Red's Untold Tale (16 page)

“You're my
friend
, Red,” he murmured into my hair. “I'd feel horrible if anything bad ever happened to you.”

Friends, yes. That's what we are.

I took a step away from him, and then another. I knew I should be happy and grateful to have a friend like Peter. I should be thrilled that the only reason he'd agreed to dance with Violet
at the ball was to find out which direction I'd run—because he wanted to protect me.

Yet, as we hugged on the road that afternoon, I felt something shift deep within my heart. It was blissfully wonderful and excruciatingly painful all at once. I knew with complete certainty that
I wanted Peter to be more than my friend.

I was falling in love with him.

Just before twilight, Granny and I darted about the cottage, lost in our own thoughts as we prepared for Wolfstime. When she pulled the portcullis over the fireplace, she
grunted as usual, but suddenly, her grunt turned into a shriek. I dropped the cups of cider on the table and ran to her.

Grasping her right arm, she said breathlessly, “I'm all right. I'm all right.”

“You are
not
all right, Granny,” I said as I helped her onto her favorite spot on the sofa. “You're in agony. And it's getting worse, isn't
it?” Now that I thought about it, when I'd come home from school that afternoon, she'd been in her bedroom instead of in the kitchen baking. As I put together other oddities, such
as there being only a few baked goods on the kitchen counter, packaged and ready for me to deliver in the morning, and Granny's quietness in general—which I'd admittedly found
refreshing, especially since I had so much weighing on my mind—I realized how selfish I'd been not to have noticed earlier. “Does it hurt too much to bake?”

“After tonight, there's only three more nights to go. And then plenty of time to recoup before the next Wolfstime.” Her quivering lips formed the slightest of smiles.

As I sopped up the spilled cider and topped off our cups with more, I hoped the smile on my face was more convincing. However, Granny had to make it through four more nights and three more days.
It would not be easy. “I wish there was something I could do,” I said.

She clicked her tongue. “Don't waste something as precious as a wish on something so silly. I'll survive. Always do. That is, unless I have to bake another damn muffin. I
swear, I have no inkling why people are suddenly so cuckoo over my muffins.”

“They're delicious, that's why.” I was glad to hear that giving out muffin samples was paying off.

“Well, I can't argue with that.” We sipped our ciders without speaking for quite a while. Finally, she sighed and said, “You should be getting to bed, child.”

I nodded and brought the cups back to the kitchen. I might not have been able to relieve Granny's pain, but perhaps I could bake something in the morning and help her keep on top of her
orders.

On the ground, small round rocks
glow in the moonlight, lanterns. I tear off through the forest, running faster than ever before. But somehow, the
path leads me in a circle, straight to the torches, swords, pitchforks, and spears.

I'm filled with overwhelming sadness, and I feel tears run down my chin. But when I wipe it, I am shocked and horrified to see that the wetness is not tears, but blood.

Wednesday, May 16

“No!”

I sat straight up, coughing. My heart pounded in my chest, and sweat coated my skin. As I blinked, the familiar shadows of my bedroom finally came into focus. It was still dark, so it
must've been the middle of the night, or perhaps very early in the morning. When I swallowed, I tasted blood.

Granny hurried into my bedroom, shouting, “What is it, child? Are you all right?” By the glow of her candle, I could make out the rag curlers in her gray hair and the look of alarm
in her eyes. But I didn't want her to know I was afraid, so I said, “I'm fine, Granny. It was just a silly nightmare. I must have bitten my tongue.”

She slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose. After using her candle to enkindle my bedside light, she held it by my face. “Yes, it appears you did. Does it hurt?”

“No, it's
fine
, Granny. Everything is fine,” I said, before taking a swig of water to rinse out the salty, coppery taste in my mouth.

She took her handkerchief out of her robe pocket and gently dabbed off the blood from my lips. Next she placed the back of her hand on my forehead. “You feel warm.”

“That's because you make me wear this ridiculous tent of a nightgown.” Of course, I wasn't going to admit that the real reason I was wearing a gown was in case Peter
happened to come by the cottage to check on me again. “I have no choice but to sweat all night long,” I said, wriggling out of her reach.

“Perspire,” she corrected me, and I scrunched my nose.

“Fine, whatever. Perspire. But I'm perspiring like a pig.”

