Red's Untold Tale (2 page)

“Peter's no fool,” I argued, pushing up my chin. “You might grow to like him, if you'd only give him a chance.” When I just started going to school, she
allowed Peter to walk me home. Then, around the time I turned thirteen, she said I was safer walking through the woods alone than with the likes of Peter. I honestly didn't know what
I'd said or done—or what he had said or done—to turn Granny against him. In her mind, the blacksmith's son was only after one thing, and she insisted he would not be getting
that from her granddaughter—not if she and her trusty crossbow had anything to say about it. Granny tilted the cup to her lips and glugged half of it down.

“He's really nice,” I tried again. “Smart, too. Maybe we can invite him over for supper someti—”

She sputtered and slammed her cup down on the counter. “If that boy sets foot in this house, I'll put an arrow right through him.” As I squeezed in to fill her cup to the rim,
my eyes flickered to her crossbow, which was conveniently—and ominously—propped against the back door. “And I won't aim for his heart, if you follow my drift. Maybe if
I'd shot the boys who came to call on your mother…”

This time, I bit my lip too hard—and when I swallowed, I tasted a little blood. It was no secret Granny wished her only daughter's life had turned out differently. I knew Granny
loved me and was happy I had been born. Still, it wasn't like she'd chosen to raise me.

It didn't have to be this way forever, though.
Someday,
I'm going to leave this stupid village. I'll be adventurous, like my
mother was.
I'd
been saving my delivery tips in a secret wooden box, waiting for the perfect time to make my grand escape. Was a happy ending too much to wish for?

As I daydreamed about all the places I'd go and people I'd meet, I absently swiped my finger around the rim of the bowl and tasted the frosting. My taste buds all but exploded, and
not in a good way.
Blech.
I tried not to gag as I pondered what I'd done wrong. Had I added a tablespoon of salt when I was supposed to use a teaspoon? It looked terrible, too, I
realized with mounting panic. It was the color of a witch's teeth and as lumpy as porridge. How in the world did Granny make her frosting so smooth and fluffy, and as white as freshly fallen
snow?

With a heavy sigh, I plunked the knife on the countertop. I was clearly failing on my own, but asking Granny to help me make Peter's birthday cake—especially when she was already so
busy and had gotten a late start on her day—would only make her more cantankerous. Whether I liked it or not, I needed Granny's permission to go to Peter's party. So I took a deep
breath and relaxed my face into what I hoped was a pleasant expression.
Stay on
Granny's good side, Red.

Although, now that I thought about it, had I ever been on Granny's good side? I wasn't even sure she
had
a good side.

While Granny started whipping up breakfast, I rolled up my sleeves and scrubbed the dishes harder than necessary, trying to drown out Granny's voice as she scolded me for splattering
batter on the cookbook. Like a cat about to pounce on a mouse, she paced alongside my disaster of a cake. Regrettably, the lumpy frosting did not disguise its deformities, not even a teensy bit. It
actually made it look worse.

Still, did Granny think I was blind? Plain as day, it was the most pitiful excuse for a cake in the land.
So
why isn't she saying anything?
My nerves were frazzled, and
when I got down to my last one, I knew my plan to butter Granny up would have to wait.

“Well, Granny?” I untied the apron from my waist and slapped it onto the countertop next to the cake. “Aren't you going to tell me what a disgrace I am to the Lucas
family? I'm all ears.” I went back to drying dishes and continued, “Or maybe something like ‘If I hadn't delivered you with my own two hands, I would've sworn
you were born of trolls'?” Everyone knew that trolls were worse cooks than ogres—or even royal princesses, for that matter.

“I'm certain it will taste fine,” Granny said.

The bowl I'd been drying made a terrible racket when I dropped it into the sink. “Granny, are you feeling all right? You just said something
nice
.”

“It's not the first time. You just refuse to hear, or choose to forget.” A shadow fell over the cottage and, seconds later, rain began to fall. “Come to the table, child.
Breakfast is ready.”

Before sitting, I filled Granny's cup with another serving of steaming coffee. “How many deliveries do I have today?” I asked.

“Eleven.”

I nodded, relieved. Normally there were about twenty. It wouldn't take very long to bring Granny's baked goods to eleven customers, which was good news because I needed to bake a
whole new cake. But Granny was quick to crush my joy. “Between stops, you'll peddle the extra goodies I baked last night. I need to find a way to bring in more money, and after thinking
about it long and hard, this is the best way I see how, apart from becoming bandits.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They're the sorts of people who plan some kind of distraction so a carriage that is passing through must stop. Then the bandits pounce, stealing everything they can get their hands
on.”

I shook my head. “I know what a bandit is. But you want me to knock on random people's doors?” I couldn't think of anything more humiliating than begging strangers to buy
a crumpet. Clutching my fork tightly, I stuffed a large piece of flapjack into my mouth. “If I'm always making deliveries and having to sell goods door-to-door,” I continued
between chews, “when will I find time to study my lessons, or go to the swimming hole, or spend time with my friends?” As I spluttered the bit about friends, a lump of chewed-up
flapjack lodged in my throat.

My coughing caught Granny's attention, and she raised her eyebrows in alarm. “Gracious, child!” She flung her fork across the floor and sprung up like a snake had bitten her
bottom. Her chair toppled over as she chopped my back with the side of her hand, one strike for each word: “There's. A. Reason. You're. Not. Supposed. To. Talk. With. Your. Mouth.
Full!”

“I'm
fine
, Granny,” I said as best I could with a madwoman beating my back. “Stop it! I just need a swig of milk, that's all.”

