When the man finally stopped talking, Caelia handed the lantern to Bane. He bent down, carefully set it in the river, and gave it a gentle push. It bobbled in the shallows until it caught in the main current.
A river of lanterns passed before Caelia. She watched until the last disappeared into the Forbidden Forest. Her eyes slipped closed.
Last week, Caelia had sat with her friend in the garden, the smell of rotten pumpkins lending a spice to the air as they took a break from harvesting potatoes. Caelia’s eyes were swollen and puffy from crying. She stroked the kitten in her lap as it purred fiercely.
“Do you really want to live in a place where you have to pretend it never happened?” Atara asked.
Caelia froze. She’d suspected that Atara had guessed, but she’d never dared ask.
Sighing, Atara sat beside her. “Those old gossips don’t like me either. I’m not demure enough for them. This is a small town with small people. We’re meant for more, Caelia.”
“They’ll never let me have more.”
“Then we’ll leave. Start fresh somewhere else. I have an aunt and uncle in Cordova. We could stay with them over the winter. Skate on the lake and flirt with pretty boys at the dances.”
“I’ll speak with my father.” But Caelia hadn’t worked up the courage. And now, the drum of her friend’s heart was silenced forever. If I could, I would avenge you, Atara. I would kill the beast.
A hand on her arm startled her. Papa’s gaze was concerned. Rimoth was already passing them by, Atara’s family directly behind him. Wiping the tears freezing her cheeks, Caelia hurried to slip into her place behind them, the townspeople following.
They passed the base of the hill that Caelia’s home was built upon, the town temporarily shifting out of sight on the other side. They passed Joy and Vyder’s home and the furrows of their fields. Until they came to the Forbidden Forest’s border, the trees black against the pockmarked sky.
Standing boldly before the rest was the Curse Tree, the thorns as big as Caelia’s smallest finger. “Nothing good comes from the Forbidden Forest” went the old saying. So the villagers paid Rimoth to write curses on ribbons and tie them to the branches. “May the forest take my daughter” when they really meant “pass over her in peace,” or “let my harvest be full of worms” when they really meant “let the harvest feed my family through the winter.”
Blessings from curses.
Caelia found her own curse—bright yellow ribbon that had faded to the color of rotten egg yolks. Her blessing had come exactly as she’d wanted. She hated herself for it.
They paused beside a large pile of branches gathered from the outer edges of the forest. Beside it was tethered the spring kid that Bane had tended through the summer. It nibbled at the sticks in the pile, oblivious to its coming death as much as Atara had been.
Her father took his place beside the druid. Rimoth took a torch from a man and pressed it into the nest of kindling at the base. It caught quickly, the fire devouring the small bits of pine needles and shredded bark. Startled, the kid bleated and backed away.
When the flame had started into the smaller branches, Rimoth turned his attention to the Forbidden Forest. “Beast of the forest, we offer sacrifice—a tender spring kid—in the hopes that you will pass over our daughters in peace.”
The kid didn’t struggle as Rimoth took hold of its neck and flank—it was used to being handled by Bane. Rimoth rolled the creature up on his knees and pinned it to the ground. Only then did the creature struggle, bleating pitifully. Rimoth held out his hand. His pale, silent daughter, Maisy, pressed the knife into it.
Bane buried his head in Caelia’s side. She pulled him close, pressing her forearm and body into his ears so he wouldn’t hear. Rimoth sawed across the creature’s throat. It struggled in vain, its mouth open and silent, as it could no longer draw breath with which to make sound. Maisy shoved a bowl under its neck, catching the blood as it gushed in ever weakening pumps.
It was over in seconds.
Rimoth poured a little wine into the blood to keep it from congealing. He held the bowl out to the forest and intoned some more. Caelia no longer listened, no longer watched. The night was full of death and blood. Maybe it always had been; she’d just never realized before.
The bonfire grew by leaps and bounds, the heat surging against her bare skin, leaving her hot in front and cold in back. Rimoth threw the blood onto the fire. The flames sputtered and smoked, the burned-meat smell acrid and choking. The flames rose as the moisture sizzled away.
Rimoth tied the kid to a branch of the curse tree by its back hooves. They would leave it there all night. And in the morning, he would return for the carcass—the meat serving his own home. Caelia watched the dead kid sway on the breeze.
Had the beast cut Atara’s throat? Had she tried to scream, but couldn’t because she could no longer draw breath? Had she still been alive when he’d begun to devour her?
A cup was pressed into Caelia’s hand. She gasped in a breath, coming around as if she’d been caught in a nightmare.
Her father peered into her eyes. “Drink, Caelia. It will make you feel better.” He gave another one to Bane, who wiped the tears from his face before his friends could see, his back to his dead goat. He drank it all at once and then darted away.
Caelia lifted the wine to her mouth. It tasted of bitter earth—terrible wine, but she swallowed anyway. She stayed safely a step behind her father as he spoke with city officials about ensuring no one went into the forest and brought the beast’s ire upon the town.
Shortly after, the musicians started. Atara had been grieved. The beast had been satisfied. Now, it was time to get drunk and forget.
There had been a time when the drums throbbed beneath Caelia’s skin, beating in time to her thundering heart, the light from the bonfire crimson behind her closed eyes. Sweat had beaded her skin and her feet had pounded out a rhythm. Her skirts flared then tightened around her legs like a second skin. She hadn’t cared about anything but the thrum, thrum, thrum pulsing through her until she was the drum. She had given into that call, dancing with Mal until the fire burned to embers.
Now, the beat that had lived within Caelia had gone silent and cold, leaving her with resounding, hollow silence. Silence so vast she threatened to crumble inward in an implosion of ash. She gulped the wine, wishing for the numbness to take away the pain, even if for only a moment.
Movement behind her. Bane stomped over to a log laid out around the perimeter and sat down with a huff. A spat with his friends? Or was this about the goat still? Bane knew better than to make a pet out of a wether. The wethers were always slaughtered.
She sat down next to him. “Aren’t you going to play with your friends?”
He glared at his food. “They’re not my friends.”
She went very still. “Why?”
He wouldn’t look at her. “Why did they call you a murderer?”
Humiliation and shame flushed hot through her. “I’m not.” Deny, deny, deny.
“Then why are they saying it?”
She pressed her fist to her lips, eyes tightly closed.
“I hit him,” Bane said softly.
She didn’t bother to ask which friend. It didn’t really matter. “It will only make it worse.”