Red's Untold Tale (22 page)

Her words hit me like a slap in the face, and I flinched. “Then it's a good thing I'm leaving this stupid little village,” I managed to say. “That way, you
won't have to worry about me acting like a hussy, or any other vile story someone makes up about me. You won't have to worry about me soiling your reputation. Oh, don't worry
about me, Granny. I'll get along just fine without you. What, did you think I'd be your delivery girl all my life?”

“If you keep on this path, the only job you'll be suited for is a tavern girl. Until then, you should do some hard time, thinking about what kind of woman you intend to
be.”

Thankfully, I was able to grab my basket, run to my room, and slam the door before the tears spilled down my cheeks. “I can't wait to be done with this stupid village once and for
all,” I shouted as I took the wooden box out of the basket. The box felt as empty as I did. I threw it onto my bed and paced the length of my room. How could I leave, now that I'd given
every last halfpenny to the wizard?

How can Granny believe I am nothing more than a harlot?

And how
dare
Violet and her friends come here and put all sorts of disgusting ideas into my grandmother's head! I had finally felt like I'd won a battle against Violet,
since she saw Peter and me skipping school together, but then she had to go and bring me flowers. Once again, I was in the loser's circle.

Priscilla might have had a point so long ago in the school yard—that the best vengeance is forever being the bigger person—but after everything Violet had done to me, how much longer
could I refrain from setting her flowing ebony curls on fire?

Speaking of fire, my blood was boiling and my room stifling. I desperately needed to get some fresh air. I heard Granny banging around in the kitchen, so I made a beeline for the front door. The
tree swing beckoned me, like it had hundreds of times when I was younger. Gripping the ropes with all of my might, I swayed back and forth like a pendulum, higher and higher, desperately trying to
dry my tears and clear my head.

I pointed my toes, closed my eyes, and held back my head, letting the wind sweep my face and tousle my hair. The sensation brought me back to my Wolfstime dreams. In my mind's eye, I saw
the full moon—and in my heart, I felt its power.

Footsteps fell fast and heavy on the path.
Someone is coming
. Though I wanted to stay tucked away in my daydream, I began nudging myself into alertness.

For some reason—and perhaps nothing more than stupid optimism—my heart swelled with the hope that Peter had come to smooth everything out between us. If I looked over my shoulder to
find him behind me, his beautiful eyes full of remorse and his muscular arms outstretched, surely I would tell him the truth—that I was the very criminal he most detested, a common thief.
I'd tell him that I wanted to be a better person, and though I didn't know how, I would someday pay my debts back, and make everything right again.

When I saw the incorrigible Hershel Worthington making his way toward our cottage, I felt like I'd opened up my mouth for a fine custard only to have been fed a rotten egg.

“So we meet again, missy,” the tax man said. “It appears you're having a lovely time on that swing.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” I said, dragging my feet in the dirt to break my momentum.

“Is your grandmother home?”

“She's inside, probably building a cage,” I mumbled. Mr. Worthington raised his bushy eyebrows questioningly, but then Granny grabbed his attention.

“I'm right over here, if you could see past that outlandish feather in your cap,” she snapped. She stood on the front porch with her hands on her hips. She was so near, and yet
I felt as if we weren't even in the same land.

“Ah, Widow Lucas,” he said as his enormous black boots clunked up the steps. “I trust you were expecting me. May I come in?”

“If you must.” She shooed him into the house and slammed the door shut.

Wanting to hear their conversation, I jumped off the swing and jogged around the house to the back door. I slipped into the cottage, where I expected to see Granny handing off the
money—counted down to the last halfpenny—and unceremoniously booting the tax man out. On the contrary, Granny stood silently quaking in his menacing shadow. I tucked myself behind the
grandfather clock, where I could spy on them without being spotted.

“It's all here,” the tax man said, trying to hand her an official-looking scroll. However, she only stared with glazed eyes, so he placed it on the table. “You have no
choice but to relinquish your cottage. You and your granddaughter have three days in order to pack your personal possessions and seek alternate residence. Our benevolent ruler apologizes for the
inconvenience, and sends from the royal castle his best wishes for a prosperous season.” He gave her a little bow, scooping his hat in the air.

What just happened?
Relinquish our cottage? Three days to seek alternate residence?

My mouth fell open, and I backed into the wall to steady myself. How could he do that to us? It made no sense. Granny had said there was nothing to worry about. He'd given her an
extension. At no point had she mentioned even the teensiest possibility of
losing
the cottage.

Once Mr. Worthington said, “Good day, Widow Lucas,” and slammed the front door, I stepped out from behind the clock.

Granny heaved a sigh that could have snuffed out a dozen candles. She rubbed her palms together, and without looking up at me, said, “Well, that nasty business is taken care of. I'm
happy to say Hershel Worthington granted us three more days to come up with the money. Nice man, really. Very agreeable. Just doing his job. And now, I'd best do mine.” Then she stalked
into the kitchen.

I couldn't believe it! Surely Granny hadn't outright lied to me. Why would she say the tax man gave her three more days to pay? With my own ears, I'd heard him say we had to be
packed and out of our cottage by then.

If I'd only known we were in danger of losing our home, I could have offered the tax man my life's savings—and if it wasn't enough, perhaps it would buy us a little more
time, for real. But now it was impossible, since I'd given every bit of my money to a drunken old wizard! For a second, I wondered if I could get the payment back from Knubbin—perhaps
tell him I'd come back for the magic salve as soon as I'd scrounged up the money again.

