A Promise Through The Bars: The First Series

by Lemon Leopard

Princess Snow White, a title dead to her, is imprisoned one fateful night. For twelve years, she struggles to survive in her cell, slowly losing her faith, her hope, and finally her will to live. Just as she is about to end it all, a woman named Sara is thrown into the cell near hers. Sara asks Snow White to do her a favor. A favor that may change everything.

14. Chapter 14 Four Dark Truths

Chapter 14 Four Dark Truths

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"You will die here, little bitch!" Finn sneers, slamming my cell door shut and locking me up with the jiggling of keys. The pain blooms in my face. The tang of blood touches my tongue. My lips start swelling, growing tight. Finn marches off, his footsteps growing softer until the wood door slams shut—My eyes fly open. My heart pounds in my ears! I bolt upright and clutch at my chest, breathing fast and hard.

"Furs, table, chairs..." No cell bars, no stone cold floor. "Blankets, boots…" I suck in a deep breath, hold it…and release it slowly. "Farm."

My heart slows and withdraws from my ears. My chest loosens and allows me to breathe easier. God, I pray this, Jerome and Annabelle's farm, is reality now. This all still seems too wonderful to be reality. Eric—my eyes widen.

"Eric!?" My head swivels around to find him. All the messy furs have been deserted by last night's occupants. I look all about the main room as I get up—my blankets and furs pull me back down! "ERIC!?" Panic starts rising in me, the room devoid of life save for me…or am I dead? I try to stand again, but my blankets and furs pull me back down! My heart pounds. I squeal and roll onto my back. I tug at my blankets and furs while wriggling my body, loosening the constricting bedding bit by bit. This is the last time I'll ever sleep with blankets! I need to find Eric, or somebody so that they can tell me where Eric went! Or somebody who can look at me and tell me that I am alive and that Eric was not an illusion to comfort me in the face of death.

"Fair morning!" a chipper child says behind me.

I manage to free myself from the confines of my furs and roll onto my hands and knees, my eyes crossing Mary's dark, cheerful ones. "Oh!" I heave a sigh of relief. There she is living and breathing and so full of life. "Fair morning, Mary."

Mary frowns at me. "You don't sleep well, do you?" She gestures to my tangled bedding.

I force a smile for her sake, eager to put the subject of my poor sleep behind me. "So it would seem. Have you seen Eric?" My heart goes to the edge. God, I pray that he is real.

Mary nods. My heart takes a step back from the edge. "He left—" my heart collapses "—before first light with Papa to take our goats out to the merchants' to trade their milk for hay so that the goats can eat."

My heart starts climbing back up into my chest, a little hesitant to return to its proper place. "He'll be back? I mean, they'll be back?"

Mary steps over the furs to reach me, a wood bowl in her hands. "Of course they'll be back! They would not miss tonight's dinner!" She holds the bowl out to me and says in a hushed voice, "Papa's going to pick out a goat…" her smile falls, sadness dragging down the corners of her mouth "…and then…they'll slaughter the poor thing."

I frown and sit back on my heels, accepting the bowl from her. I'm not too thrilled about having meat for dinner tonight. "How come?" I ask.

Mary sighs and plops down on the floor before me. "Because we need to eat! I don't like it, but we don't have much else to eat. We haven't grown crops since I had five years."

My heart hurts. I remember Sara telling me that the ground has stopped bringing forth crops. Now that I am seeing this little girl for the first time in daylight—day nine, I think—I see how her skin clings more to her bones than to any proper fat and muscle. She's wearing several worn dresses and two patched coats for warmth, but the many layers of clothing do little to hide her thin frame. To think that Ravenna brought all this about…I look down at the bowl in my hand. My heart hurts more. It's nothing more than a bowl of cold, watery goat's milk. I don't need this, not when little Mary, a growing girl, is sitting before me.

I offer Mary the bowl. "I do not need this. You drink."

Her eyes widen. "No, I had plenty of milk! I watered it down, so it filled me up!"

"You watered it down?" My heart aches more for her and I set the bowl before her. "Oh Mary, please take this!"

"Nope, nope, nope!" She scoots about until her back is to me, her long black hair streaming down her back all the way to the floor. "We need you to help us with our chores today. You need to eat so that you have the strength to help us!"

I sigh. Nothing I do will convince her to drink this watered down milk, and God forbid it should go to waste. "Has Eliza eaten?" I ask.

Mary looks back at me and nods. "I gave her straight milk and some cheese that we had leftover. We all had our fill except for you!"

"Hm," I hum and pick up the bowl of watered down milk. "So long as that is true, then I'll eat, er, drink this."

Mary and I laugh together. I put the bowl to my mouth and down the diluted goat's milk greedily. It's so watered down that I barely taste the sweet fat of the milk. It takes the edge from my hollow belly, though.

"All done?" Mary asks, chipper again. I down the rest of the milk and lower the bowl to my lap, my eyes crossing hers.

I laugh with a closed mouth. "Yes," I say and get to my feet, and so does Mary.

"Good!" Mary snatches the bowl out of my hands and darts around me, going to an old cluttered table large enough to seat the whole family at the other end of the room. She sets the bowl on the edge of the table with a clank and turns to me, a strange look on her face.

My stomach knots and I shift on my feet, suddenly feeling too much under her scrutiny. "What is it?" I ask her. God, what is wrong with me!? She has only nine years, and I act as if I am standing before some judge about to hand down my fate for all my horrendous crimes.

Mary chuckles and waves her hand at me. "Your hair looks like a rat made a nest out of it."

"WHAT!?" I gasp, my hands grabbing bunches of my rough, greasy, knotted locks. Though her words are insulting, my face flushes with embarrassment and shame. To think that my hair looks so horrible, especially before Eric for these past nine days. He touched this! No man in his right mind would touch this hair…yet he did. How quickly things have changed. I did not care how I looked to him when he found me in that dark forest, but now, for some reason unknown to me, I care.

"Go into Mama and Papa's room and fix yourself up." Mary points to the room that Eliza and her daughter are resting in, or were in last night, as far as I know.

"Oh Maker above," I murmur. How right she is. "Thank you." I turn, almost running for the bedroom.

"Welcome!" Mary calls after me. "Meet us in the barn when you're done!"

"Alright!" I force myself to stop before the door and open it as quietly as I can, the hinges creaking. I wince and peek inside the room. Eliza is laying in the bed with her daughter on her chest, both mother and babe fast asleep with several blankets and furs covering them. I suck in a deep breath and look about the room until I spot a wooden divider with faded carvings. There might be a mirror behind the divider that I can see myself in. I glance at Eliza and her babe as I creep into the bedroom and shut the door behind me as quietly as possible, this time purposely avoiding the click. I keep my eyes on them as I step lightly to the divider, my thick linen stockings muffling my steps. I reach the divider and peer behind it. There's an old washtub and a vanity with a cracked, scuffed mirror mounted to it.

