King of the Woodlands

Chapter 31

"Little mouse scurrying about my cottage. Oh, how I remember when I still had my sight, when I could see you little mischief-makers wearing blue dresses and white aprons, huddling near my fire and stirring bowls of black currant jam. I remember you."

Lilibeth froze, her hand shaking and drenched with sweat. The Beggar was blind—but that didn't mean anything. Her other senses were heightened, and she could still catch Lilibeth trying to steal and flee.

"I remember tossing you and your family into a wooden bowl and making mouse stew for dinner," the Beggar cooed.

Lilibeth steamed at the ears. How dare someone do that to a poor mouse?

The Beggar of Yore rose from her rocking chair, and the creaking sound it made was the most horrifying thing Lilibeth had ever heard.

Her caved-in nose flared once, twice, three times.

Without thinking, Lilibeth whirled, desperately searching for any windows. There were none.

She was left with no other choice.

Door. Get to the door—

"You're back, luch beagh." Little mouse. "And you are vermin that must be washed out. Perhaps I'll have you for dinner again tonight. Mouse stew is always so delicious."

Terror seized Lilibeth with its tainted hands. Her heart was a castle under siege, defiant and yet utterly terrified.

"My treasures," the Beggar hissed. "Never had anything for myself. No summer twilights after rain, no garden fragrances or old books or cups of hot chocolate. Never anything for me."

Think, Lilibeth!

Everyone had their weakness. Some people took a deep breath before landing a blow. Others squared their shoulders or circled like stalking cats. And in this case, the Beggar's weakness was her inability to see.

Lilibeth just had to stay silent. The ring fit around the Beggar's finger perfectly, but it was big enough to slide off without her noticing.

Lilibeth watched for another heartbeat or so, her gaze sliding from the endless black pits of the Beggar's eyes to the ring that sat on her finger.

Now.

The girl lunged, her free hand whipping out and snatching the ring.

And then fire erupted.

A fresh scream ripped free from the Beggar's throat, a scream so piercing Lilibeth thought her head might break easily as a flower vase. She coughed, nearly choking on the horribly strong smell of sage.

Lilibeth tucked the ring and mirror into the pockets of her white chemise, dashing for the door, kicking and kicking and—

"THIEF! GIVE THEM BACK! THIEF!"

The Beggar spun around and around, grey birch-tree arms extended, feeling for something, anything. Her nostrils flared at the slightest smell, her pointed ears perked up.

"The stars are my eyes and the winds are my hands, little mouse," the Beggar said, her voice so eerily calm compared to her shrieks from earlier. "I do hope you're a plump one."

No, no, no—

"You cannot hide in your mouse-hole now!"

Lilibeth kicked harder, so hard she thought her toenails might be bleeding.

The Beggar turned in her direction, sniffing with those black nostrils, and instantly Lilibeth knew how very wrong she'd been to make so much noise.

"Found you," the Beggar hissed, and she launched forward, her raggedy old cloak flying out behind her like streamers.

Lilibeth roared, kicking out at the Beggar's face as she drew nearer. The old woman stumbled backward, screeching like a banshee. Lilibeth, seizing the advantage, banged at the door with her fists, pounding with all her might, tears welling in her eyes.

It wouldn't budge.

Clever—she had to be clever. Like a fox in one of Mother's stories, a fox smart enough to escape the might of the hunter's knife.

Lilibeth reached for a bundle of basil and hurled it at the Beggar of Yore's hideous face as hard as she could.

Oh, but she didn't stop there. She threw whatever she could—spools of yarn, ticking clocks, a dreary-looking painting. And finally, when there were no more objects left to throw, Lilibeth reached for the brass letter knife.

And threw it hard.

Black blood sprayed, and the Beggar let out a horrible screech that made Lilibeth's blood bubble and boil.

Lilibeth left the knife embedded in the Beggar's skin and turned back to the door, refusing to replay that moment inside her head. She would confront it later. But for now, she didn't have time for fear, for the horror of what she'd just did.

She continued to pound and kick at the door, rallying all the strength she had left in her.

Lilibeth had made the journey to the Woodland King's cave, past a court of dwarves and a meadow of faeries. She had survived the impossible—and had come back a mighty girl.

She was strong.

She slammed a hand against the dark wooden door, as hard as she could. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she ignored them.

And then the door collapsed, debris and dust billowing from the ruined hinges.

Lilibeth buried the mirror deeper in her pocket and ran as fast as she could.

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

She didn't stop running, even though her lungs burned. The rain was worse now, the sky torn open by bright slashes of lightning. The wind nipped at Lilibeth's skin, pulling at her hair, and freezing rain dripped from her sleeves.

"Don't leave me!" The Beggar howled. "DON'T LEAVE ME!"

Behind her, the Beggar's cottage rattled like a candy box, rocked back and forth by the storm winds like two greedy children tugging at a piece of frosted oatcake. Flames lapped at the sides, their orange tongues dancing over the walls, swallowing up stone and brittle wood. The Beggar's screams chased her, although they grew distant and weak.

Lilibeth gagged. She wanted to stop. It hurt too much—not just the running, but everything. She knew her body's limits and knew that she couldn't take much more, knew that she had no more to give. The soft pitter-patter of rain, like delicate drums, trickled down her cheeks.

Run, Lilibeth. Lightning split the sky in two. Lilibeth felt wetness on her cheeks, but it wasn't rain. She was crying.

Part of her wanted the rain to stop, wanted everything to stop. But another part of her wanted a tempest, a storm so mighty it could break waves and shatter shores. She wanted to bare her teeth and call that storm. She wanted a crown on her head. She wanted freedom.

This—this was what she wanted, she realized as she hurtled over the twigs and damp leaves strewn across the cobblestones, her breathing coming in ragged gasps, tears slithering from the corners of her eyes. She'd found her passion, something she wanted so badly it hurt. And she would feed that want with hard work until it flowered and its vines wrapped around her veins.

She would hold onto it, and never let it burn.

This was who she was, a contrary, sour girl. But she'd finally learned to accept it. And now, she could only move on with an open heart and a spirit full of determination.

Lilibeth Ciar Faren would live to see the next dawn, and then the next. She would live to see a kingdom rebuilt beneath her fingertips.