The Siege of Shadows: Book one

Where the Wild Thing Are (4)

The town of Winlow was a patchwork of cobblestone streets, weathered timber buildings, and tightly woven superstitions. Despite its idyllic appearance, I quickly realized it was no haven for someone like me.

The first thing I realized about life in Winlow was that there was no such thing as privacy. Every action, every word, seemed to ripple through the village like a stone dropped in still water. People watched me everywhere I went, their eyes lingering too long, their murmurs slipping just out of earshot. It wasn't just my red hair—they'd been suspicious from the moment Ewan and Leith brought me in from the wilds, half-dead and clutching nothing but a sodden, tattered cloak.

The second thing I realized was that life here was slow, deliberate, and utterly foreign.

In the modern world, I had lived by the clock—classes, work shifts, appointments, all measured in sharp increments of time. Here, in Winlow, the only measure of time was the sun. Days began with the rooster's crow and ended with the dim glow of candles or the crackling of the hearth. The routines felt endless: sweeping floors, fetching water from the well, chopping wood, tending animals. There was no break, no time to reflect. Yet, reflection came unbidden, especially in the quiet moments when I found myself yearning for my old life—and for Nox.

My collie had been with me when I fell into the floodwaters, my loyal companion barking furiously as the current swept us both away. I remembered little after that, only flashes of darkness and the roar of the river. Ewan and Leith hadn't seen a dog when they found me, but I refused to believe he was gone. Nox had always been a survivor.

"I'll find you," I whispered every night before bed, my words barely audible over the crackle of the small fire in my room.

The villagers' superstitions were another hurdle entirely. Maeve had warned me about their fear of the fae, but I hadn't understood the depth of it until I lived among them. Any strange occurrence—milk curdling too quickly, a hen refusing to lay, a child falling ill—was immediately blamed on fae influence. And I, with my fiery hair and unfamiliar ways, was an easy scapegoat.

The Frostclaw Inn was cozy enough—sturdy walls, a roaring hearth, and a steady stream of patrons—but even here, I couldn't escape the whispers. Ewan and Leith had helped me get settled into a small room on the second floor, but their uneasy glances at my red hair lingered in my mind. The townsfolk weren't any better.

The first time I stepped into the town square, I noticed the stares. People paused mid-conversation, their eyes narrowing as they took in the fiery cascade of my hair. Mothers pulled their children close. Merchants hurried me through transactions without meeting my gaze. It didn't take long to realize I was unwelcome.

"Superstitious lot, they are," Maeve, had said one night as I swept the floors. "Red hair's bad luck to them. Mark of the Fae, they say. You'd do well to keep it covered."

The next morning, I had used a handful of coin earned from odd jobs to purchase a dark woolen cloak with a deep hood. It wasn't much, but it spared me the harshest of glares as I moved through the town. I kept my head down and my hands busy, working wherever I could—washing dishes, delivering parcels, even scrubbing floors—just enough to keep my room and a modest meal each day.

But I quickly learned that Winlow's beauty hid a lurking danger.

I learned to tread carefully, keeping my head down and my words measured. I avoided the baker who muttered prayers whenever I passed and gave the cobbler's wife a wide berth after she spat at my feet the day she walked by. It wasn't all bad, though. Maeve remained my staunch ally, defending me from whispered accusations, and old Marla the healer had taken to calling me "the stubborn one" with a hint of gruff affection.