I swallow in an attempt to unknot my stomach, but it remains as knotted as my hair. It has been fourteen years since I have seen myself in the mirror. Surely my face has changed since then, but how much? Has starvation warped me into some hideous creature? Are there scars on my face that I don't know of? To think of the bodily stenches that are clinging to me...during the first few years of my imprisonment, I did everything I could to keep myself clean. It wasn't until after I caught Finn leering at me when I was trying to wash away the blood that flowed from my loins that I gave up on trying to bathe. The most I'd do is scrub my face with a wet rag when my eyes stung from my grease that got into them. I endured all the terrible itching and my bodily odors for years just so Finn would never see me naked again.

Over the years, I must have grown so accustomed to my bodily stenches and my grease that I no longer smelled them nor felt the need to scratch incessantly. God, thinking about it now, my skin starts crawling. I pick up a lock of my hair and go to sniff it—my eyes widen. This is a dread! Fire rushes up my neck and fills up my head, nearly making me faint. I can't look at myself in the mirror. I can't see all the damage these past fourteen years of hell have done to me!

I run to the basin of water still atop the bedside table. I scoop it up and rush behind the divider, Eliza and her newborn briefly crossing my mind, but I see the reflection of a big fat dread at the back of my head as I pass by the mirror! A surge of shame moves up my stomach. I set the basin on the very edge of the vanity, avoiding stepping before the mirror. I tear off all my clothes and drop Eric's knife on the floor, cringing from its loud clattering.

My hands shoot to my chest without thought, searching for the comforting, warmed silver of Sara's ring, but all I feel is my skin. Panic rushes up me—I gave Sara's ring to Eric. For Sara. I gave it up for her. Remember, Snow, it's just a piece of silver. Nothing can take away the hope she has given you, especially the part of that hope that I can escape every bit of hell from my imprisonment!

I scoop handfuls of icy, dry water out of the basin and splash my belly and breasts with it. Half of the water spills onto the floor before it reaches me. I gasp from the stinging cold water. Water trickles down my sunken belly in rivulets, some of it soaking into the dark coarse hair that covers my loins while the rest of it goes down my thin thighs. It feels so dry and cold as the dark, lonely hell that's at the bottom of those steps! My chest and stomach slowly tighten while I splash more of the icy water onto me. I try to scrub away the second skin of grease with my hands, but my hands are too slick with my filth!

"Mmph!" I drop to my knees, grab any part of my scratchy wool dress, and use the coarse material to scrub the grime from my skin. I scrub and scrub until my stomach and arm turn raw red and start bleeding. I ignore the invisible fire ravaging my flesh. My chest and stomach tighten so much that it grows hard to breathe. I suck in breath after breath. I scrub wherever I can, unable to tell if I am scrubbing dry or wet skin. All the scrubbing, the fire burning all over me, the disgust I have with my filth, how I am ruining my pretty blue dress. I scrub, scrub, scrub faster, harder. Faster, harder, scrubbing my thighs, my stomach, my arms—both the scarred one and the smooth one—my chest, the tops of my breasts. My eyes sting with tears and grease. I lean forward, my hair falling into my sight. My hideous, knotted hair!

I drop my dress, take up Eric's knife, and hack at my hair so close to the roots that I almost scalp myself. Dread after dread falls onto the floor. I pull taut the thick dread at the back of my head and hack at it, chopping off parts of the horrendous knot chunk by chunk. One hack slices deeply into my right thumb. I clench my jaw to keep from screaming, the fresh wound burning deep inside. I ignore the warm flow of blood dripping down my hand and continue hacking at my hair. Too many tears fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I need every spec of dirt and every drop of grease from these past fourteen years of hell stripped from me. I need every bit of it away from me!

"Greta!?" Eliza calls her name, not mine. I freeze up. Guilt wraps its hands about my heart. How selfish of me! Eliza needs her sleep and this water, and I took both from her. "Greta, are you alright!?" she asks with alarm. I look back—there Annabelle stands looking down at me, her eyes wide with concern. The blood drains from my face, leaving me so cold and lightheaded, so exposed, kneeling here in my utter, depraved shame.

"I-I'm sorry." I drop Eric's knife with a loud clatter and try to scoop up my hair. God, there's so much hair! "I'm sorry. I'll clean up this mess—" I choke on a sob as I gather up the last of my hacked dreads, completely filling up my arms. Annabelle comes towards me! Fear zaps through me, and I scramble back from her. I drop all my hair onto my lap and reach blindly for my clothes, needing something to cover my nakedness. Annabelle stops and holds her hands out to me, showing me her empty hands. I finally grab my coat and cover myself with it.

"Greta!?" Eliza says again, her voice softer this time. "I hear you crying! Annabelle only wants to help you. Let her help you. Let us help you."

"No!" I shake my head and hug my coat tighter to me, my head so much lighter now that most, if not all, of my hair is gone. God above, I must look like some ugly, skeletal boy now. "Don't help me! I—I can clean myself up! I can clean my mess without your help!"

"It's alright, Greta. Let us help you," Eliza says from behind the divider, as if she is speaking for Annabelle. "It's alright," she says, her voice softer and nearer this time. It's alright? No, no it is not alright! "It's alright," Eliza says again. My blood heats up. Why does she keep saying that!? Movement draws my teary eyes to the top of the divider, long fingers curling around the top. "Let Annabelle help you. She only wants to help you."

"It's not alright!" Why won't these two busybody women just leave me be!? I told them I'd clean up my mess! "Don't help me! I don't want your help! Take your prying eyes elsewhere!"

Annabelle shakes her head at me and takes a step towards me, baring her empty hands to me. I flinch, but I fight the urge to scramble back. Annabelle takes another step, and another, her fingertips within inches of my filth. How could Annabelle ever bring herself to touch me?

"Let us help you," Eliza says as Annabelle lays her hands on my naked, bony shoulders, her touch featherlight.

I sniffle, my anger starting to cool. "Why would you help me? How does helping me benefit either of you?" Annabelle frowns at me and rises, her hands leaving my shoulders.

"It benefits us because we care about you," Eliza answers me while Annabelle walks past the divider, out of my sight. "Annabelle's gone to get some more water for you."

For me? Guilt strangles my heart. "I—you need the water more than me." Sara crosses my mind. She said almost the same exact thing to me.

"It's alright, Greta, we have plenty of water."

Greta…that's her name, not mine. God, I have no right! That knowledge squeezes my heart so much. I cannot keep this lie going anymore. Greta doesn't deserve to have her name disgraced. Eliza doesn't deserve my dishonesty.

"Greta…that's not my name."

I watch Eliza's fingers. Her fingers loosen a little and tighten about the top of the divider. I keep my teary eyes on her fingers and wait for her to speak…and wait…and wait…I bite my tongue, wanting so dearly to stay silent. How I want to, but here Eliza stands just on the other side of the divider still granting me her companionship. She has not abandoned me yet.

I swallow, trying to unstick the lump in my throat. "I'm…I'm sorry that I lied to you. I—" I swallow again, failing once more to get this lump down my throat! How hard it is to speak with it! "You're my friend. If I have your friendship, I don't want to lose it over this!"

"You'll always be my friend," Eliza says. "Even when you and Eric leave for Hammond's fortress, you will still be my friend. I am praying to God that when you do leave, I will see you again one day. I want my little girl to meet you so that she knows who to fashion her life after."