“It's my job to raise you to be proper, and proper young ladies sleep in nightdresses. You should be grateful that yours are so pretty and fit well. Not every girl is as
fortunate.” Granny folded her handkerchief over and patted it along my hairline. “That must have been some dream,” she said. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It was just a normal dream, I'm sure—the kind everybody has. Don't worry about it, Granny. Go back to bed. I mean, go back to sofa.”

“All right.” She stuffed the handkerchief into her pocket. “Well, you know where I'll be if you need me.” On her way out, Granny shook the shutters to make sure my
window was still locked. Though they were tightly closed, moonlight crept through the slats.

I lay awake listening to the grandfather clock's
ticktocks
and trying to clear my mind. Although I closed my eyes and started counting sheep, I couldn't stop mulling over my
feelings for Peter and my fear that they were unrequited. I couldn't stop distressing about Granny and her baking business and her aching arm. But most of all, I was too afraid of having
another Wolfstime nightmare to nod off. Maybe some warm milk would help, like Granny had given me when I was a little girl. Only now, I didn't want to confess to her that I was afraid, so I
waited for the sign—her snoring—to know it was safe.

I hopped out of bed and padded through the dark, barricaded cottage, pausing briefly at the living room where Granny lounged on Wolfstime nights. In the rippling glow of candles, I watched her
sleep, her glasses crooked on the bridge of her nose and her mouth gaping open. Despite the deadly weapon in her hands and the thunderous wheezes coming out of her every few seconds, she appeared
so peaceful.

Ever so quietly, I continued on into the kitchen and heated a cup of milk. Perched on the stool, I sipped it slowly, listening to the alternating sounds of the grandfather clock's
ticktocks
and Granny's snores for what seemed like forever. My gaze eventually landed on the bundles of goodies on the counter. If I wanted to help fill my delivery basket, now was
as good a time as any.

Taking Granny's cookbook off the shelf, I started flipping through its pages. And, to my delight, the cookies called for just four ingredients: butter, sugar, flour, and vanilla—all
of which Granny had at the ready. Not even
I
could mess up something so simple! After the catastrophe of Peter's birthday cake, I wanted to prove that I really could put any troll,
ogre, or princess to shame in the kitchen.

While Granny slept, I tied her apron over my nightgown and went to work as quietly as possible. I had a wonderful feeling that my shortbread cookies would turn out every bit as mouthwatering as
hers. Confidence gushed through my veins as I mixed, rolled, and shaped. And, as the first batch baked, its wonderful aroma brought me back to when the neighbor children and I sat by the fireplace,
munching on the sugary cookies and listening to Granny read from the storybook.

June, eight years ago

The buttery, sweet smell of cookies wafted through the cottage, and I curled my toes in my stockings as I begged Granny to read another story. The neighborhood children had already come and
gone, but as always, I hadn't had enough.

The flames in the fireplace danced as she flipped the pages, finding the story that came after the one she'd read yesterday about the emperor who walked through the town in his
undergarments.

“Long, long ago, deep in the Enchanted Forest, there was an exquisite castle, and in it lived King and Queen Nostos.”

“Did they have a baby?” I asked. “Was there a prince or a princess?”

Granny peered at me over her glasses. “No, they didn't have a baby, at least none that I know of.”

I hid my frown behind a bite of shortbread.

“Every morning before breakfast, the king enjoyed strolling to a nearby spring. He told his wife he liked to listen to the nightingales sing as he washed his hands and face in the clear,
cool water. On his birthday, the queen decided to surprise him with a picnic prepared by the royal cook; however, when she arrived at the spring, she discovered something most unsettling.

“The king sat on the shore, where he listened not to birds, but to a fair washerwoman singing as she worked. She had a lovely voice and long, pale-blond hair, and once she filled her
basket with cleaned linens, she shed her clothes down to her petticoat and jumped into the clear, cool water.

“The king was so entranced by the woman's beauty that he never noticed the queen's presence. The queen suspected that her husband loved the washerwoman more than she, and she
feared losing the power and luxuries that her position entitled her. In a jealous rage, the queen went to an evil sorceress, seeking a curse.

“The next morning, after the washerwoman indulged in her swim, the curse befell her. She could not emerge from the spring. She could not breathe in air, only water.”

“Like a fish?” I asked.

“Yes. The temptress was forced to stay in the spring forevermore.” Granny let me look at the picture of the beautiful maiden sinking into the spring, surrounded by her long, flowing
hair and little bubbles as she reached upward with both arms. She looked so sad, and I wondered if people could actually cry underwater. “The story doesn't end there,” Granny
said, eventually turning the page.