Only the Marshal remained. He looked somewhat frantically towards the village as if being pulled by something, but turned back to Corabeth.
“Corabeth,” he said carefully, reaching out towards her. “Are you…”
“Go,” Corabeth ground out through gritted teeth, pulling away slightly. She didn’t want another man’s hands on her body, even if he thought he was helping. Besides, she knew the Marshal’s house was on the other side of the village. He had to get back to his own family before the bells stopped chiming.
“Can you make it home?” he asked, letting his arms drop.
“Yes, go,” Corabeth said, keeping her eyes on the ground before her, strands of muddy, loosened hair covering her face.
For a moment longer, the Marshal hesitated, torn between duty and family. “We’ll talk about this after the Night of the Beast. Be safe,” he finally said as the bells kept ringing. Then, even he took off running.
There was a terrifying stillness inside Corabeth as she stood for a few breaths, swaying on her feet. There was something wet covering the side of her head—blood or mud or a mix of both.
Corabeth’s eyes landed on the sack of flour that remained propped against the house as if nothing had happened. She still had to get it home. The world didn’t stop spinning, winter didn’t wait, just because something awful happened to her. It was a lesson she’d had to learn over and over again.
She took a step and her knees nearly buckled, as a wave of nausea hit her. Her hand shot out, finding support from the rough wall. Corabeth swallowed hard but kept going. She realized what a huge mistake she had made when she bent down to pick up the sack, and the effort made her world grow black.
Corabeth fell backwards, the soft mud welcoming her into its cold embrace.
Three
Corabeth
The next time Corabeth opened her eyes, darkness had claimed the land. A thousand stars had blinked into existence and looked indifferently down at her still body.
Cold panic gripped her when she realized she was still outside. The Beast could be waiting for her just around the corner.
She rolled herself to her side and then pushed up on all fours. Standing up, she felt the pain in her head throb in time with her heartbeat. Corabeth spotted again the sack of flour and thought it would have to wait until morning. Hopefully, it would still be waiting for her.
There was an odd glow about the road ahead, she found. Taking a few unsteady steps and looking out towards the quiet village, Corabeth saw the lit torches lining the road. The shadows danced, but there was no sign of the Beast.
Somewhere in the distance, the bleating of an animal got cut short.
But when Corabeth looked towards her own home, just three houses away, she saw where that odd glow emanated from. Flames hungrily licked the walls of her home and had already swallowed most of it. Part of the roof had collapsed.
“No!” she cried and ran towards her home as if the illusion might dissipate when she got close enough. But then she felt theheat from the flames on her cold skin, and something inside of her shattered into a thousand pieces.
For a moment, the world fell away, and there was only the roaring fire, devouring all she had in this world. Devouring the home she had grown up in and everything she had left of her mother. The memories of soft mornings with her, moments when she still felt loved, turned into ash before her.
Lips quivering, tears spilling down her cheeks, Corabeth fell to her knees. How could this have happened? There was nothing but cinder left in the furnace when she had left home, and no candles were left burning. She knew this because she hadn’t had the coin to buy candles for a week.
Somewhere, between the pain and anguish echoed the words:We should leave her to the Beast.That was exactly what her village, her neighbors, had done to her.
Another part of the roof collapsed, sending embers flying into the blackened sky to join the stars there. Corabeth didn’t hear over the roar of the fire thebaaingof a sheep that went silent, closer this time.
In a flash, she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be outside. Corabeth scrambled to her feet and ran to the nearest house. Edmund, a bitter sixty-year-old man, lived alone in the house next to hers, and she hoped with her whole being he would let her in.
“It’s Corabeth! Please, let me in! There’s a fire,” she called desperately, banging on the wooden door with her mud-covered hands. The fire raged on, spilling embers into the night. But she was only met with silence.
“Please!” she begged to no avail. The door remained shut.
Corabeth ran from house to house, her heart in her throat, pleading to be let in, for someone to save her. Splinters embedded themselves under Corabeth’s nails as she scraped and pounded and thrashed.
One after the other, the doors remained shut.
It was by the fifth house that she realized no help was coming.
She was now dangerously close to the center of Gravebrook, to the pillory where several animals were served up for the Beast to feast upon. She might as well have been among them.
