“Nay!” I screamed, finding my voice at last. I scrambled to my feet, clutching at Papa’s sleeve. “Please, nay! I am but a day from my eighteenth year! Surely that is close enough!”
“The law is clear,” Father Simon said coldly. “The sacrifice must be of age. Arnaud Dubois, step forward.”
“Please,” I begged, looking around at the villagers who had known me my entire life. “Please, someone take his place instead or let me volunteer!”
But no one met my gaze. No one stepped forward.
“Isabeau,” Papa said gently, cupping my tear-stained face in his callused hands. “My beautiful daughter, my little bell. This is how it must be.”
“It cannot be,” I sobbed. “I cannot lose thee too. Not after Mama. Please, Papa.”
“Thou hast a full life ahead of thee,” he said, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes. “Thou wilt marry, have children, grow old surrounded by those who love thee. I have lived my life. I have known great love with thy mother, and great joy in raising thee.”
“I care not for marriage or children if it means losing thee!”
Two village men approached, ready to escort Papa to the bridge. I clung to him desperately, my fingers digging into his arms.
“Take her,” Father Simon ordered.
Strong hands pulled me away from Papa. I fought against them, kicking and screaming, but they held me fast.
“Stop this madness!” I cried. “He’s all I have! Please!”
Papa didn’t struggle as they led him to the bridge. He walked with dignity, his head held high, though I could see how his hands trembled at his sides. The same hands that had crafted countless inventions, that had braided my hair when I was small, that had held me when Mother died.
“Let me say goodbye,” he called over his shoulder. “At least grant me that.”
The men paused, looking to Father Simon, who gave a curt nod. They released Papa, who turned and walked back to where I was still being restrained.
“Unhand her,” he commanded. “Let me embrace my daughter one last time.”
Reluctantly, they let me go. I fell into Papa’s arms, sobbing against his chest as I had done as a child after a nightmare. But this nightmare was real, and no morning light would banish it.
“Listen to me,” he whispered fiercely in my ear. “Thy mother’s locket, wear it always. It will protect thee when I cannot.”
I nodded, unable to speak through my tears.
“I love thee, Isabeau. More than the sun loves the day, more than the moon loves the night. When thou lookest at the stars, know that I am watching over thee.”
“I love thee too, Papa,” I managed to choke out.
All too soon, the men returned. “It is time,” one said, not unkindly.
Papa pressed a kiss to my forehead, then to each of my cheeks. Then he stepped back, allowing the men to guide him toward the bridge.
I remained where I was, my legs unable to support me. Colette appeared at my side, wrapping her arms around me as we watched Papa walk toward his doom. My legs gave way. Falling to my knees as my closest friend followed to shield me.
The sun had nearly set now, casting long shadows across the village square. Papa stood at the entrance to the bridge, silhouetted against the dying light. He turned one last time to face the crowd—to face me—and raised his hand in farewell.
Then he crossed.
We all watched in terrible silence as he made his way to the other side, his figure growing smaller with each step. When he reached the forest’s edge, he stopped, standing tall against the darkness that waited to claim him.
The last sliver of sunlight disappeared behind the distant hills.
Night fell.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then a low, rumbling growl emanated from the depths of the forest. It wasn’t the sound of any animal I had ever heard. It was deeper, more primal, as though the forest itself had found its voice.