"Oh God!" I sob, her words extinguishing the last of my anger. "What are you talking about!? What are you seeing!? It is you your daughter should fashion her life after! Not me!"

"We all sin. You are human and so am I. My friend, you don't have to tell me who you are. I'm sorry if I seemed to be prying last night. It was never my intention."

I want to believe so dearly that Eliza is this kind, this compassionate, this merciful! She just maybe using her silver tongue to wring the truth out of me…but from the short time that I have known her, she has been consistent with her compassion and kindness. I don't want to keep this lie going, at least for both Greta and Eliza's sake, but Eric…I cannot risk exposing my true self to him. He told me in that dark forest that he hates being lied to. I will never put his words to the test. Never, but Eliza…I want to trust her with this. It would grant me such relief.

I quiet myself and listen closely for anyone else who might be nearby. All is silent save for Eliza's breathing. "Eliza, if I tell you who I am, you must promise me that you will not tell anyone…anyone, who I am, and you must promise me that you will not cling to any false hope of an end being brought to Ravenna's tyranny. One of the reasons I kept my name from you is because I did not want to give you false hope. Can you promise me all this, my friend?"

Silence…Please speak, Eliza. Say something!

"I promise you all this," Eliza finally says, "but please don't feel as though you have to tell me."

"I want to." My tears still flow, but they flow in silence. "I'm—" The truth hitches in my throat, but I suck in a shaky breath, managing to free it. "My name is Snow White."

"W…," Eliza falls silent. I keep my sight on her fingers, watching them loosen and tighten, loosen and tighten, her fingernails digging into the wood divider. My heart starts sinking. Did I disappoint her? Did I anger her? Did I lose her friendship by telling her—footsteps come back into the bedroom and come round the divider. I look down at Annabelle. She comes to the washtub carrying a large clay jar in her arms, the jar's contents sloshing about inside. Fear shoots through me. Did she hear my confession!?

I watch closely for any sign of her having heard me. Annabelle stops before the washtub and pours a smooth, clear stream of water out of the jar, the water splashing against the wood tub. She flips the jar right side up and walks past the divider, out of my sight. Each step grows quieter…she's gone for now. I let go of my breath, feeling some relief. I don't think she heard. I look up at Eliza's fingers, her fingernails still digging into the top of the divider.

"Are…are you angry with me?" I ask.

"What!? No! No, absolutely not," she says, her voice shaking. I frown. Even though she claims to not be angry with me, something is causing her to tremble. I cannot discern whether it is sadness or anger.

"I'm not sure if I believe you," I say, new tears coming to my eyes.

"No, I'm not angry!" she says, her voice still shaking. "Please believe me…but Maker above, what you made me promise you! Do you not realize that we have all been praying for deliverance for fourteen years, and to now hear your name—"

"Damn it, this is why!—" Footsteps approach. Annabelle comes round the divider to the washtub with another large jar in her arms, empties out the water into the tub, and leaves us to get more water, not sparing me a glance. Her footsteps grow quieter…silence.

I look to the top of the divider, Eliza's fingernails still buried in the wood. "Eliza, don't believe that freedom is nigh." My anger has cooled once more, but it's primed and ready for another outburst should Eliza toss any kindling into the fire. I pray she doesn't. "I know that my words seem heartless, but I'm telling you this because I care about you and your little girl. There's nothing in this world crueler than false hope, and I don't want to bring that upon you."

Footsteps approach. Annabelle comes round the divider again with another jar in her arms just like the last two. She glances down at me as she passes me by, her expression soft, but mostly blank. I wish Mary was here now to translate her mother's silence. Annabelle goes to the washtub, empties the jar to its last drop, and sets it down on the floor with a hollow thud. She turns to me and holds her hands out to me. They're empty, harmless—I think that's what she is trying to tell me. I scrub the tears from my eyes and gulp down my excess spit.

Her cheekbones and jaw are gaunt from the famine plaguing this land. Despite the harsh angles of her face, her dark eyes are soft with kindness. I glance down at her thin mouth. No smile, no smirk, but either that's a hint of a frown or her mouth naturally curls down. My eyes drop to her hands again. They're empty, long, and bony. Her knuckles and joints bulge between each segment of her fingers. It must be painful for her to move her hands. I look up at her and shake my head once, silently refusing her helping hands. I brace my right hand behind me and push myself to my feet, holding my coat to my chest with my left arm. I will not cause her any pain if I can help it.

"Thank you for the bath, Annabelle," I say.

Annabelle nods and looks behind her. My brows furrow and I follow the direction of her gaze to a small window letting grey daylight into the dim room. Annabelle goes to the window, looks back at me, and points at the window. My brows furrow deeper. Why did she go to the window? Why is she pointing at it? The moths in my stomach flutter about. Annabelle waves her hand for me to come to her. I frown at her and quickly pull on my coat, limiting how much of my starved nakedness she sees. I wrap my arms about myself and tread lightly to her. Annabelle points to the window again and looks at me expectantly. What is she trying to tell me? I wish Mary was here right now.

I sigh and look out the window. Its panes are layered with dust and ash, especially thick in the corners. There's movement beyond the still specs of dust and ash. I look past them. Beyond the specs of dust and ash are white specs slowly falling from the sky, blanketing the ground in a thin layer of white. Snow.

I shake my head, rattling my addled mind more, and look at Annabelle. "It's snowing. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Annabelle shakes her head and points at me. She then points to herself and puts her finger to her lips as if she is telling me to hush myself…my eyes widen and my heart plummets. She heard Eliza and me speaking! She knows who I am! Who else is in this house!? Who else heard me!?

"Who else knows!?" I ask Annabelle. God, it's all slipping from my control!

"Just her and I," Eliza says. I look back at her. She stands beside the divider clinging to the top of it with one hand and to the side of it with her other hand. She shakes her head at me, her dark eyes soft and kind much like Annabelle's. "We won't tell anyone. Right, Annabelle?" Eliza looks to Annabelle. I look to her, too.

Annabelle looks me in my eyes and nods. She places her hand over her heart and nods again. My heart aches for her. Why is she mute? She is intelligent, not retarded in any way. Annabelle pulls her hand from her heart and reaches out to me, slipping her fingers between my arm and my hand. I allow her to take hold of my hand and lead me back to the bath she prepared for me. Annabelle lets go of my hand and pulls gently at my coat, but she doesn't force me to take it off. My stomach knots. I glance back at Eliza to see if she is watching. She is not looking at me, but she is looking back at the bed, a worried look on her face. She is not holding her babe, so her babe must be on the bed. I thought she did not want to set her babe down on the bed…yet she did so she could come to me.

"Is your babe alright?" I ask Eliza.

Eliza keeps her eyes trained on her daughter while she nods. "Guinevere's sleeping right now."

My eyes widen. "Guinevere!?" I keep my voice soft for the babe's sake.

Eliza nods, a smile gracing her pretty face despite her worry. "I decided just now to call her that."