When I finally convinced her I wasn't choking to death, she righted her chair and sat down quietly, strands of hair falling loose from her bun. From her flashing green eyes, I could tell
she remained on high alert. She'd already lost her only daughter, and I had a feeling that to keep me safe from harm, she'd fight anyone—or anything—to the death. Even
inanimate objects like flapjacks.

Granny wasted little time before looping back to the topic of my dreaded new duty. Of all the grandmas in the world, I was stuck with one whose memory was as sharp as a dragon's claw.
“Yes, you'll go door-to-door hawking baked goods. Might not sound appealing, but you'll live.”

Before I could hold my tongue, I muttered, “Ugh. Sounds even more miserable than being cooped up in the cottage with you.”

“No use complaining,” Granny said. “It must be done.”

“But, why? I know I complained that all the other girls had new springtime frocks and boots, but honestly, I'll get by just fine with what I have.”

Granny rolled the hem of her apron with her calloused fingers. Three flapjacks were stacked on her tin plate, drizzled with maple syrup and dolloped with creamy butter. She hadn't taken a
bite, not even a nibble—which was quite a feat, considering that as far as I was concerned, her flapjacks were the fluffiest in the land.

I listened to myself chewing, and it made me ponder if people chitchatted at meals so they didn't have to hear each other sipping, slurping, and smacking. “Are you going to eat
those?” I asked when the silence grew uncomfortable. “Because if not, I'll be happy to finish them up for you.”

Without a word, she slid her plate across the table. I hacked off a big bite with my fork. While I chewed, Granny went back to picking at the fabric of her apron. Oh, no. Granny never
surrendered her flapjacks.
What
have I said to upset her this much?
“All right, all right. I'll try my best to get some new regulars today,” I said once
I'd swallowed. “Don't worry, Granny. Your treats sell themselves.”

While I cleared the table, Granny started wrapping the baked goods for delivery. If I could sell everything in my basket, maybe it would please her so much she might even consider letting me go
to Peter's party. What good was having any hope at all if I didn't reach for the moon?

Basket in hand and riding hood
draped over my head and shoulders, I took off for the village. The rain had tapered down to a mere mist. I loved the sweet,
earthy smell of the forest after a good rain shower, and I took a moment to fill my lungs with the dewy air.

I walked backwards, watching our cottage steadily shrink into the distance. My grandmother's six brothers had built the house long ago, back when they were young men—before the wolf
had attacked them and slashed their throats as she'd watched helplessly from the roof.

I hoped beyond hope that I'd never, ever witness anything as frightful as a bloodthirsty monster killing people I loved. Tears pricked my eyes as I thought about that tragic night, so I
quickly pushed the thought aside; instead I pictured the cottage at its finest, before the log walls needed oiling and the thatched, steeply sloped roof needed patching. Before the oak tree had
grown tall and strong enough to support the rope swing I'd spent countless hours on.

I imagined my mother had grown up swinging on that very rope, too. There was a time when the window boxes burst with flowers of every shape and color—but it had been years since Granny had
planted new ones, or trimmed back the ferns that covered the stone path leading to the front door, or the one out back that meandered to the stream. It had been years since the village children
gathered by the fireplace while Granny read storybooks and baked more shortbread cookies than our little bellies could hold. These memories consumed me as I turned my back on the cottage and
plodded down the muddy road into the village.

Perhaps the door-to-door selling wouldn't be so bad after all. I took a deep breath and rapped on the door of a rickety little house of the far west side of town. While I waited, my
heartbeat hastened. I ran my fingertips along the gold cross that dangled from my neck.

A burly, shirtless man stood in the doorway, looking as if he'd been sleeping, and smelling as if he hadn't bathed since last Wolfstime.

“Whatdayawant, girl?” he slurred.

“Have you ever heard of Granny's Baked Goods?” I asked, hoping to sound much more enthusiastic than I felt. I didn't even give him a chance to respond. “Well, if
you haven't, you've been missing out.”

“What? What're you yakking about, girl?”

I tittered nervously. “Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Red.” I held my hand out and he shook it limply in his sweaty grasp. “I've come by your lovely home to see
if you'd like any of my grandmother's delicious baked goods. They're all made fresh, using only the finest ingredients.”

“Red? What kind of name is that?”

“It's a nickname.”

“But you're not a redhead.”

“I know. They call me ‘Red' because…Never mind. Look, I have some delicious croissants here—” I waved my hand over the basket like I'd seen the street
magicians do at market.

The man pulled a face. All right, so croissants weren't his favorite. “—as well as a variety of cookies and muffins,” I continued brightly. “You look like a muffin
man to me.”

“Well, I might…”

“Fantastic! For today's special bargain price, you can have your choice of bran or blueber—”

“How 'bout I try one first, to make sure it's edible and all?”

I sighed. “I'm afraid I don't have enough for sampling. However, I know you'll love Granny's muffins. My grandmother has never, ever baked anything less than
perfection. It's her special talent.”

He raised an enormous eyebrow. I could tell he was tempted, and I held my breath in hopeful anticipation…

“No.” He started to close the door, but I held it ajar with my foot.

“No?”

“No.”

“All right, then,” I said, my heart sinking. “Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”

“No.”

I winced as the door slammed shut in my face. “How about next week?” I said to no one but a little brown spider crawling on the armrest of the rocking chair.

Two hours later, I'd made a total of ten regular deliveries, and though I'd knocked on countless doors hoping to sell Granny's extras, I had nothing to show for it. Discouraged
and more than a little annoyed at having wasted so much time, I climbed the steps leading to Seamstress Evans's house, the eleventh and final delivery of the day.