However, Knubbin told me to come back the next day at noon, and I knew deep inside that I'd never be able to find him when he wasn't yet ready to be found. It was hopeless! I held my
stomach, trying to control the waves of nausea.

And then I heard a sound that pierced right through my heart. I walked into the kitchen, where I saw my crumpled granny in front of the pantry. She was on her knees, sobbing.

I'd never seen Granny cry.

That was when I realized she'd lied to me because she was too proud to admit that she couldn't pay her debt. Granny's shoulders shook and her hands covered her face. She must
have heard the floor creak under my weight, because she suddenly looked over at me. Her glasses were wet and smeared. “I'm sorry, child,” she murmured.

“There has to be something we can do,” I said. “The king doesn't just go around taking cottages away from people, leaving them homeless. Does he?”

She reached in her pocket for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes and next her glasses. “In this case, I'm afraid it's really happening. We've lost our cottage.
I've
lost our cottage. It's all my fault. I've failed the both of us.”

Hearing her say those words out loud knocked the wind out of me.

As I wandered around the cottage, it occurred to me that the things I held most dear to my heart weren't my hairbrushes, favorite boots, or the white fur pelt I'd been sleeping under
since I was a baby. They were the lopsided candles that lit the living room at night; the rag rug that was so worn, patches of it felt like clouds on my bare feet; the tin cups from which we drank
cider together, especially during Wolfstime; and the sofa that over the years had molded perfectly to our bodies, mine on the right, Granny's on the left.

I never thought I'd be forced to say good-bye to my home forever. Being able to come home to that little cottage—even after I ventured out to discover new places, and even if I
decided someday to live in another house with my own husband and children—had always been a key part of my happy ending. It was the house Grandpa and Granny's brothers built for her. It
was the place where my mother grew up and my parents got married. My mother gave birth to me right by the fireplace.

What would my mother do if she were still alive?

Finally, I returned to the kitchen. “Where are we going to go, Granny? Where are we going to live?” We had no other family to turn to.

“I truly don't know, child.” She dabbed her eyes again and then blew her nose. Once I helped her to her feet, she began digging in the cabinets for bowls and pans as if someone
were pulling her invisible strings, forcing her to bake when her aching body and battered soul weren't on board.

I couldn't bear to see my grandmother that way. I blinked back my tears and caressed my golden cross pendant. Suddenly, I had an idea. It was a long shot, but maybe if I could stop the tax
man before he made it back to the royal castle…

I ran down the path and up the
road as fast as I could, tracking Mr. Worthington's boot prints until they faded into the cobblestones of Main Street.

I paused to catch my breath, brushed my hair off my face, and took a look around, hoping to catch sight of the feathered cap bobbing among the villagers. Instead, I spotted on the road a
splatted rotten tomato, and another just past it, in the unmistakable stamp of a very large boot. Behind a cart, a gang of little boys snickered mischievously, congratulating one another.
“You pegged him right in that stupid hat o' his!” one said, validating my suspicion that the prints belonged to the tax man.

The red smears led to the tavern. I clenched my jaw as I imagined him in there, treating himself to a celebratory drink at having seized Granny's cottage in the king's name. Taking a
deep breath, I stepped over a napping dog and pushed open the rusty double doors. I lowered my hood. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness and for my nose to adjust to the stink of
booze and sweat.

Beside an old dusty piano, a skinny woman thumped a tambourine while a man with a big mustache fiddled. A flaxen-haired girl in her mid-twenties suddenly lodged herself between me and my view of
the room. “Can I help you, miss?” she asked over the din of music and bantering.

I regarded the tavern girl's tangled tresses, rosy lips, and light, piercing eyes. She wore a striped skirt that covered her legs, but her blouse showed off her freckled bosom and
shoulders. She had a spark of confidence about her, like she knew her true self and no one could try to convince her otherwise. I gave her a small smile, realizing that if Granny saw me as a tavern
girl, maybe it wouldn't be the most horrible fate in the land.

“O'er here, Gretchen!” a round, balding man from a crowded corner table hollered. “Bring me an' my chums anoth'r round. Come on, now. We haven't got all
day.”

One of his tablemates said, “What the dickens are ya talkin' 'bout? We most definitely have all day, and all tomorrow, and the day after…” and the table full of merry
men chortled and clanked mugs.

The girl pressed her full lips together, and I had the distinct feeling that she and I were sharing a private girl-bonding moment. “Hold yer horses, gents,” she called over her
shoulder in a voice much gruffer than the one she'd used with me. Then she wove her way to the back of the tavern, which is where I spotted the feathered hat. Bellied up to the bar, Hershel
Worthington was chugging an ale and talking to the aged bartender.

Pulling back my shoulders and raising my chin, I walked straight for the tax man. However, the closer I got, the more unsettled my stomach felt, and I had no choice but to backtrack a few steps
and seek refuge behind a large knotty post. I took a big breath, and then another; and yet, my heart still raced.
You can do this, Red.

Slumping forward, Mr. Worthington put his elbows on the bar. As he spoke to the older man, his voice carried over the music: “I wanted to have a son someday, but I married my dear
Ernestine over a year ago, and suffice it to say, she wants nothing to do with me.”

The bartender leaned over and took a whiff of him. “You don't smell too bad,” he remarked. “And I'm thinkin' you make pretty good money, working for the king
and all…” While he paused, he scratched his hoary head. “Oh! Have you tried being romantic with her? That seems to do the trick.”

“Romantic, eh? Can't say I've tried that yet,” Mr. Worthington said, before tilting the stein to his mouth.