through his teeth. “It will be over soon. I have to do this.”
But Corabeth did not hold still. She thrashed, trying to reach behind her, fighting to fend off her attacker. She didn’t even have to make the decision to fight. There was no time for that. Her body acted all on its own against the sudden assault, rage and fear and disgust fueling her wild flailing.
Small cries escaped her lips when Ely lost his grip on her throat momentarily. Then his hand tightened again, muffling any sounds. Corabeth felt him groping around her front, ripping down her bodice, grabbing at the soft flesh of her breasts. The seconds slowed, each one holding an atrocious amount of horrors. Corabeth thrashed, but her attempts were extinguished just as her strength slowly extinguished by each moment she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know if her limbs were growing cold from the lack of oxygen or the fear.
Ely focused his efforts somewhere behind her. On freeing himself from his trousers, she guessed, on frantically pulling up her skirts.
“Father is coming!” hissed Turner suddenly, appearing seemingly from nowhere and pulling Ely off her.
