Corabeth found him in the crowd and narrowed her eyes at him. Were they all truly so blind or simply complacent?
“Ask the women of your village,” she spat. “The onesyoufail to protect! How many girls and women have been violated by the Fabels?”
Corabeth felt satisfaction for a brief moment as the villagers quietened, taken aback by her accusations. Then the men looked around, confusion marring their expressions. Blind after all.
But Corabeth noticed how many of the women’s backs had gone rigid. How many of them cast their eyes, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Even one was too many.
Susanna, Corabeth noted, had not turned up at all. Whether the Marshal had told her to stay away or she simply didn’t bother to come, Corabeth didn’t know. Didn’t care.
“If they choose to, they will tell you their stories,” Corabeth continued, “But know this—the curse will die with the Fabels. The Beast has sent me with a proposal.”
She paused for a moment, expecting another wave of angry insults, but none came. The revelation had taken the furious wind out of their sails.
“You will get back your woods,” Corabeth said, “Forage, hunt, get firewood—the Beast will not hunt you down. And in thirty-three years, when a new Night of the Beast is upon you, your children and your grandchildren will not have to fear. He willnot set foot into your village. In exchange, bring an animal into the woods once a month and leave it there for the Beast.”
“Once a month? That’s twelve animals a year!” someone cried.
Corabeth knew they were not a wealthy village. Centuries of isolation had left their mark. No new roads could be built, no shortcuts could be taken to nearby settlements. But that would change, should they accept.
“Having access to the forest opens up new possibilities to you, new trade routes. Start your own pig and goat farms,” she said. And to her surprise, she heard some murmurs of approval from the crowd.
“I will give you a week to decide and discuss it amongst yourselves. Should you accept, leave an animal tied up to a tree on the seventh day. If not… nothing changes. You will have to look over your shoulder every time you get too close to the woods. And you will have to teach your children how to survive the Night of the Beast.”
She let the words linger as the villagers looked around amongst themselves. Some were shaking their heads in disapproval, unable to look past the events of the past. But she didn’t need to win over all of them. Only most of them.
“Women,” she continued, shifting her tone, “If there is another man in this village who harms you, come find me. Give me their name. You will not be harmed."
Then, she turned her narrowed gaze on the males in the crowd. “Men,” she said, her voice taking on a dangerous note, “If I hear that any one of you has lifted a finger against a woman in this village, you will be hunted.Youwill be safe nowhere.”
She would not let another man take the place of the Fabels.
Corabeth turned and stepped off the platform. She forced her steps to remain steady as she walked back towards the woods. In reality, she wanted to run. The crowd at her back still feltdangerous, although they were no longer shouting or pushing. But the mists were where she felt safest.
On the seventh day after the meeting, Corabeth and Rooke found a bleating goat tied to a tree.
Epilogue
Spurred by the success in her own village, Corabeth returned to the town of Darkwood with a similar offer. Access to the woods in exchange for them doing business with her. Rooke’s coffers would last them a lifetime, no matter how egregiously the townspeople overcharged her. Combined with the animals provided by the village, Rooke did not fear hunger again.
In the village of Gravebrook, they now whispered of two monsters living in the woods. Each of them had been forced into the shape of one. Made into one. But Corabeth and Rooke knew that sometimes monsters could be unmade too.
Together, Corabeth and Rooke lived a life that was quiet and filled with love. For Rooke, long nights of frantic hunting were replaced by gentle ones alongside Corabeth. There he found his peace.
Corabeth passed her days, trying out every imaginable pastime. Painting, stitching, basket weaving, furniture restoration, reading. When she felt she had read all the stories, she wrote her own.
Eventually, Corabeth became as familiar with the ravens as Rooke. She could recognize them from the shades of their feathers and the shapes of their wings or beaks. For decades, they brought her little presents. Buttons and coins and figurines that Corabeth treasured equally. She kept them all in a box on her dresser, and when that overflowed, she dedicated an entire drawer for the gifts.
She still had her bad days when the weight of her body seemed too much to carry, when the shadows of her past stretched too long, and the greyness of the world outside was suffocation. But through it all, Rooke stayed by her side. Not to carry her through those moments, he knew those were her own battles, but to welcome her when she found herself again.
In her hands, the garden behind the mansion came to life. All through the summer, pansies, snapdragons, primroses and lavenders flowered in pinks, reds, and purples. When the doors and windows of the mansion were thrown open, the soft gusts carried the scent of blooming flowers everywhere.
Around them, the manor seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The hallways weren’t quite so dark anymore, the shadows not so deep. In the summer, birds coasted in through the open doors and out the other side, their shrill songs echoing in the halls.
Corabeth was sixty-three years old when she lay down for an afternoon nap that she did not wake from.
Rooke felt the moment it happened. Felt the shifting in the air, like the first hint of spring after a harsh winter or an exhale of a breath held in too long.
Rooke ran through the house, though his own steps faltered now. For an age, the curse had clung to him. Now he clung to it, pleading for it to remain just long enough to make it to Corabeth’s side.
