For the next week, Rooke took Corabeth through his mists to the outskirts of the village. Gray cloaks blending into their surroundings, they watched, unnoticed, from the edges of the forest as chaos erupted.
On the first day, half of the village came together to look for the missing Ely. Footprints that led them to the forest had been discovered.
“A man’s and a woman’s,” they heard them say.
However, none were brave enough to venture in. The Village Elder tried to intimidate some of the younger men into the woods without setting foot near them himself. The men just gave each other wary looks and turned their backs on him.
On the second day, the men stood at the edge of the woods, holding up burning torches and calling Ely’s name into the mist for hours. When some men stepped back, others took their spot, and the calling continued. Some even took a few daring steps past the tree line.
On the third day, the people began returning to their jobs. Fewer men stood at the edge of the forest. A handful of brave souls ventured further into the trees, but Rooke only needed to break a branch beneath his foot to send them scurrying back to the village.
By the sixth day, it was only Turner who stood in the spot where their footprints had been discovered. He stared into themist with a quiet, simmering rage, outraged that someone had dared to lift a hand against his family. His gaze was so piercing, so fixed, that for a moment, Corabeth thought he spotted her. A chill ran down her spine.
Rooke placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, gave her a reassuring nod, and pulled her back through the mist.
“Tomorrow,” was all Corabeth said as they walked back to their mansion.
It was just before dusk the next day when Corabeth dressed in the remnants of her past. The dress and shawl she had worn on the worst day of her life were still caked with mud and stained by blood. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she could almost mistake herself for the girl who had stumbled after the Beast that night.
Almost.
If it weren’t for her eyes.
Poverty, surviving instead of living, cruelty did something to a person. They extinguished the life in one’s eyes, replacing it with a desperate dullness. Corabeth had existed like that for her entire life.
Now, Corabeth’s eyes had the spark of someone who had something to live for. She knew what she was about to do, and she saw only cold determination staring back at her.
Rooke stood in the doorway, leaning against it, arms crossed on his chest. There was a certain disapproval as he eyed the chunks of mud that flaked off her dress and landed on the floor.
“I should have burned that dress,” he grumbled.
“No,” argued Corabeth, looking at Rooke in the reflection, “Turner needs to see me as I was. Dirty, beaten down, humiliated. He’ll fall into the trap only if he thinks he’s above me. He won’t be as easy to lure in as Ely was.”
She looked over her shoulder to the dimming light outside.
“We have to go,” she said, and together they hurried out into the forest. Their goal was to coax Turner into the forest before the work day was over and the street was flooded with men once again.
Popping in and out of the mist, Rooke and Corabeth circled the village. As she had suspected, the search for Ely had ceased. No one watched, no voices cried out.
“Stay out of sight,” Corabeth said in a half-whisper as she turned to look up at Rooke.
“Just get him past the first tree. I’ll take it from there,” he said and pressed a chaste kiss on Corabeth’s forehead before he stepped back into the mist and disappeared completely.
Corabeth saw the woodworking shop ahead, a soft glow in its windows. She knew she couldn’t stay as close to the woods as last time. Turner needed to see her in the village.
She kicked the snow, revealing the earth below, and picked up a few rocks. A few taps against the window would get his attention. However, when she walked over to the workshop, careful to keep to the shadows so a passerby from the street wouldn’t see her, she discovered she wouldn’t need them. Turner was standing by a window, his work forgotten behind him, and stared out into the darkening forest some sixty feet away.
A cold jolt shot through Corabeth’s body as their eyes met through the glass. She saw the moment he recognized her. She did her best to look frightened and launched into a sprint, making sure to stumble and fall to her knees before she could gain too much momentum.
Somewhere behind her, a door fell shut, and steps, muffled by the snow, hurried after her.
“You!” Turner bellowed.
Corabeth kept running parallel to the woods, angling so slightly towards them it wouldn’t be noticeable. It was a fineline she was walking. Run too fast and too long, Turner might get someone else’s attention. Give up too soon, and Turner will become suspicious.
Corabeth yelped as she feigned a slip and fell to her knees for a second time before scurrying away.
“Please, just leave me be,” she pleaded, remembering the day she had pleaded in a similar manner. She did not have to fake the tears that sprang to her eyes.
