Red's Untold Tale (6 page)

There was a sharp whistle, followed by the clomping of boots. Pausing only long enough to scoop a fistful of snow, I took off after whoever it was, heading for the blacksmith's shop behind
the cottage. Peter was in the back of the room, working.

“I'll admit you're fast, but did you really think you'd get away from me, Peter?” I pitched my snowball at him, hitting him square in the nose.

My perfect aim must have left him speechless. He just stared at me, the clump of snow sliding down his face and onto his big black apron, his hammer frozen mid-strike over the anvil.
“
Hallo
,” he said, finally. “Nice to see you.”

Giggles erupted from behind the bales of hay. A moment later, a pair of bundled-up little boys spilled out of the workshop and into the snowy yard. I bit my lip and gave my classmate an awkward
shrug. “Um, sorry about that. I thought you threw a snowball at me,” I explained, feeling stupid.

He laughed and wiped the melting snow off his chin. “I'll forgive you. But only if you do something for me.”

I arched my right eyebrow, not too keen about owing him anything.

“Bring me that pail full of scrap metal.”

I did as he asked, grateful that his favor was so simple. Heavy, but simple. “What are you making?” I asked.

“I'm finished helping Papa with his orders for the week. Now I get to make something for myself. Or, maybe, for someone else. And I know just the thing.” He quirked his mouth
into a near-smile, and I felt myself grinning back.

I hopped onto a bale of hay and watched Peter work. In the furnace, he heated up the metal to a bright yellow-orange. Next he set it on an anvil and beat it repeatedly with a hammer, making
sparks fly. For a twig of a boy, he could sure pound! He whistled while he worked. I didn't recognize the tune, but it was a happy one. “You know the best thing about being a
blacksmith?” he asked.

“Getting to play with fire?” I guessed.

“Ah, yes. That is a good one. But my favorite thing is seeing potential in something that most people wouldn't. Like these scraps. Just a heap of old junk in most people's
eyes. With a little smithy magic, it can become something beautiful.”

“So, what is it?” I asked, unable to hide my curiosity any longer. “What are you making?”

“What's that Miss Landon is always saying?” he prompted.

“
Who put this frog in my desk?
” I said, doing my best impression of our crotchety teacher.

Peter chuckled. “Well, she has been saying that quite a bit, ever since my little brothers started school. But the correct answer is, ‘patience is a virtue.'” Once the
metal cooled to a dark gray hue, he grabbed a file off the wall and ran it across his creation. Then he turned his back to me and said, “Sorry, but you can't watch this part. It's
a family secret. The smithy magic at work.”

If Granny had been there, she'd have said that was a load of poppycock. However, I didn't want to sound like a cantankerous old woman, so I just crossed my arms over my chest and
tried to act aloof. “Fine, but, to be perfectly honest, I'm getting rather bored waiting around. Besides, my grandmother is probably looking for me.” I knew that if that were
true, she would've found me by then. When it came to tracking me down, Granny had an uncanny knack for it.

He spun back around and presented me with his creation. It was an arrowhead. “For you,” he said. “Well? What do you think? Do you like it?”

“I do. Thank you, Peter.” I walked outside and admired it in the sunlight. It was extra long and sharp, with a silver tip—like the ones Granny used. I'd add it to my
quiver and keep it for a special occasion.

When I stepped into the clearing, I was glad to see I'd beaten everyone else to Peter's party. The image of Peter's delighted face kept my spirits high as I
displayed the cake on a tree stump and wrapped a wildflower garland around its base.

Thus far, the night was working out as planned. As far as I knew, Granny was sleeping soundly at home, and—thanks to the poppy dust—none the wiser that I'd snuck out. And
though the cake had settled into an odd form after traveling through the forest in my basket, it was still in one piece. I tried to keep these happy things in mind, but as I sat on a rock and
smoothed out the tangles in my windblown hair, my belly knotted.

What if Granny wakes up and finds me missing?

What if Peter hates the cake?

What if no one comes to this party, and all of my lying and sneaking around was for absolutely nothing?

My thoughts were interrupted by the squeals of Violet, Florence, and Beatrice. As they paraded into the clearing in their pretty frocks and springy curls, I forced a smile. Too bad the first
guests couldn't have been somebody—
anybody
—else.

“Look who's here, my dears,” Violet said. “Goodness, Red, how long have you been here all alone? Bonfires never begin until nightfall. Didn't you know that?”
The amusement in her brown eyes doubled when she caught sight of the cake. She closed in and circled it like a vulture. “What is
that
supposed to be?”

“It's a birthday cake,” I answered. “For Peter. Well, of course it's for Peter,” I amended awkwardly. “I doubt anybody else is celebrating their
seventeenth birthday out here in the woods on this very night.”

A snorting sound came out of Florence's pointy nose. “You brought a
cake
? What are you, his mother?”

“Oh, hush, Florence. I think it's sweet,” Beatrice said, and I shot her a little smile to thank her. However, all my gratefulness vanished when she added, “Do you fancy
the blacksmith's son, Red?”

“Who, me? I…” My cheeks felt so hot, I was sure they'd turned the color of my cloak. I stared down at my boots. “We're just friends, that's all.
Friends.”

“I wouldn't blame you,” Beatrice whispered to me. “I think he's the most handsome boy in the whole village.”

“So what happened to the cake, Red?” Violet asked, drawing our eyes back to my pastry display. “Did it fall out of your basket on the way here?”

Florence added, “And get rained on? And trampled by a bear? And beaten to a pulp with the ugly sti—?”

“That's enough, Florence. We get the picture,” Violet said, pounding Florence's back. The next thing I knew, Florence was falling. As if in slow motion, her red curls
splayed and her arms flew into the air. She threw her hands out to break her fall, which sent her pounding smack-dab into the middle of the cake. I watched helplessly and wordlessly as she smashed
into the cake like a hammer to a pumpkin.

