Chapter 1: The Mansion

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  I have never considered myself a fool. Not until last night, that is.

  Chilled autumn rain cascades down my face and neck, soaking my dress to the point where it sticks to my body like a second layer of skin. If I’m lucky, it will cleanse the wound on my arm where the rusty nail ripped my skin apart. Although the small piece of metal eventually turned out to be my way out, I could do without a case of lockjaw.

  Beneath me, the forest floor is slick with moist and decomposing leaves. When I’m not tripping over protruding roots, I’m slipping in the mud, occasionally banging a knee, a shin, or a shoulder against soil and rocks. Despite the darkness, I manage to get up again and again, and whenever the moon peeks through the heavy blanket of gray, I get a chance to try to orient myself, but thus far to no avail; I have been out cold for hours, possibly even an entire day, on a moving wagon set for an unknown destination, and I currently have no idea where I am or where I’m going, only that I need to get away. Away from them.

  Whenever I stop running for a second to listen, I swear I can hear them somewhere in the vicinity, chasing me. Hunting me down like a God-damned dog.

  I should have known not to accept a drink from strangers. But it hadn’t occurred to me at the time that anything could go wrong. After all, I had been the one to pour the drink mere moments before; how could I have predicted that the guys would tip back the lid of the tankard and spike my ale in the few seconds it took me to drag a free chair over to their table?

  The taste of stomach acid still lingers on my tongue, tangy and with notes of fermented barley. The fresh, undisturbed night air around me offers a welcome contrast to my putrid breath, and I am reminded that, for once, I’m the one smelling like the outhouse and tie stalls behind the tavern on a Sunday night. Usually, I’m the one who sends the drunken louts home when the moon has crested the sky. Thanks to the sightly men clad in foreign silks, I never got to that part the other night.

  I’m unaware of how much time passes while I stumble through the wilds. It’s still too dark to see anything clearly, and I wonder whether my skin will appear more red or black and blue once the sun rises. Not that it matters, really; as long as I’m alive and free when the night is over, I will figure out how to find my way home. What the strangers had planned to do with me I have absolutely no intentions of finding out. I merely hope, for the sake of the other captives I had to leave behind in my window of escape, that it wasn’t anything too horrible. After all, they will most likely suffer the same fate intended for me.

  Eventually, the rain slows to a stop, and the heavy clouds withdraw, at long last letting the white moonlight wash over the land unhindered. Drawing a painfully deep breath, my lungs stinging from the sheer exertion, I allow myself a moment’s rest. Looking around amongst the vast sea of trunks clad in whites and browns, I listen closely. Only now do I realize how loudly my blood rushes and pounds in my ears; it’s nearly deafening in this perfect silence. Not even a single owl or deer dares to make itself known in this quietude. There is only me with my thundering heart and trembling limbs.

  Seems like I finally lost my pursuers.

  I crouch down against a sturdy trunk and take a much needed leak, letting my head rest against the wet bark while I go.

  Who were the men, anyway? I’ve worked at The Rabbit and the Rooster most of my life and thus served just about every man and woman in the village as well as their extended families, old friends, and secret lovers. There probably isn’t a face in miles I haven’t seen at least once. But those men… Their faces were new to me. Evil men wearing the guise of wealthy foreigners simply passing through the area and stopping to quench their thirst. It seems I wasn’t the only one fooled; wherever they picked up the other victims, their act must have gone unquestioned as well.

  Could they be slave traders? Or perhaps–

  A twig snaps nearby. I go still as death. Swallow silently.

  Then rustling of leaves, now closer.

  I shoot up and force my legs into motion once more. My thighs and calves burn in protest, but I urge them forward as I steal a glance back over my shoulder. To my horror, I catch a glimpse of something a handful of paces behind me. Not daring to take the time to properly identify whoever - or whatever - is sneaking up on me, I simply run as fast as the muddy soil will let me.

  I refuse to let them catch me again.

  The moonlight makes it easier to safely navigate between low-hanging branches and surfacing roots, and I pick up speed, damned be my blistering soles and the agonizing stitch in my side that ignites to the rhythm of my heaving lungs.

  A flash of white somewhere ahead of me makes my breath catch in my throat. At long last, the foliage around me begins to thin out ever so slightly, and I realize I’m nearing a clearing in the forest.

  Just as I get close enough to glimpse the rough shape of darkly painted doors and windows on the whitewashed building, my feet glide yet again in the rain-induced sludge; under me, my ankle gives a sickening pop, and a half-choked sound escapes me as my feet give way under me, one after the other.

  Shit.

