A scrape of breath against my ear, brittle, as if pulled out of a throat that doesn’t want to shape it. My eyes fly open. Heat slicks my skin. My heart pounds so hard it drowns the crackle of the fire.
Its glow pulses against the walls, low and red, throwing long shadows that sway with every shift of flame. The beam above me is exactly where it should be. The ladder. The box beneath the bed. The night pressing close to the roof.
I hold still, listening.
There—again.
A rattle, caught and released, like breath failing to decide which way to go.
"Mama?" I whisper.
The sound falters. Stops. The fire shifts, a coal collapsing with a tired hiss. My pulse counts the space between sounds.
"Mama," I say again, louder.
Nothing answers.
I slide off the bed and catch the ladder before my knees give, though my hands slip on the wood, damp with sweat. The room feels altered—smaller, closer, shadows thick where they gather near the walls. The rattle comes again—closer this time, or perhaps only clearer now that I am fully awake. My chest tightens. A crack echoes in the fire cracks, making my pulse jump.
On the far end, the curtain waits.
It hangs heavy across her space, its folds unmoving. I stand before it, breath coming in shallow draws, my hand hovering inches from the fabric. My fingers close on the edge, and I pull.
Warmth spills out in a sudden rush.
Mama lies on her back, wrapped in wool. Her mouth is closed. One hand rests open against her chest, the fingers loose, unmoving. Her back rises and falls in a steady rhythm, her breathing even. The firelight reaches only partway into the space, leaving the rest in shadow. She does not stir, and for a moment, my heart stops.
Then, her back lifts. The wool shifts with it, falls again. Alive.
Witch.
The window flies open, wind slamming through the house, scattering sparks from the hearth, sending the flame guttering low. The curtain snaps hard against the wall. My hair lifts around my face as night rushes in, laced with storm and earth.
When I turn, the pasture looks back at me.
A wolf stands just beyond the fence, its body a dark cut against the grass. Yellow eyes fix on me, unblinking, catching the light and holding it.
My heart slams. The word echoes again in my head, tangled with the rush of blood and wind.
Witch.
No. Not this time.
I don’t think.My hand closes over a torch, my fingers burning as spark catches, heat blooming in my palm. The door opens in an instant beneath my grip, and I spill out into the night, skirts soaking instantly, mud slick under my feet. The flame throws wild light ahead of me, shadows leaping, breaking apart.
"Go!" I shout, the word ripped from my throat. "Away!"
I run harder, lungs burning, rain streaking my face, the torch hissing as water spits against flame. Grass tears at my stockings by the time the fence looms close. I scramble past it, heart hammering, eyes locked on the place where it stood.
The pasture lies empty.
Grass bends under the wind. Shadows shift and settle. The torchlight dances over churned earth, over trampled weeds, over silence.
There is no beast. No movement. No sound. Only my breath, tearing in and out of me, and the fire dancing in my hand.
Behind me, the trees answer the wind. Branches rub and bend, leaves whispering together as if scurrying to watch.
Anger flares, scorching and immediate. It steadies me. It keeps my feet planted.
