“The wolves have been especially savage of late, as if something had set them off.” Mother’s lips pinched. “Might be time for more drastic measures.”
Meaning a pagan ritual. Many townsfolk still held to the old beliefs that claimed sacrificing would grab a god’s attention and fix things.
Alva was of the more modern thinking, those who knew the wind didn’t blow because of a god. And that the crops didn’t care if the farmers prayed to a goddess just right.
“Enough talk about hungry wolves. It is almost Yuletide, and we haven’t decorated.”
“Go ahead,” her mother said, tucking her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She appeared a little tired.
“I will get the box of decorations out. But I’ll need help for the tree.”
“What tree?” Her father wiped his hand on a cloth.
“We need one.” She pointed upstairs to their living quarters.
Papa shook his head. “Much too busy to go.”
“We need a tree,” Mama insisted, firmly taking Alva’s side.
“I’ll hire someone, then.” Her father threw up his hands, but it was more for show than genuine angst. He’d confided to her that he didn’t look forward to dragging back a tree just to decorate for the twelve days of Yuletide. Of which, they’d already missed four.
She kept count by the presents that arrived each day since Guntar had started courting her. The pheasant, two ribbons, three yards of fabric, and now four goose eggs. It made her wonder what five would bring.
As her parents bickered, amiably and with familiarity, she proceeded to decorate their shop for the celebrations leading up to the winter solstice that signaled the rebirth of their world. It was a holiday for all, a time of giving and family.
The bakery bustled as people flowed in and out all morning, a steady stream that left her mother looking wan.
“Why don’t you lie down?” Alva said as the door opened, and Heressa entered. The milliner’s wife had four of her children in tow, screeching at each other as usual.
Mother winced and nodded. She disappeared upstairs, and Alva handled the shop.
Early afternoon, her mother emerged from their flat over the store with her good red cloak slung over her arm. She coughed hard enough that she needed to steady herself on the wall.
Alva frowned as she hurried for her side. “Go back to bed. You’re not well.”
“I’m fine,” Mama protested, in contrast to her pale complexion and flushed cheeks.
Alva slapped her hand on her forehead in a move her mother had done so many times it became ingrained.
“Hot,” Alva announced. “You are not fine. Back to bed with you.”
“I can’t.” Mama shook her head. “It has to be delivered today.”
“What does?” Alva asked as her father emerged from the back.
“I’ve got it ready.” Papa hoisted a loaded basket onto the counter. Then frowned. “You don’t look good.”
“I’m fine.” Mama coughed again, a hacking sound.
Papa took a step in her direction, worry on his face. “You aren’t. Go back to bed.”
Stubborn, Mama shook her head. “You know it can’t be delayed.”
Alva glanced at the basket. It and the red cloak could only mean it was one of Mama’s special deliveries. She handled the gentry when they got a rare order—usually when someone’s chef was sick.
“I’ll take it,” Papa offered.
“You know you can’t with your knee,” Mama argued. “It has to be me.”
Alva rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly. I’ll take it.”
“No!” both her parents barked.
Utterly surprised, Alva’s lips pursed. “Why not?”
“Because you are not to go anywhere near her,” Mama exclaimed.
“Her who?”
“The witch in the woods,” her father said in a low voice.
“Witch?” Alva gaped at them. “You’re being ridiculous. Briar Forest doesn’t have a witch.” Not a real one, at any rate, despite the many stories.
“She’s real. And dangerous.” The warning tone in her mother’s voice wasn’t anything new. Everything was bad.
“Obviously, not that dangerous, or you wouldn’t deliver at all,” Alva hotly retorted.
“You’re not going,” Papa forbade. “It’s too far.”
“If it’s too far for me, then it is definitely too far for both of you.” Alva crossed her arms. “So, either I go, or the supposed witch doesn’t get her cake.”
Mother sat down heavily.
Alva immediately kneeled. “Are you okay?”
“No. I’d hoped to keep you away from that evil woman.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know you don’t believe me, but trust me when I say don’t let her fool you. Be careful you don’t make a deal. Accept nothing from her. Not food. Not shelter. Not even water.”
“Got it. Nothing except payment,” Alva clarified.
“No payment.”
“Why not? What is she trading in exchange?” They didn’t run a charity. They never gave anything for free, but her father would barter for services.
“Nothing. We owe her, which is why we have to deliver. And it mustn’t be late.” Mama didn’t expand.
Papa wrung his hands. “I don’t like this.”
“We have no choice,” was Mama’s soft reply.
Papa closed his eyes before saying, “Listen to what your mother told you. Follow the east road out of town. Keep left each time there’s a fork. It will lead you straight to Grandmother’s cottage. Deliver the basket and leave.”
“Grandmother? Is she related to us?”
“No,” Mama said flatly.
Alva didn’t want to push while Mama was ill. Instead, she focused on a different problem. “She lives in the forest. What of the wolves?”
“They won’t bother you if you wear the cloak.” Mama possessed a vibrant red cloak unlike anything anyone else in town owned. Passed down in her family, the thick material didn’t seem to fade or wear. Mother always wore it when she had to travel outside of town or visited important people. She shoved it from her lap in Alva’s direction. “Do not take it off. Not even for a second, or you will be vulnerable.”
“A cloak won’t stop danger,” Alva muttered, shaking it out and holding it up.
“This one isn’t ordinary.”
“Are you going to claim it’s magical?” Alva said lightly.
“Yes.” A serious reply from her mother. “It will keep the wolves from attacking.”
Glancing at the bright crimson fabric, Alva wondered if perhaps the shade bothered the lupines. Because magic wasn’t real. Stories about them were just that. If it existed, surely she’d have seen it by now.
Alva swirled the cloak around her shoulders, the weight comforting and warm. It didn’t feel particularly magical despite her mother’s claim, so she added a knife to a pocket in case she needed actual protection. She then snared the basket waiting on the counter. “I’ll be back for dinner.” Perhaps she should swing by Guntar’s home and see if he wanted to escort her.