  Shit shit shit…

  Ignoring the throbbing pain for a moment, I roll over and push myself up, scrambling to my feet. As soon as I apply weight on my left foot, lightning shoots up along my shinbone, leaving me breathless for a heartbeat. But I can’t let this be my downfall, so I grab the nearest branch lying on the ground and press onward, humping along with my makeshift crutch.

  After what feels like an eternity, I reach the clearing. The carpet of mud and decaying leaves gives way to a modest expanse of meadow, wildly overgrown due to years of neglect. The ground squelches under my soaked boots as I make my way across the field and toward the solitary mansion at the heart of it. An amalgam of grass, weeds, and naked wildflowers brushes past my thighs, occasionally entangling itself around my staff and slowing me down, but I continue stubbornly, yanking it free over and over.

  Only when my boots collide with the mossy stone path before the mansion do I allow myself another look at my stalkers - but the beings following me before are nowhere to be seen now. Is it possible that they finally gave up? Or are they hiding somewhere in the ocean of vegetation, waiting to strike?

  I’m not planning on staying out here and finding out.

  This close, I notice how gray bricks peer out where the whitewashing has faded with time. The black painting on the window frames is chipped substantially, and heavy curtains have been drawn inside - seemingly all around the house. No smoke drifts from the chimneys, as far as I can see. And the measly, rotted remnants of a single horse stall some paces to the left of the house appear empty, devoid of life. This place is as abandoned as the graveyard at midnight. But it still means shelter and safety.

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  The equally dilapidated door sports a green-tinted brass door knocker sculpted like the head of a bear with a ring in its maw. The metal thuds heavily as I knock it against the door. When nobody answers, I knock once more; I’d hate to be mistaken and trespassing. I’ve made enough enemies tonight, and I’m starting to wonder what kind of person would live at a place this desolated, anyway.

  Still no reaction from within. Testing, I turn the handle. The hinges whine as the door swings open without much resistance; unlocked, to my surprise. But then again, why would someone need to lock the door when the place is deserted? The owner must be long since gone. Or dead.

  I won’t make the mistake of leaving the door unlocked, however. If anyone wants to follow me, they will have to fight their way in.

  Creaking wooden floorboards greet me as I step inside. On account of the curtains, the entrance hall is shrouded in darkness. I draw the heavy folds of velvet aside to let meager rays of moonlight in.

  The hall is decorated sparingly, a few furnishings sprinkled around the room and half a dozen sconces mounted on the walls. Despite being old, the furniture seems to be in decent condition; there might actually be something of value in here. But I’m not here to clean out the place - I need to find a solution for my leg first and foremost. Perhaps I’ll leave with a few smaller valuables when the time comes, but the state of my ankle suggests I will be staying a few days or more. If there’s a functioning water source somewhere near, that is. If not, I’ll have to continue through the forest sometime tomorrow, damned be my battered and bruised body. I hope it won’t come to that.

  I choose to start with the door to my right, leaving the opposite door and the upstairs for later exploration. My crutch clonks dully against the floor as I hump along, leaving muddy tracks in my wake. I find a sizable kitchen, I realize as I draw back the curtains in here, too. And a seemingly well-equipped one at that. Pots and pans on hooks litter the walls above a series of kitchen cabinets brimming with stoneware and utensils. But as I still haven’t found what I’m looking for, I continue through the door at the far end. It leads to a small scullery with a work table in the middle and one along the far wall, a narrow staircase going down, several wooden tubs and buckets strewn around, and a drying rack for dishcloths.

  Delighted over my find, I snatch a couple of dishcloths off of the rack, turn a large tub on its head to work as a stool, and sit down. Then I carefully rip the fabric into long strips.

  The soaked leather of my boot clings tightly to my swollen ankle, but I manage to free my foot with a final, determined tug, at last letting blood run to my toes unhindered. For a moment, the throbbing turns dizzyingly violent, and I'm glad I am already sitting down when the feeling hits. I close my eyes and take deep, slow breaths, and when the faintness seems to have passed, I begin to assess the injury properly.

  In the soft light, it appears that a red-purple shade has settled right beneath the skin, outdoing the various scrapes and bruises otherwise scattered around my lower leg. Due to the severe swelling, my ankle has turned stiff and unmoving; I have to use my hand to make it wiggle, and I instantly regret it as another surge of pain shoots up through my leg. A curse slips out through my gritted teeth.

  Deciding on a mere few days of rest was perhaps a tad ambitious…

  With a firm hand, I manage to wrap my foot and ankle tightly and securely the best I've learned from Mama. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do until I can find my way back home.

  Using the last few strips of cloth, I wipe off the dirt at the end of my staff. My even dirtier boots are ditched in the scullery as I push myself up and leave the kitchen area; no need to mess up the place more than I already have - after all, this will be my home for the days to come, and I have no intentions of cleaning it in my current state.