"Guinevere," I say, testing her name in my mouth. A pinch of happiness and relief creep up in me. "Guinevere…means white." Appreciation fills my heart. Despite my lie and my unjust anger towards her, Eliza named her daughter after me. I'm still not sure what Eliza sees in me and why she wants her daughter to fashion her life after me. If the girl had enough years to understand, I would advise her to do everything that I do not do. Keep her integrity. Always be kind. Always forgive.

A soft cry sounds from across the room.

"Excuse me," Eliza says, pushing herself from the divider and hobbling toward the bed. Annabelle gestures quickly to the tub and rushes to help Eliza back to bed. I exhale with relief, drop my coat to the floor, and sink into the warm water before Annabelle returns. The water is dry but so warm! I let go of another breath and lean my head back against the tub's hard edge, taking in the wood beams of the ceiling. I blink and blink, each blink growing smaller and heavier. A yawn forces my mouth open. My body floats in the water. I'm enveloped in wonderful warmth with none of the furs and blankets to get caught up in. Despite the hard, rough edge of the tub pressing into the nape of my neck, my eyes close, restful darkness welcoming me—a hand grabs my shoulder! I bolt upright and look up, my eyes crossing Annabelle's.

"Oh, you startled me." I breathe out slowly and sink back into the warm water, the prickling cold fading from my breasts. Annabelle pats my shoulder and sits down on a stool beside the tub, a lumpy yellow bar of soap in her hand. As she puts the soft tallow soap to my arm and helps me wash away every dirt spec and grease droplet from my body, I cannot help but stare at her closed mouth. Not once has she opened it more than to laugh silently and smile. Why does she not speak? The moths in my stomach grow agitated and flutter about. It's not my business. Asking Annabelle about her muteness would be prying, but…I just have to know! Damn this macabre curiosity of mine!

"Annabelle?" I ask softly.

She looks up at me. I remain silent, half expecting her to speak, but her lips remain sealed. Of course she is not speaking. She's mute.

"Forgive me for asking, but…how come you don't speak?"

Annabelle stops rubbing the soap back and forth along my arm and forces the soap into my hand. Oh dear, I offended her. "I'm sor—" Annabelle opens her mouth wide and points into the gaping darkness of her mouth.

My brows furrow. "I'm…" I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

She opens her mouth wider and flattens her hand. She puts her flattened hand to her gaping mouth like she is about to put her fingers in, but she stops her fingertips at her teeth and yanks her hand back from her mouth in a violent motion, nearly hitting me! I flinch back, my eyes widening.

"Your tongue," I utter aloud, caught in shock. Annabelle closes her mouth and nods once, the air about her becoming somber. She takes the soap out of my hand and resumes scrubbing me down, using almost half of the soap bar. She had her tongue ripped out! But why!? Who did this!? How long ago was this!? Is this why Jerome was so defensive when he opened his door to me? I watch Annabelle's face, the fine wrinkles about her eyes deepening as she reaches across me and takes my scarred arm to clean it. My heart aches terribly for the woman and her family. Losing one's tongue…I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to eat, to speak. Perhaps she rarely utters a sound because she is too ashamed of the unusual sounds that she creates. When she called her husband's name last night, it sounded...garbled. God, does her ripped out tongue have anything to do with Eric not saying goodbye!?

Annabelle looks up at me and gestures to my scarred arm, a question in her eyes. My chest tightens as the memories pour into my mind. I can almost see my left arm going up in flame and feel the hellfire consuming my flesh.

"Fire," I say. I gently take the soap bar out of her hand and clean the rest of my body with it. "That's all I can tell you. I'm sorry." It is truly all I can tell her. To admit aloud that I failed to give Sara the burial she deserved, to admit that I gave up after that one time and did not attempt to burn her body when the opportunity presented itself, to confess that I gave into Finn and let him…Annabelle nods, understanding in her eyes. She helps me clean my head, her fingertips occasionally passing over a nick or slice in my scalp, making me wince each time. Finishing with my head, she wraps a clean strip of linen about my right thumb, closing off the wound.

"Thank you," I tell Annabelle as she helps me to stand up in the water and step out of the tub, water dripping down my body onto the floor. The cold closes its maws about me and I shiver. "From my heart, I thank you," I say, my voice shaking.

Annabelle smiles kindly at me and wraps a clean linen about me, granting me some reprieve from the cold. She leaves me to dry myself off and goes to her wardrobe beside the window. She opens it up and rummages through it. I finish drying off and watch her toss some old patched frocks over her arm and a pair of wool stockings. She clutches something tight in her other hand and comes back to me.

I only smile this time and take the old frocks off her arm. My stomach knots and my face flushes with some embarrassment, but I remove the soaked linen from my body and toss it over the top of the divider to dry. Annabelle helps me pull the several layers of frocks over my head and tighten the laces. At least the extra layers add some size to my skeletal body, perhaps giving the illusion that I am not as starved as I am. I sit down on the stool and lift my skirts high enough to pull on my stockings, allowing myself to bask in the warmth and the cedar wood smell of Annabelle's old but clean clothing. I freeze at the sight of my three missing toes. I mourned my three toes, but Sara lost so much more than me. I tug on one stocking and the other.

"May I have one more pair of stockings, please?" I ask Annabelle. I sense this winter is going to be very brutal, and I refuse to lose any more of my toes. Annabelle nods and goes to her wardrobe. She pulls out another set of stockings and brings them to me. I take them from her with a gracious smile and pull them on, grateful for the extra layer I have to keep me warm. I barely have any fat and muscle on my legs as is. I need all the warmth I can get. I toss my skirts back down my legs and go to stand up, but Annabelle grabs my shoulder and urges me to stay seated on the stool.

"What is it?" I ask her. She opens her clenched fist, showing me a coif that has yellowed over the years. My eyes spring open. "Oh!" I gingerly pat my head, feeling the sharp edges of my cut hair and several bare patches of my scalp! My face burns with shame. I drop my hands in my lap and look down at them. I start wringing my hands, unable to look at Annabelle right now. Why did I chop my hair like this? Eric might be so repulsed by my ugliness that he will never wrap his protective arms around me again. God, the thought of losing his touch…I release a shaky breath while Annabelle puts the coif on my head and ties it under my chin.

I'm not sure what to make of Eric and me. We started our journey threatening to kill each other, and now, just nine days later, I find myself longing for his arms about me. Worst of all, every time I see him, I find myself ensnared in his blue eyes. That terrible, sinful warmth has flooded my loins at the sight and feel of him more than once. That terrible, sinful warmth floods my loins now just thinking of him! I should not feel this way. It's wrong. It's sinful. If I ever reach Hammond's fortress alive and well, my hand belongs to William. My heart picks up and my stomach knots. And yet, just the mere thought of Eric…how Sara begged me to find him—no, I should not feel this way. I cannot let myself fall into this trap! This must be Maacthis' evil making me feel this way...yet how can it be his evil when his evil has been pushed from my heart? Or perhaps Maacthis created this feeling deep inside me to trick me?

