“Are you serious? I’ll start the wedding plans this instant!” Mama says. “I didn’t know you loved my Gisela.”
“Mama, Brahm has beautiful women fawning over him every time he strums his lute,” I groan through my teeth. “He’s clearly joking.”
“Oh.” Mama drops her shoulders and turns back to Brahm. “Won’t you come back tonight for supper?”
“How about a rain check? I have important work to do tonight.”
“Alright, then. You’re welcome here anytime.” Mama pinches Brahm’s cheeks. “Good to see you. Thora, let’s get cooking, darling.” She claps her hands and looks back at me. “Heading off to the manor, are we?”
“Yep,” I lie and press a kiss on her forehead.
I grab my wide-brimmed hat and a red apple from the kitchen table. Brahm holds the door open for me as we leave.
“Where are you going? Not to Albert’s, I hope?” Brahm takes my hand and squeezes it.
“No.” I shake my head. “Although Albert didn’t outright fire me, I’m sure he wouldn’t be happy to see me dusting his bookshelves today. Or maybe he would, the sick bastard.”
Brahm nudges my chin with his fist. “I’ll help you find a new job. Why don’t you just go hiking for now? I wish I could go with you—to our old spot at the creek.”
The mention of our creek nearly knocks the wind out of me. I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice sounding sterner than intended.
Brahm swallows and looks at his boots. “I’m sorry to bring it up. Enjoy your hike.”
I nod and turn toward the forest.
“Freckles,” Brahm shouts from across the field, “you’re mistaken. I don’t have women fawning over me!”
Tilting my head, I wave him away and step into the tree line. Thankfully, the rain clouds have disappeared, and I can enjoy the mild weather. I lie on the ground and watch the sun stream through the leaves of the canopy, causing light beams and shadows to dance on my skin. My anger-headache wanes, and I take a short nap. An odd dream of a veiled woman chanting near my face stirs me from sleep.
It’s a little early in the spring to find them, but I come across a patch of wild strawberries. I pluck the pinkish-red fruits and load up my apron. When the sun barely creates a glowing crown over the Western Mountains, I head home.
On my way, I pass the location Brahm mentioned. It’s a bend in the creek where the water is deep enough to swim. The spot where my brother and his friends would congregate—with me tagging along. The spot where we swam. The spot where I broke my wrist. The spot where I collected crystals and stones.
The spot my brother forbade me from visiting. The spot where Brahm and I danced in the moonlight. The spot where Brahm carved our names into a tree.
I skip a flat stone across the water and march down the hill toward my house.
The scent of the baked fish wafts from the kitchen. I wash up, and it’s time to eat. Mama, Thora, and I sit at the worn kitchen table Papa handcrafted when he and Mama were newlyweds. Papa never makes it to dinner anymore. Probably at the tavern. He prefers to drink his meals and his sorrows alike.
I reach for the food, but Mama slaps my hand. We bow our heads in prayer. “Blessed goddess Bergot,” Mama says, “we thank you for this amazing spread in preparation for May Day tomorrow. Please continue to bless our family and keep Gisela from becoming an Offering, as Jonas and I have already lost one of our beautiful children. If you keep Gisela safe, we promise to offer you our praises every day. May your blessings flow into our lives like melted snow into the valley.”
“Blessed Day,” Thora and I mumble before digging in.
The fish, carrots, and spaetzle Mama and Thora made are excellent. I savor every bite, knowing if it hadn’t been for Brahm, we’d be eating just vegetables and spaetzle. Fish and meat aren’t something we can often afford.
After filling our bellies, I dump the strawberries onto the table, and we enjoy them for dessert. I grin at what Brahm said about Thora as I watch her devour a whole handful at once, greens and all.
Papa stumbles through the front door, smelling of ale and piss. Per usual. He says something incoherent and chuckles to himself. I should scold him for squandering the few coins I earn from our goats and chickens to buy alcohol, but who am I to judge? And, how long does a parent need to mourn the death of a child, no matter the age? He gives the three of us kisses on the head before snagging a handful of strawberries and retiring to bed.
After reading four or five fairy tales to Thora, I tuck her in under a patchwork quilt. She refused to take off the floral crown, so I let her sleep in it even though the blooms are wilting. I’m about to blow out the candle when Thora grabs my hand and squeezes tight.
“More, GiGi?”
I open the book to the most tattered pages and read our favorite story.
“...she called her only daughter to her bedside and said: “Dear child, be good and pious, and then the good goddess will always protect you, and I will look down on you from the sky and be near you...”
Thora chants with me each time Cinderella says, “The good in the pot, the bad in the crop.”
When I near the end of the tale, I leave out the part where the wicked stepsisters get their eyes pecked out by pigeons and close the book. Like Thora, I once believed in fairy tales, magic, handsome princes, and happily ever afters. That was before Wil died, and I had to abandon childish things.
Thora yawns, and I kiss her forehead. “Why’d Albert yell?” she asks as her eyes well with tears.
I tuck a piece of straw-colored hair behind her ear. “I don’t know, Thora. Not all people are good.”
“Brahm’s good. A prince.”
“Yes.” I pat her head and take a deep breath. He truly is the most decent man I know—certainly too good for me. “Get some sleep, Thora. Forget all about Lord Albert. Only dream of the Maypole, magic fairies, and handsome princes. I love you.”
“Love you, GiGi.”
I won’t be able to sleep without a little warmth in my veins. I suppose my fondness for alcohol also stems from Papa’s side of the family. Although, unlike him, I’m able to stay sober during daylight hours. Without bringing home extra money, it’s a habit I’ll have to quit. Not tonight, though. And I’m a lightweight anyway.
Not caring if I scratch my forearms and knees, I climb onto the thatched roof with a cheap bottle of wine. It’s bitter. I suppose I am, too. Just like Brahm said. I’ve had to be this way ever since Wilhelm’s death. I miss him dearly.
I take out my brother’s dagger and study the design. Wil was so proud of this. He and Papa carved and painted the wooden hilt. The hazel branch for Wil—protective and strong. The mountain for me—stubborn and proud. The edelweiss flower for Thora—innocent and sweet. I return my dagger to its sheath and take another pull of wine.
Stars twinkle between the clouds in the night sky as yellow-orange bonfires illuminate the Sanctuary in the distance. It’s a large temple cut into Bergot Mountain where the high priest lives. Rain or shine, tomorrow everyone in the entire valley will travel to the man-made cavern to behold this year’s Offerings.