But as I sat there in the moonlight, something stirred inside me. A resolve I hadn’t felt before, hardening like iron in a forge. I would not go meekly to Gaspard’s house. I would not become another trophy for him to display, another conquest to boast about.
There had to be another way. But what?
three
Isabeau
Morning light filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the floor of my childhood home. I hadn’t slept. How could I?
Papa was gone, sacrificed to that cursed forest, and I was to be handed off like a parcel to Gaspard Coventry before the sun set again. My eyes burned, raw from tears I’d shed until there were none left. Now, there was only the hollow emptiness in my chest and the cold resolve forming in my gut like a stone.
I pushed myself up from the floor where I’d spent the night, back against the door as if my frail body could somehow keep the inevitable at bay. My limbs protested, stiff and aching. I couldn’t delay any longer. Gaspard had “generously” given me until evening to collect what few possessions I could carry to his home.
His home. Not mine. Never mine.
The small satchel I pulled from beneath my bed seemed woefully inadequate for packing away an entire life. What did one take when leaving everything behind? My fingers trembled as I folded my two spare dresses, my nightgown, my apron, and the shawl my mother had woven. They barely filled half the satchel.
I added my mother’s tattered herb book, its pages worn soft from years of dutiful study. Next came my small collection of dried herbs, wrapped carefully in linen. Each bundle represented hours in the garden with Papa, his patient voice explaining the properties of each plant, his calloused hands guiding mine as I learned to harvest without damaging the stems.
“A healer’s hands must be gentle, little bell,”he’d say,“even when her heart is not.”
My heart was certainly not gentle now. It was a hard, painful thing in my chest, beating only because it must.
I glanced around the room, searching for anything else I couldn’t bear to leave behind. My eyes fell on Papa’s hunting knife mounted above the mantle. I crossed to it, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor he’d laid himself. The knife was old, the handle worn smooth from generations of use. Papa had rarely hunted—he preferred creating to destroying—but he’d kept the knife sharp, a connection to his own father.
I slid it from its sheath, testing its weight in my palm. The blade gleamed in the morning light, deadly and beautiful.Without hesitation, I tucked it into my satchel. Gaspard would never allow me to keep it if he saw it. But hidden away, it might someday prove useful.
The oak table in the center of our main room caught my attention next. Papa had crafted it before I was born, a wedding gift for my mother. I ran my fingers along its smooth surface, remembering countless meals shared here, lessons learned, and stories told. I couldn’t take the table, but perhaps...
I knelt beside it, examining the intricate tiny carvings on the legs. Each one bore a rose in full bloom, Papa’s signature mark on all his work. Using the hunting knife, I carefully began to cut away at one of the smaller roses near the bottom of a leg where it wouldn’t be immediately noticed. The wood resisted at first, then yielded to my determination. The small wooden rose came away in my palm, no bigger than a river stone but infinitely more precious.
“Perfect,” I whispered, tucking it into the secret pocket I’d sewn into my dress years ago.
I rose and crossed to the mantle once more, where our family crest rested in a small wooden box. I lifted the lid, revealing the carved rose tile that had sealed Papa’s fate. This same token had been pulled from the pouch last night, condemning him to the forest. I should have hated it, should have wanted to burn it to ash, but I couldn’t. It was part of him, part of us.
My fingers traced the delicate petals carved into the wood. For years, I’d wondered why Papa had chosen a rose for our family symbol. Most in the village opted for practical things. Hammers for blacksmiths, sheaves of wheat for farmers. But Papa had chosen a delicate flower, beautiful but impractical.
He’d finally told me after Mama died, when I’d found him weeping over the crest one evening.
“Why a rose, Papa?”I’d asked, hoping to distract him from his grief.
He’d looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes and smiled through his tears.“Because thy mother’s lips were always that exact shade of red. As are thine, little bell.”He’d touched my cheek then, his fingers gentle despite their roughness.“Every time I look at this rose, I see her. And now I see thee as well.”
I slipped the crest into my satchel alongside the knife. The elders could claim everything else, but these pieces of my heritage they would not have.
A harsh knock at the door startled me from my memories. I hadn’t expected Gaspard so early. Quickly, I tied the satchel closed and smoothed my dress, steeling myself for what was to come.
But when I opened the door, the words of greeting died in my throat. Gaspard stood there, yes, but he wasn’t alone. Behind him were three village elders, their faces masks of practiced solemnity.
“Good morrow, Isabeau,” Gaspard said, not waiting for an invitation before stepping inside. His eyes swept over the cottage, taking inventory like a merchant appraising goods. “I trust thou hast packed what thou needs?”
The possessive gleam in his eyes made my skin crawl, but I forced myself to nod. “Yes.”
“Excellent.” He turned to the elders. “You may begin now.”
As if they’d been waiting for permission, the men filed in and immediately began examining Papa’s tools, his furniture, the few valuables we possessed. I watched, bile rising in my throat, as they poked and prodded at the physical remnants of my father’s life.
“What are they doing?” I asked, though I already knew.
