It was madness. Even if I somehow survived the forest itself, what chance did I have against the beast? I’d seen it with my own eyes. Massive, otherworldly, and powerful enough to drag a grown man away as if he weighed nothing.
No, rushing headlong into death wouldn’t honor Papa’s sacrifice. He’d given his life so that I might live mine.
But what kind of life remained for me?
I wandered aimlessly around our small cottage, trailing my fingertips over every surface Papa had crafted. The chairs with their intricately carved backs—one for each year of my mother’s life. The cabinet where we kept our meager stores, its doorsinlaid with delicate flowers that matched the ones in our garden. The bedframe in his room, sturdy oak posts rising toward the ceiling like sentinel trees.
His hands had shaped it all, coaxed beauty from raw lumber with nothing more than patience and skill. Hands that had also braided my hair each morning when I was small, that had wiped away my tears when Mama died, that had waved a final goodbye just hours ago.
I slumped back into my chair by the window, exhaustion washing over me in waves. Yet I knew sleep wouldn’t come, not with my mind replaying that final, terrible moment when the beast emerged from the trees. Not with my ears still ringing with Papa’s last scream.
The locket at my throat seemed to pulse with a warmth that defied explanation. I clutched it tightly, remembering some of Papa’s final words to me.“Thy mother’s locket, wear it always. It will protect thee when I cannot.”What had he meant? What protection could a simple piece of jewelry offer?
Yet it was all I had left of either of them now. That and the emptiness that yawned wide in my chest, vast and horrible.
A tear slipped down my cheek, then another. I didn’t bother to wipe these away. There was no one to see my weakness now, no one to be strong for.
“What am I to do, Papa?” I whispered to the empty room. “How am I to live without thee?”
The silence that answered was deafening.
I don’t know how long I sat there, suspended in that awful stillness, before the sharp rap at the front door yanked me back to the present. Three hard knocks that reverberated through the cottage like the church bells that had heralded tonight’s nightmare.
For a moment, wild hope surged in my chest that Papa had somehow escaped, had fought his way back to me. But realitydoused that flame as quickly as it had ignited. No one returned from the forest. No one.
I considered ignoring the knock, pretending to be asleep or absent. But the warm glow of candlelight would be visible through the windows, betraying my wakefulness. Besides, who would come calling at this hour if not bearing news of importance?
“Shit,” I muttered, hastily wiping at my tear-stained face. I couldn’t muster a smile—not tonight, perhaps not ever again—but I could at least attempt to appear composed. I tightened the shawl around my shoulders, suddenly conscious of being dressed only in my night clothes and crossed to the door on unsteady feet.
The knocking came again, more insistent this time.
“I’m coming,” I called, my voice sounding strange and hollow in my own ears.
I unlatched the door and pulled it open, expecting to find Colette, or perhaps one of the elders come to offer condolences. Instead, I found myself staring at a wall of torch-lit faces. Half the village, it seemed, gathered on my doorstep like spectators at an execution.
And at their center, towering above the rest, stood Gaspard Coventry.
My stomach plummeted. Even in the flickering light, I could see the gleam in his eyes. A hunger barely masked by the solemn expression he’d arranged on his handsome face. Across his broad shoulders hung the carcass of a freshly killed stag. Its glazed eyes staring sightlessly into the night. Blood from the animal had seeped into his shirt, staining the fine fabric dark.
“Isabeau,” he said, his deep voice carrying the practiced tone of sympathy that rang utterly false to my ears. “I came as soon as I heard.”
The crowd murmured their approval. Gaspard had missed the sacrifice, out hunting as he always was on the night of the drawing. As the village’s most skilled hunter, he was exempt from the lottery, being too valuable to risk losing to the forest. How convenient for him.
“What dost thou want, Gaspard?” I asked, too drained to feign politeness. “It’s late.”
He had the audacity to look hurt by my curtness. “I’ve come about thy father, of course. A terrible tragedy. The entire village mourns with thee.”
The villagers nodded in solemn agreement, though I noticed how their eyes darted curiously past me into the cottage, hungry for a glimpse of my grief in its natural habitat.
“Thank you for thy condolences,” I said stiffly. “Now, if thou’ll excuse me—”
“But that’s not all,” Gaspard interrupted, taking a step closer. I could smell the stag’s blood now, metallic and fresh. “I—we—have come about thy situation.”
“My situation?”
“Thy living arrangements,” he clarified, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that made my skin crawl despite the layers of fabric between us. “Thou canst not continue to live here alone.”
“I’m nearly of age,” I said, my fingers tightening on the door frame. “My birthday is but hours away now. At midnight—”