“Oh, my. I can be so clumsy. Look what I've done!” Florence casually licked the cake off her hands. I turned my back so they wouldn't see my blazing cheeks, but I heard
the willowy redhead coughing, spitting, and carrying on. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Red, but this cake of yours? It's even more horrid than the stone soup they force
down our throats at school.”

I clenched my fists and turned face-to-face with Violet. “You did that on purpose.”

“It's quite unfortunate, but nothing to cry about.” Violet pushed the parts of the cake together and smeared the frosting over the cracks with her fingers. “See? Good as
new. And don't you worry one bit, Red. As sure as you're Widow Lucas's granddaughter, I'm certain it is
scrumptious
.” She held her hand up like she was going
to lick the frosting off then wiped it on my cape.

The sound of their laughter stung like tiny arrows stabbing me behind my eyes. I blinked back the tears.

“Oh, goodie. The others are arriving. Who knows, perhaps this party will finally pick up and become worthy of our presence,” Violet said. “Come along, girls. We've wasted
our time with Red long enough.” Violet turned on her heels, and Beatrice and Florence followed her into the center of the clearing, where some boys from school had begun lighting the bonfire
and torches.

Any minute, it would be dark.
Any minute, Peter will be here.
His charming grin would help me forget about Violet and her friends. But then he'd see the battered cake and wonder
what had happened. What would I say? The truth, that Violet and her friends smashed it—and I didn't even do anything about it? I didn't want to confess that I was a coward,
especially to Peter.

I had to do away with the cursed cake. I scooped and swept the sticky, crumbly mess into my basket and ducked into the woods. Peeking out from behind a tree from time to time, I waited quietly
for a clear shot to the bonfire.

The moment I spotted Peter, my heart skipped a beat. He was wearing a clean white shirt, and though his trousers were a mite too short, I knew them to be his finest. But then Violet and the
other girls swarmed him. Beatrice's words came back to me, and I wondered how many girls thought Peter was the handsomest in the village.

Was
I
one of those girls?

Shortly thereafter, Peter was sucked into the thick of a jumble of bodies, and I lost sight of him altogether. I remembered why I was hiding in the trees, and when I felt fairly certain no one
was watching, I made a run for it. I opened my basket and emptied it into the flames. With a
whoosh
and a flash, the cake that had taken me hours to make melted into the flames, as if it
had never existed. Up in smoke and gone, just like that. A lump lodged itself in my throat and I swallowed. What was wrong with me? It was just a stupid cake, for goodness' sake!

I bolted back to my hiding spot to gather my wits. Violet was regaling the group with one of her favorite stories of the time a gypsy gazed into a crystal ball and foresaw that it was
Violet's destiny to live in a royal castle. The way everybody seemed to hang on every word—acting as if they hadn't heard her tell the same tale fifty times—both annoyed and
amazed me. I had every inclination to make a mad dash home, but then I heard Peter's voice.

“Sorry to interrupt your fascinating story, Violet, but have any of you seen Red?”

“Who?” Violet asked.

“Red,” he repeated. “She told me she was coming, but I haven't seen her.”

When I peeked out from behind the tree, I saw Violet fluff her ebony curls. “I'm really not sure if I've seen her—or not. She's rather forgettable, don't you
agree?”

I clenched my fists, wanting ever so badly to shoot an arrow just close enough to graze her stupid, perfect hair.

Peter strolled past them and asked a few others, but they shook their heads
no.

“She was here earlier,” Beatrice piped up. “Don't you remember, Violet? She baked that horrid cake that was right over…” She walked to the tree stump I'd
used for a table. “…here?” Beatrice's eyes bugged out. “It's gone. And so is she!”

“Oh, Beatrice. Don't worry your pretty little head about Red. I'd wager she got hungry, gobbled down every last crumb of her cake, and ran all the way home to her granny with a
terrible bellyache.” Violet placed her hands on her tiny, corseted stomach and frowned.

“Wait. You're telling me that Red baked a cake?” Peter asked, sounding surprised—and, dare I say, delighted. “For me?”

Beatrice shrugged and said, “I guess. For your birthday. But like I said, it was horrid, so you're lucky it disappeared.”

“And we're
all
lucky Red disappeared,” Florence added.

That's it.
Enough was enough. I pushed my shoulders back and held my chin up, steeling myself to march straight over to Violet and her brigade and make them eat their evil
words.

Then, somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf howled. My blood ran cold. Every bit of courage instantly seeped out of me. Reduced to a mound of shivers, it was all I could do to hunker down
against the tree and draw my cloak snugly around my body. I clawed at my neck, futilely searching for the golden cross. Could Granny's prediction be coming true? Were the wolves hunting
already tonight?

Over by the bonfire, Beatrice flapped her arms like a fledgling. “Oh, mercy me! Did you hear that? What if the wolves got Red?”

The wolves won't harm me,
I told myself.
The riding hood will keep me safe.

“Don't be silly, Beatrice,” Florence chastised. “It's not Wolfstime yet.”

“But I heard a wolf howl,” Beatrice said.

Violet crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Red's grandmother has the whole village on edge, but we can't stop living just because we're afraid of some overgrown
mongrels.”

“Speaking of Red's grandmother, my stepfather told me that the old bag is petitioning to have the Forget-Me-Not ball postponed indefinitely.”

What? Why haven't I heard anything about this?
No amount of swallowing would relieve my parched mouth and throat. To my mortification, Florence's announcement had perked the
ears of the rest of the partygoers. “What?” and “What for?” they asked at once. They seemed as shocked as I was.