Annabelle starts cleaning up my old clothes and my hair off the floor. I slide off the stool and drop to my knees to help her clean up my mess. I am more than ready to throw away the remnants of these fourteen years of filth and neglect and move on, clinging to the hope that Sara gave me.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

I go about the house after Annabelle, helping her with her chores. I help her wash and dry the dishes and sweep the floors. After that, she takes a lit rush and leads the way to the stairs that I had sat on with Eric last night. I still at the top of them while she hikes up her skirts and descends the steep steps. Each step creaks beneath her feet. My stomach knots. Despite the daylight and the added light of her rush illuminating most of the cellar, I still feel the ice cold draft coming from it. It still carries with it that sense of loneliness, desperation—Annabelle reaches the bottom of the stairs and turns back to me. Her eyes soften and she nods her head for me to come down there with her.

I swallow, my feet wanting so dearly to step back. The last time I was lowered into a dark cellar, Geoffrey was...I shake my head at her. "I...I prefer not to go down there." Excessive spit gathers in my mouth. I swallow again.

Annabelle frowns, her eyes filling with disappointment.

That tugs at my heart. "Perhaps there is something else I can do? Whatever it is you need help with, I'll do it."

Her frown slowly lifts. She holds up her second finger suddenly, telling me to wait, and scurries out of sight. Where did she go!?

"Annabelle!?" I call down the stairs, my feet still rooted to the floor. She reappears with a jar in her free arm and the lit rush in her other hand. She reaches the bottom of the stairs and stretches her hand as far up them as she can, offering me the lit rush.

"I'll take that." Just move your feet, Snow. You don't have to go down all the way. I pick up my skirts and take three steps down—as far as I dare to go. I reach out and take the rush from her. She gives me a kind smile, picks up her skirts and starts up the stairs. I turn and dash up the three steps. The relief hits me when my feet touch the floor.

Annabelle reaches the top of the stairs and leads me back to the dining table. She sets the jar on the table and motions for me to set the rush down on it.

"What's in there?" I press my hands on the table and lean forward to peer into the jar. A strong odor hits my nose! "Ah!" I jerk my head back and pinch my nose to keep the smell away!

Annabelle laughs silently and goes around the table to the shelves on the wall. She grabs a large bowl and a strange utensil I have never seen before. It's a wooden square-shaped frame with a very fine netting tightened over it.

As she comes back around to the table, I manage to let go of my nose and breathe in the sour air. "It smells like sour milk!"

Annabelle smiles and nods as she sets the bowl on the table and places the square-framed netting over it. She picks up the jar and tips it until the sour contents pour out. My eyes widen as the milk hits the netting, large curds getting caught on the netting whilst the remaining milk fills up the bowl. I watch in fascination as she empties the last of the sour milk into the bowl and sets the jar aside. What is she making? She goes back around the table to the shelves, collects a wood board for cutting, and rejoins me at the head of the table. She sets the cutting board down between us and picks up a handful of white curds. She sets them on the board and starts pressing the curds together.

My eyes widen. "You're making cheese!"

Annabelle snickers and nods at the curds.

"Oh!" She wants me to help! "Of course!" I grab a handful of the curdled milk, the curds soft and gooey. A brief waft of the sour odor hits my nose as I set the curds on the board and try to imitate how Annabelle presses the curds into a single mass. I scrunch up my nose against the smell, but it quickly leaves as we continue making the cheese. "Goat cheese, I assume?" I glance up at Annabelle.

She lifts her face to me and nods. She tears off a chunk of the cheese and offers it to me.

"Oh!" She wants me to try it. "I…sure." I take the chunk of cheese from her and examine it closely. Can't say I'm too keen to eat curdled milk, but I loved cheese before my imprisonment. Goat cheese was my favorite. I put the cheese in my mouth and press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. My eyes widen. The cheese melts on my tongue, that perfectly salty, sour taste bringing back such sweet memories! "Mmm!" I hum, my smile growing. Annabelle grins. "This is so good!" I say, trying to be as dignified as possible with a mouthful of cheese.

Annabelle nods, that look on her face speaking for her. She knows how good goat cheese is.

I swallow the cheese reluctantly. "The naysayers can deny it all they want. This…" I point at the goat cheese on the table "...is the best cheese in the world!"

Annabelle nods eagerly in agreement. We both laugh and resume pressing the curds into soft, gooey blocks.

Making the goat cheese takes up a good part of the morning. Afterwards, I help her clean up the mess and wrap the cheese to be stored in the cellar. Annabelle takes the cheese down herself, not silently asking me for help this time. When she comes back up the stairs, she disappears into her bedroom and comes back out with some worn clothes in her arms. She sets the worn clothes down on the table and shows me a small tunic which must be the youngest's. There's a large tear in the sleeve.

"I can stitch that for you," I say. "I'm no royal seamstress, but I remember some basic needlework from my youth."

Annabelle nods and hands me her son's tunic. She also provides me with a spool of thread and a needle. I spend the rest of the morning mending slices in some of Mary's worn frocks and patching up the big tears in the boys' shirts and tunics while Annabelle wipes away the dust from all the shelves, cabinets, and cupboards.

"Here! What do you think!?" I beam with pride while I hold up the last garment, another of the smallest boy's tunics, for Annabelle to see. She looks from dusting the mantle of the fireplace and grins. I return her smile, my chest swollen with pride, and snap the string with my teeth. I tie off the last mend, store away the needle and the spool of thread, and return the boy's mended shirt to the pile of clothes.

"I think I'll join the children in the stables now and help them." I rise to my feet and head for the front door, scooping up my coat and scarf off the back of a chair along the way. I pull on my coat, fasten it securely about me, and wrap my scarf about my head. Despite the embarrassment and shame of the…fit I threw earlier, it is easier to dress now that I don't have all my hair getting in the way. I open the door and step outside into the bitter cold, the snow crunching beneath my boots. I pull the door shut behind me until I hear that click. I tug my gloves out of my belt and slide my hands into them one at a time. Snow still falls from the cloud laden sky. My exhales go past my lips as billowing white smoke. Some of the snowflakes land on my lashes and cheeks and melt as pinpricks of chilling cold, but they are so dry. What I would not give to feel the wetness in the little pinpricks of cold, to feel the wetness of that snowflake melting and trickling down my cheek. Perhaps that's why I cry so much. I enjoy the wetness of my tears. It's the only wetness I ever feel aside from the spit in my mouth.

I look about the whole farm. The farm is much easier to see now that it is daylight. It is rooted in a large parcel of land with primitive fencing marking its boundaries. There are several enclosures of fencing within the boundary fence. There's an old, dilapidated coop for the chickens nestled within one of the enclosures, though I hear no clucking nor see any hens wandering about. My heart goes to the edge. There is a big old storehouse that I've seen farmers stuff their wheat into, but the storehouse is crumbling apart. The wood frames of the roof still remain, but all the bound thatch that must have filled in the frames is gone, leaving the inside of the storehouse open to the elements. This place has fallen into disrepair! Why would Jerome and Annabelle let it get this way?