  At one point, I’ll probably have to look for a fire steel and tinderbox for the cloudy nights, but right now, sunrise should be a few hours away at most. Instead, I need to find somewhere to rest after this horrid night, and the floor won’t do. Finding water can wait until tomorrow.

  I look out the window in the entrance hall as I pass it by, headed for the opposite door; I don’t feel brave enough to take on an entire flight of stairs yet. Everything outside moves in the cold autumn wind, rustling and swaying, making it near impossible to spot unnatural movements in the grass and bushes. There could be ten enemies lurking, there could be none; I couldn’t possibly know for certain. But my gut tells me I haven’t been running for hours without reason. And if someone is indeed chasing me, this feels like the safest place I could be right now, especially if I need to grab something to defend myself with. I’m fairly certain I spotted a block of knives in the kitchen earlier.

  I pause before the door. The polished brass handle gleams softly in the moonlight, like the sconces around me. For an abandoned place, it’s surprisingly well-preserved; there’s barely a speck of dust covering anything. Even the dishcloths were in fine condition, not the moth-eaten scraps one would expect. Perhaps the mansion hasn’t been empty as long as I had initially thought, although the garden tells another story.

  The spring croaks lightly as I pull the handle and reveal the next room. The first thing catching my eye is books. Books upon books, stuffed into shelves lining the walls from one end to the other. Some sort of private library doubling as a drawing room, I reckon. In the center is a small seating arrangement consisting of two upholstered armchairs before a great fireplace.

  My heart stops. There, in the fireplace, amidst the ashes, is an ember, glowing softly.

  I take a step back. This was a mistake. This place is very much not aban–

  A door at the opposite end is ripped open. I don’t get the chance to see who’s there, however, as someone behind me grabs me by the shoulder and flings me back violently. I hit the floor with such force that I skid a few paces, my crutch sent flying somewhere far out of my range.

  Looking up, I find a woman, presumably half a decade older than me, towering over me, her messy, auburn hair and crinkled nightgown indicating that she must have been sleeping until a few moments ago. Behind her, in the doorway, a man appears; tall and lean and with long, silvery hair glinting in the soft light, but with a face far too young to match it.

  I try to sit up fully, but the woman presses her foot against my collarbone, forcing me down.

  “Who sent you?” asks the man as he joins her side, his voice deep and hoarse from either disuse or some illness. When I don’t immediately gather my thoughts into a coherent answer, the woman applies more pressure to my bone.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I damn near yelp. “I didn’t think anyone was living here.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  I consider telling them a lie, but my thoughts are too scrambled to make up something more believable than the truth, anyway.

  “Shelter,” I reply. “Someone is following me.”

  The man’s eyes narrow. “Who?”

  “Slave traders, I think, but I’m not sure. They drugged me and threw me in a wagon with some others.”

  The woman signs something to the man, who then nods and signs something back. I have no idea what they said, but at least it explains why the man sounds like he hasn’t talked for a while. She must be mute or something.

  “And you escaped?” continues the man, looking back down at me.

  “I’ve been running all night to get away,” I say. “It was pure coincidence I stumbled upon your home. I couldn’t keep running, anyway. My ankle is sprained.”

  As the woman is still holding me pinned to the floor, I just gesture vaguely toward my leg for demonstration. Their gazes never seem to reach the intended destination, however; instead, they both lock onto the gash on my extended forearm, the one I made by accident when desperately trying to tear the hempen rope apart with the protruding nail in the wagon’s inner wall. It stopped bleeding some time ago, but I still ought to clean and bind it soon to avoid complications.

  They share a long, silent look that I can’t decipher.

  “You cannot stay here,” the man says with the sort of finality that invites no protests, but I don’t understand why. I’m not asking them to treat me or tend to my wounds; in fact, I haven’t even demanded anything of them. And they never asked.

  “Please don’t send me away,” I beg a tad shrilly, struggling against the woman’s foot. “What if they’re still out there?!”

  “Then I hope, for your own sake, that you know how to swing that staff of yours,” says the man and turns to leave. “Remember her boots.”

  Despite my string of loud objections, it takes the brutish woman less than a minute to drag me outside, retrieve my things, and lock the door between us. When I try to catch her eye through the window, she simply draws the curtains. At one point I even consider hammering on the door until they let me back in, but if they didn’t hear me the first time - or if they simply ignored my knocking - chances are it won’t work this time, either. So I’m left sitting on their doorstep, shivering in the approaching dawn and watching the edge of the forest closely, until utter exhaustion makes my eyes drift shut, and the perpetual sound of rustling lulls me to sleep.