Forsaken by the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, Red must brave the magic and monsters of the Wylds to find her true place in the world.
*****
Plague...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I felt too nauseous to eat, and there was only one other person in the village who deserved fresh meat and the rare, snow-white pelt of a frost rabbit.
The Lore-Keeper's hut was on the outskirts of the village, to prevent the stench of his tannery from wafting into communal spaces. I supposed I was lucky I'd always had an abysmal sense of smell; I didn't notice the rancid fat and rotten meat until I was rapping on Brollo's door.
He shouted something indistinct, so I pushed my way inside, heading straight for the workbench. Brollo was always hunched over the table, scraping hair off a pelt or putting quill to paperbark. Right now he was pushing holes through a small piece of leather, using a wickedly sharp needle that scraped the calloused pad of his thumb.
"Where's your thimble?" I asked, looking around for it.
"Don't need it," he grunted. The scar tissue on the right side of his face looked especially hard and shiny tonight, thanks to the ruddy light of the hearth.
"Last week that needle went through your palm," I pointed out, rummaging through the mess of papers on his bench. Perhaps it had slipped and he'd given up on looking for it.
"I'm not an invalid," Brollo snapped. "Sit down or piss off."
I sighed, giving up on the search. It was hard not to step into a caregiving role; I wasn't sure if I had an instinct for kindness or if I was motivated by something darker, the illusion of superior health, or perhaps even control. Brollo was only forty-four, but the expeditions of his youth had ravaged his body, leaving him with the twisted leg and missing eye of a much older man. If only he'd grown out of his stubborn pride, too.
It had gotten worse when his wife left him.
"I'm going to pour myself some tea. Would you like one too?" I asked, glancing at him sidelong.
"Fine. If you're already there."
The spit rattled as I hauled the cast-iron kettle off the cooking fire, feeling faint from the strain. My arms gave out just before it hit the table, making everything shake and water slosh out of the spout. Brollo arched a bushy brow but otherwise ignored my struggle, opting instead to slide the cup he was already using across the bench.
"You know where the clean ones are," he said.
I grabbed one from the cupboard behind the fire, wishing there was something I could rinse it out with. Clean was perhaps too strong a word to describe the inside of it, but my chances of surviving were already slim and I appreciated his company more than peace of mind, so I poured the tea straight in.
Sticking my nose in the cup, I breathed in the steam. Something floral and fragrant, though I couldn't quite discern what; a pitiful excuse for a lycan, indeed.
A tentative sip revealed notes of lavender and chamomile, a soothing blend for a restless mind. "Thank you," I said, knowing full-well that Brollo hated lavender. He must have been expecting me.