My eyes fall on the only building that is in decent shape, though there are broken pieces of cobblestone all about it, too. It must be the barn because of its large doors, one of the doors cracked open enough for a starving girl to slip through. I cross the open white expanse towards the barn, the snow crunching beneath my steps. I glance at the ground behind me, a trail of my boot prints following me from the front door of the house. I frown and look ahead at the barn, drawing nearer to the cracked door. This family has had no crops in a few years. Mary and the other children are so thin. My heart aches terribly. They need something more to eat than just the occasional slaughtered goat and diluted goat's milk. I stop just outside the barn, finding myself rooted to the earth.

I have taken so much from others and have given so little back. I remember how Ravenna took the life out of that apple blossom, turning it to ash, and transferred the life to the barren soil beneath her feet. Perhaps…I turn back to the barren white expanse that must have once been one of their fields for their crops. This whole family has taken me in and washed me, clothed me, and fed me. All I have done is mend some clothes for them. I survived that one brutal winter, and if this winter is to be anything like that one brutal winter, this family will need far more sustenance than their goats can provide for them. My life is already cut short, and I have more than enough years to reach Hammond's fortress and free Greta.

I look about, making sure no one can see me. Just this empty white land and me. I pull off my gloves and drop to my hands and knees in the snow. I brush the snow away from the ash and rocky ground, freezing my fingertips, and put my hands to the earth. A slight hum trembles in the earth—this land is still living, but she is nearly dead. She just needs a little boon…which will be a great cost to me, but I need little less than a year to reach Hammond's fortress and gain the aid I need to free Greta.

So, I can give this parcel of land two, perhaps three years of my life so that she will bring forth fruits for this family to live off of. It's the least I can give them after all they have given me. I suck in the frigid air and look back at my heart, taking it into my hand. I wrap my ice cold fingers about my heart even though my heart remains deep within my chest. This…God, this could kill me if I don't cut my heart properly.

My heart beats weakly. It only has the strength to beat for seventeen years and twenty days. God, please don't let me kill myself doing this. Help me to cut properly. I focus on my heart, on its last three years—I should make the cut precisely there. I suck in another desperate breath. This will hurt dearly, but only for a moment, and I will be able to feed this family for three years at the cost of my shortened life. I take up Maacthis' blade in my other hand and make the first cut.

I cry out and clutch at my chest with one hand, fighting to keep the bridge between my life and the life of the land with my other hand. I slice back and forth, back and forth, shockwave after shockwave of pain coursing through my heart.

"God!" I sob His name as I make the last cut, completely severing the three years from the fourteen years and twenty days. I quickly push the three years of my life down my arm and into the earth. The earth quakes beneath me, gasping from the infusion of life. I rip my hand from the earth, shattering the bridge before the earth takes anymore of my life. My body trembles with weakness. I give into my weakness and collapse in the snow, barely noticing my fingertips freezing until they're numb.

I lay here staring up at the sky, snowflakes catching in my lashes. A blossoming of heat pours out of my heart and floods my body. My pain vanishes. Peace fills me. Though I have shortened my life, something that should frighten me, I feel peace. I wonder, is this the Maker's reward for the three years that I gave to this patch of earth?

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

My strength gradually returns. I'm not sure how much time has passed. Hopefully not too much as to raise suspicion. I brace my hands in the snow and force myself to my wobbly feet. I teeter for a moment, but I soon find my balance and pull on my gloves to warm my frozen, numb hands. Mary asked me to come to the barn to help her. I turn and make my way towards the barn, glancing back at the disturbed snow where I had laid for God knows how long. God, please let something grow there for the family to eat. I will never tell them what I did lest they think me a witch or possessed—though I am partially possessed. They will see their dormant seeds sprouting past the snow soon enough.

The excited squeal of a child sounds from inside the barn as I near it, soothing my ears and my freshly carved heart. I welcome the bit of happiness with a faint smile and squeeze between the barn doors.

"I wonder where she could be!" a boy says, pulling my eyes to a lanky boy peering over the top of an empty stall. "Ben, come here!" The boy turns and scoops up the smallest boy that I saw last night in his arms. My eyes widen with pleasant surprise. That little boy must be Ben.

The little boy leans forward in his elder brother's arms to peer down into the empty stall. "I found you!" the little boy says, his young voice carrying the innocence and sweetness of a small child not yet jaded with this world's evil.

Mary springs up on the other side of the stall, beaming with delight. "You found me! Good job, Benny!" She grabs the edge of the stall and pulls herself up, kissing Benny on the cheek. The little boy squeals again and hugs Mary about her neck.

"That's enough games now!" another boy hollers, the pitch of his voice caught somewhere between a boy and a man. "Get back to work!" I look at who spoke. The eldest boy, the one who held back that vicious hound last night, stands at the other end of the barn brushing down a horse. That must be Louis.

"Oh please, brother!" Mary says. "A moment more of fun and we will get back to work!"

"No!" Louis snaps. "Mary, fill up the feeding troughs. Stephan, finish mucking out this stall." Louis points to the open stall beside the horse and resumes brushing the horse. I frown at Louis and take a few steps to him—"Greta, you finally came!" Mary says, halting my steps.

I look back at her and smile. "I got caught up helping your mother in the house." Partly true.

"Good," Louis says sternly. I look at him, meeting his hard, brooding eyes. That steals my smile. "Help Mary fill the troughs." Louis resumes brushing the horse, brushing him so harshly that I hear the bristles scratching the poor horse's skin. Worry fills me for the horse and for Louis' safety. The last thing we need is an agitated horse.

"Louis, right?" I ask tentatively.

"Yes." He keeps his eyes on his near violent work. Goodness, the way he tightens his fingers about the brush handle, the harshness of each stroke, the coldness in his voice, the stiffness of his shoulders—he's carrying a lot of anger.

"Louis, Louis!" Ben runs past me to his eldest brother's side, hopping up and down on the tips of his little boots. "Let's build a snowman! Let's play!"

"NO!" Louis snaps at the boy and looks up at me. "Never mind about helping Mary! You watch him!"

I step forward to take Ben's hand, but Ben wraps his little arms about Louis' waist and says, "I want you to play, too! Pleas—"

"GET OFF ME!" Louis pushes Ben off him, sending Ben stumbling back!

"BEN!" I dive to my knees and catch the boy in my hands, saving his little head from striking the floor!

Mary gasps. "LOUIS!"

"WHAT!?" Louis says, but I cannot take my eyes off little Ben laying in my lap. He stares up at me. His blue eyes, wide with shock, start to glisten.

"You pushed him!" Stephan says.

"You could have really hurt Benny if Greta wasn't right there!" Mary says. Tears brim in Ben's eyes and spill down the sides of his face. I examine the boy's head closely, feeling for any bumps or cuts. Nothing. I caught the boy in time, but he is so shaken and deeply hurt.

"You're alright, Benny," I tell the boy gently. "Come here." I lift the little boy to his feet, turn him around and hug him. I look up at Louis, meeting his glaring black eyes.

"He should not have touched me," Louis says, his voice almost…sinister.

I shake my head at Louis and tighten my arms about Ben. "Louis, he's is your youngest, most innocent broth—"

"HE'S NOT MY BROTHER!" Louis yells.

"Louis!" Mary says, horrified. "Why did you say that!? You're wrong! Ben," Mary comes to my side and hugs Ben and me, "you are our brother. Louis is just mistaken."

