Elena Rousseau had been my closest friend since we were old enough to run through the pasture on the western edge of town, clutching our rag dolls. She was the sweetest girl in the village, but also the shyest and most timid, and as badly as I really did want to congratulate her, I also wanted to seize a quiet moment in which to assure her—again—that Simon would make her a wonderful husband. He was a good man. One of the few, like Grainger, who was not suspicious of my red hair or prone to spreading baseless rumors about my family.
He would care for her and about her. Other than Grainger, a better man could not be found in the village of Oakvale.
“That’ll have to wait until tonight.” My mother sprinkled more flour onto her dough, to keep it from sticking to her hands, and Sofia mimicked her technique at the smaller table. “I’ve wrapped some raisin bread and a rye loaf for your grandmother.” She pointed with one flour-coated hand at two cloth-wrapped bundles on the mantle. “Go straight there, and don’t veer from the path.”
The path. In the woods.
My heart pounded. “You want me to go to Gran’s by myself?”
“I think you’re ready, Adele.” The tension in her bearing belied the calm smile she gave me.
“I want to go!” Sofia dropped her dough on the table with a soft thud. “I’m ready too!”
My mother looked up sharply. “No.”
“But I’m not afraid!”
That was true. Nothing scared my little sister, probably because she’d been an infant when our father died. She had no memory of him. She hadn’t seen him carried out of the forest by the village watch, his left arm and leg shredded by the wolf that had attacked him. She was spared the brutal mercy my mother and I witnessed, a trauma that had impressed upon me at an early age that the threat of the dark wood extended well beyond its border.
Making it out of the forest was not enough; one had to make it out unscathed, or the villagers of Oakvale—our neighbors—would finish the job, for the good of the entire community.
In the eight years since our father’s death, Oakvale had lost only a handful of villagers to the dark wood—all careless souls who’d veered from the path—which had left Sofia with no clear understanding of how dangerous the forest was. What she knew was that Gran lived in the dark wood and that our mother survived a trek through the forest every month to take her a basketful of baked goods, help with any necessary repairs to her cabin, and catch her up on news from the village. She knew that I’d recently started going with our mother, and that Gran would feed us, then send us home with enough fresh game to get us through the month.
Yes, she also knew about the vines, and the voices, and the eerie footsteps in the dark, as did everyone else in the village. But those terrors seemed to fascinate her, rather than spook her, which frightened my mother endlessly on her behalf.
That frightened me too, because I understood her fascination with the woods, and I worried that she felt drawn toward the forest just like I did. That some day, she might answer that call.
“You’re too young,” I told Sofia. “And, Mama, you’ll need my help with the tart.” The Laurents’ order would be difficult to fill even with both of us working.
“I can make the tart!” Sofia pounded one small fist into the scrap of dough intended to keep her busy.
“You can help me prepare the apples,” my mother conceded. “But not until you’ve finished your meat pie.”
Sofia’s green eyes lit up, and she pushed a lock of copper-colored hair over her shoulder as she turned back to her task.
“Surely Gran’s delivery can wait until tomorrow.” I removed the smoked pork from my basket and set it on the shelf above the brick oven. “She’ll understand, once she hears about Elena’s engagement.”
“Tonight’s the full moon, Adele.” The day we were expected every month. “If neither of us arrives, your grandmother will think something’s wrong. I can handle the orders.” The tone of her voice suggested that I would not win this argument. “You’ll see Elena tonight. Go deliver Gran’s bread and make sure she feeds you something warm before you head back. It’s a long walk.”
It certainly felt like a long walk, anyway. Even with my mother at my side, I usually had to remind myself to breathe, and now . . .
“There’s a lantern hanging out back.” My mother wiped her hands on her apron as I packed my grandmother’s baked goods into my basket and draped a fresh cloth over the whole thing. The raisin bread was still warm, and it smelled delicious. “Adele.” She took me by both shoulders, and the concern swimming in her eyes fed my self-doubt. “Be careful. Stay on the path and don’t stop until you get to the cottage.”
“I know.”
“The lantern will keep you safe.”
“I know, Mama.” Monsters hated light, and they feared fire.
I reached for my threadbare brown cloak, but before I could lift it from its hook, my mother shook her head.
“You’ll need something thicker than that.” She motioned for me to follow as she pushed past the curtain into our private room at the back of the bakery, where she knelt to open the trunk at the end of her low straw mattress, opposite the one Sofia and I shared. “This will keep you much warmer.” She stood, shaking out a lovely red wool cloak.
That crimson fabric had been folded up in my mother’s trunk for as long as I could remember. When I was a child, I would run my hands over it any chance I got, before she shooed me away and closed the lid. Yet in all those years, I’d never seen her take it out of the trunk. In fact, I’d had no idea it was a cloak until that very moment.
I frowned at the beautiful garment. “Aren’t you saving this for something special?” Why else would she have had it all this time? The cut was simple and functional, and the material would be warm without adding too much weight. But the color was extravagant—a deep red hue she’d once said was made from berries grown in the forest.
“It isn’t mine, Adele. It’s yours. Your grandmother made it the year you were born, and I think you’ve finally grown into it.” She turned me by my arm and draped the cloak over my shoulders.
For a moment, my surprise was enough to overwhelm the nervous buzzing beneath my skin at the thought of stepping into the woods by myself. Of facing a darkness that daylight could not penetrate.
Because the cloak fit perfectly. The rich fabric fell to my ankles, draping over both of my arms, as well as the basket. And it was warm. Almost too warm to wear inside, with the heat leaking beneath the curtain from the oven in the main room.
“I can’t believe how quickly these last sixteen winters have gone. You were born on a day very much like this one. Cold and clear.” She turned me to face her again, and there was something odd in her eyes. Something both assessing and nostalgic beneath the warmth of her gaze, as if I somehow seemed different to her today. “You came into the world just hours before the full moon rose.”
She tied the cord loosely at my neck, to keep the cloak from slipping off, then she lifted the hood to settle it over my head, framing my face. “Beautiful,” she declared as she stepped back to look me over.
“Gran really made this for me? Why didn’t either of you ever tell me?”