The wind mocked her.
It blew through the windows, making itself an unwelcome guest in her home. It entered through the door as well. After coming downstairs to find the house empty, Rebecca had ran outside to see if she could see anyone. She knew that it was hopeless – with the storm still raging, the snow put an end to all hopes of visibility – but she had to be sure. Her suspicions were confirmed, and after simply standing in the freezing cold for a minute, the innkeeper's wife walked slowly and deliberately back into her kitchen. She didn't need to close the door. After all, who would be out on a night like this – and what was there left to be taken from her?
Rebecca was positive that the wind would be the last guest the inn ever had. It hadn't been her inn, nor had it been her husband's. It had been their inn – the entire family's, and even the maid's. It was the four of them that held the place securely on its foundations, however rocky and poor those foundations might have been.
Now the wind was demanding residence of her alone. She could almost hear it chirping, "Show me a room! I've been traveling long, and your inn is the only one in miles. Perhaps you could make me a meal?"
The breeze sent one of the wreaths of garlic hanging from the ceiling swinging. Rebecca felt a sudden surge of malice toward the pungent herb. She ripped the string of cloves from where it hung, flakes of stale skin falling like startled doves, and threw it to the ground. The disgusting smell was further released into the air as the herbs were crushed underfoot.
"You never helped us! We relied on you, and what did you do? Did you help my daughter? Did you save my Yoine? You couldn't even help that whore of a maid!"
Her voice was hideous with anger, her face stained with bitter tears. Whipping around, she started once again toward the doorway, this time snatching up any garlic she could see. She stumbled and nearly tripped several times, her vision reduced to a dark blur under the veil of tears. Nevertheless, she continued on, not caring at all that she was now dropping more garlic than she was picking up.
Once she reached the door, she hurled the wreaths into the snow. She sank down over the threshold along with them.
The Transylvanian winter night welcomed her into its embrace as the wind settled into its new home, and, far off, her daughter dreamed of a new life. Because one life must end for another to begin.