"Stop lying, Mary. It's about time that bastard child knows," Louis says.

My eyes widen, my mind partly addled, but the pieces are suspiciously connecting. I say, "Louis, you and Benjamin are Annabelle's sons. Both of yo—"

"Who are you to tell me who is who!? You don't know us!"

Benjamin buries his face in my neck and starts crying.

"Get out of here, Louis!" Stephan says.

"You can't tell me what to do!" Benjamin's crying turns to sobbing, earning Louis' glare. "SHUT HIM UP!"

"ENOUGH!" I snap, the last of my patience gone. "Louis, like it or not, Benjamin is your brother! He will always be your brother! I don't know what tragedy befell your family to cause such strife, but you need to forgive and love! Benjamin has done nothing to you but love you! Your anger is leading you to disaster!—"

"What the hell is this!? Some intervention to save me!? You think you're so upright that you can fix all our problems!?"

"No! My soul is charred black with sin, but you are still young enough to come back from thi—"

"I don't want to come back!" Louis says. "The only reason he's still here is because of Mama! He's not my brother! He will never be my brother! Now mind your own fucking business!"

Stephan steps in front of me and faces his taller brother, putting himself between the three of us and Louis. "Get out of here," Stephan says. Louis stands there unmoving, glaring at Stephan. Stephan steps closer to Louis, takes the horse brush out of his hand, and points at the barn doors. "Go," he says again.

"Tsk!" Louis turns and storms out of the barn, throwing the barn doors wide open on his way out. The snow crunches loudly beneath his boots. They quickly grow softer and softer until they go silent, leaving Stephan standing there, his back and shoulders stiff and unmoving. Benjamin and Mary still cling to me, both weeping softly from the whole…confrontation. I take one arm from Benjamin and wrap it around Mary. God, whatever tragedy befell this family, I know Annabelle lost her tongue because of it and little Benjamin is not of Jerome's blood. Judging by the boy's fair hair and blue eyes—my eyes widen. He couldn't possibly be Eric's son…could he? Perhaps that's why Jerome did not want to let us in at first! But then what would explain Annabelle losing her tongue? From what I have observed, Jerome loves his wife. He would never harm her. Louis' anger, perhaps hate, is for Benjamin, that much I saw, but he never expressed anger and hate for Annabelle. I would think that if Eric ever forced himself on Annabelle, Jerome would have killed him when we showed up on his doorstep, but Jerome didn't. If Benjamin is Eric's son, then any past relationship Eric and Annabelle had would have been chosen by both, but then that would've meant Eric's disloyalty to Sara!

God, I don't know Eric, but I pray that I am wrong about all this. Eric has convinced me that he is a good man. If any of this is true…then that means Eric has betrayed me.

Stephan turns to me and sighs, his eyes full of sadness. "Greta, right?" he asks me.

I swallow and nod, the lie wringing my heart.

"Could you take Benjamin inside and play with him? Make him forget any of this happened?"

I frown at Stephan. "No one forgets something like this." I pat Mary on the back, clasp my hands beneath Ben's bottom, and rise to my feet. "But I'll take him inside and try to cheer him up."

Stephan nods somberly. "Thanks."

I only nod and walk out of the barn, carrying Ben in my arms all the way back into the house.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

It takes some effort, but with Annabelle's motherly arms about him and me asking Ben about his toys in his toy chest for sometime, he starts opening up to me. Then, he starts smiling. Then comes his heart-soothing laughter.

Ben scrambles out of his mother's arms and hops onto my back. "Giddy up, horse!" he says with a grin, clinging to my shoulders.

"Yes sir!" I spring to my feet and gallop about the room in circles. I whinny and neigh like a horse as best as I can. Ben squeals with excitement and clings tighter to me.

"Yah, horse! Yah!" he cheers.

I can't help but laugh while Ben cheers. The boy is awfully light for having five years, but praise God this famine has not touched the boy's desire to play. I gallop about like a horse as best as I can, that same bubbly sense growing in my stomach. It's the same feeling I felt when Eric and I passed his ale back and forth between us—fun.

The front door opens, letting a sudden cold draft into the house. I stop in my tracks and spin about, wrapping one arm about Benny's back to hold him securely to me. Stephan and Mary stop at the doorway, kick the snow off their boots and come in. Stephan carries a ceramic pitcher in his hand and a rolled, dried animal hide tucked beneath his arm. Louis enters right behind them with his vicious grey hound at his side, the hound looking just as content to be at Louis' side as Wessel II was content to sit on Wessel's shoulders. Louis and I lock eyes as he goes to the far corner of the room with his dog, a look of anger, perhaps pure evil, darkening them. I frown at the boy, pity in my heart...and an inkling of fear of what Louis may one day do to Benjamin out of anger. Louis is a volatile boy.

Gruff, boisterous laughter draws my eyes to the doorway. Jerome stops at the threshold and kicks the snow off his boots before stepping into the house, wearing a toothy grin while he carries a large burlap sack into the house.

"Aye, I remember that!" My heart flutters. That's him. His voice, so unique, so recognizable anywhere. Jerome passes by me, heading to Annabelle, but I cannot take my eyes from the empty threshold. Eric…he's back. Jerome's thumping footsteps stop near me. The soft, wet parting of a kiss sounds to my right where Annabelle and Jerome are.

"Glad to see you, my wife," Jerome greets. His footsteps sound behind me and stop by the table. Something drops on the table with a loud thud. "We've got fresh meat!" Jerome says.

"So you did kill that poor goat?" Mary asks sadly.

"The man brings food to the table for his family, Mary," Jerome says. I would look back, but I cannot take my eyes off the threshold and from the white world outside. "The woman cooks it and serves it."

"Put me down!" Ben says, tugging my attention to him. I crouch low to the floor and let him slide off my back, not taking my hands from him until he is safely on his feet. Ben lets go of my shoulders and comes to my side, grabbing my hand. "Come with me!" he says.

"Yes Sir!" I gladly follow him to his toy chest, thankful for something to help me forget Eric. Just hearing his voice, the trance it put me in—it's frightening.

"Let's play War!" Ben says, grabbing two whittled toys out of his open toy chest. Ben comes to me and climbs into my lap. "You be the horse!"

"Alright." I wrap my arm around his waist to hold him securely in my lap. Ben hands me his toy horse.

"Alright Dutch!" Ben says, deepening his voice to make believe that he is the knight. He stands his knight on the floor. I neigh like a horse—as best as I can—and stand the horse on the floor beside his knight.

"We're going to war!" Ben says and sits his knight on the back of my horse. "WAARRR!" Ben roars. "FOR THE KING!"

I neigh like the horse again, but I end up laughing at myself as I tip the horse back like the horse is rearing up.

"YAH!" Ben shouts, so I gallop the toy horse along the floor, its tiny wood hooves going cli-click, cli-click, cli-click. That same light, bubbly feeling persists in my stomach—fun. I neigh and whinny while Ben orders me about and makes all sorts of war sounds with his mouth, the cranking of the catapults as they are wound back, the whooshing of the arrows as they fly through the air, the crash of the flaming boulders as they fall on the imaginary army riding alongside the knight and his noble steed. Whatever casualties Ben is imagining, I'm not sure, but in my mind, no one gets crushed beneath the boulders, nor any of the horses' hairs singed from the fire, nor anyone struck by the flying arrows. Our army is that powerful.

"We're the most strong army in the whole world!" Ben says.

I laugh at his innocent error. "Indeed! No one can beat us! Not one knight nor his horse shall fall!"

"YES!" Ben says and looks up suddenly. "I want you to play too!"

Our imaginary war comes to a grinding halt and I follow Ben's gaze up, up, all the way up to Eric's face. Eric chuckles, his eyes gleaming as he looks from Benny to me. That same invisible, silent strike of lightning shoots through me, leaving all my nerves buzzing and acutely aware of Eric's nearness. His warmth touches me far more than the fire's heat despite the space between us. No, that sort of heat is impossible. It must be Maacthis making me feel this.

His chuckling ebbs into a smile and he shifts his gaze to Ben. "I will play…" his eyes dart back to me with no turn of his head, putting his face at a certain angle that makes it incredibly difficult to breathe "…if yer gallant steed here will let me."

I laugh awkwardly and squirm, pulling Ben closer to me. God, how long has he been watching me play with Ben? I'm a grown woman, yet here I am enjoying this game of make believe with a boy of five years so much that I became lost in it.

"Let him play! Please!" Ben says, drawing my eyes down to him.

"Uh, sure, sure!" I glance up at Eric and smile sheepishly, my cheeks on fire. To think that I suspected Eric of being the boy's father. Their eyes are completely different blues. Benjamin's hair is fine to touch and too blonde, while Eric's is far coarser and several shades darker. Their features, too, are vastly different, not a hint of sameness between them. "Of course you're welcome to play!"

Eric laughs while he sits down on the floor close beside me, his gaze staying with mine.

"I'll get him another knight! Let me up!" Ben says, wriggling in my arm in an attempt to get out.

"Oh, of course!" I release him and he bolts to his chest to grab a toy for Eric.

"Ye've got a sweet innocence, lass," Eric says softly.

I glance at him from under my lashes, finding it too hard to look at him fully in my shame. A sweet innocence? My pounding heart, my stirring stomach, my hot, swollen, throbbing loins? "I'm…I'm not innocent. I know of men's desires for women…" My shame and embarrassment grows too much and forces my eyes down to my hands…my sinful hands. "And of women's desires for men."

Ben comes back to us and leaps into my lap, my arm going about him without thought. "Here!" He pushes another whittled knight into Eric's hand. "You be Sir John!" Ben picks up his knight off the floor. "I'll be Sir Arthur! She'll be horse Dutch!"

I laugh and hug him to me, though that fun feeling is fading fast to the throbbing, hot desire pulsing through my veins.

"Come on, Dutch!" Ben says. "Sir John!" Ben waddles his toy knight over to Eric's and I quickly gallop my horse across the floor after Sir Arthur. "Will you ride with me!?"

"AYE! Let's ride, brotha!" Eric says, his gruff accent sending a chill down my spine. It's a brief reprieve from all this tormenting heat. So brief. Too brief.

"AYE!" Ben says. "Let's ride, Dutch!" Ben puts his knight on my horse's back. I rear my toy up and neigh, causing Ben and Eric to laugh at my sappy imitation of a horse.

"Hey, wait, where's my horse!?" Eric asks, his voice causing the throbbing heat in my loins to now burn like fire.

"Oh…" Benny trails off, his young, innocent mind working hard to solve the problem. "Well…Sir John, you'll ride with me! Get on!"

Eric chuckles. "Aye." He puts his toy knight on my horse's rump behind Benny's knight, the warm, rough skin of his hand brushing across the side of mine. My skin tingles and burns! I cannot take this torture any longer!

"I'm so sorry, Ben." I drop Ben's toy horse, successfully freeing my hand from Eric's fiery flesh, and I try to lift Ben out of my lap.

"What are you doing!?" Ben wails. My freshly carved heart almost breaks as I strain to lift the boy out of my lap!

"I'm so sorry, but I must – My God, why are you so heavy all of a sudden!?" I heave as I finally place him on his feet! I turn Ben around by his arms, a smile inevitably breaking my face. "You did not weigh this much when I carried you inside!"

Eric laughs, pulling my eyes to him against my will. "Wee ones can make themselves deadweight when they dinnae want to be moved." Eric laughs some more, sending shivers down my spine. Only when he falls silent do I have some reprieve from his voice, but he keeps his smile, causing my freshly carved heart to flutter and struggle to beat. I turn my face from him to preserve my life. If I continue looking at him, my heart will eventually stop beating from exhaustion. Then, I will die.

"I'm sorry, but I must relieve myself." I stand and start for Jerome and Annabelle's bedroom. Eliza said there's a chamberpot beneath their bed.

Eric laughs again. "Like I said, lass, a sweet innocence!"

His words halt me. The memory floods my mind—that dark forest, the harsh trickling sound of him…relieving himself, him calling me prudish. I look back at him, my cheeks burning. He raises his brows at me. We both laugh. I shake my head at the hunter and force myself to run from him into the bedroom before he exhausts my heart to the point of death. I shut the door behind me with that click and seek out the chamberpot beneath the bed, now truly feeling the pressing need in my bladder.

Strange. My heart must be too freshly wounded to take too much strain. Like any grave wound, I need to take the time to let it rest and heal and not put too much strain on the injury.

I put the lid on the chamberpot, slide it carefully back under the bed, and cleanse my hands with water and the tallow soap. I start for the closed door, but I stop at the sight of the small, swaddled bundle on the bed. I look closer. Guinevere lies there sleeping contently in her mother's spot, swaddled so carefully and perfectly in the linens Annabelle had wrapped her in last night. My freshly carved heart aches more profoundly than ever before for the babe. Her father was alive only two days ago. If Ravenna had sent her black glass knights to raid the village a day later, then would Geoffrey still be alive? If Eric and I weren't there and the black glass knights attacked the same day that they had, would Geoffrey and Eliza have gotten out safely? He had to waste the time of hauling my worthless skin inside. Then, he had to let Eric in when Eric found me in their home. Then, Eric and Jerome had to lower Eliza and me into the makerforsaken darkness of that hidden cellar. And then Geoffrey had to let Eric jump down first. That was two people who, had they not been there, would have given Geoffrey enough time to jump down and pull the hidden floor back over their heads before the black glass knights broke down the door.

Tears well in my eyes. I fight to keep them back, but the sheer amount forces them out of my eyes. A sob escapes me. I cover my mouth with my hands. I do not want anyone to hear me weep.

"I'm sorry," I tell Guinevere in my hands. "I'm so sorry!" It becomes too much to stand. I collapse to my knees at the bedside and bury my face in the furs and blankets, clawing into them and weeping. "I'm so sorry!" I tell her quietly, though she does not understand me. Lord above, if it were possible, I would give up my life just to raise Geoffrey from the dead, but no one can be brought back from the dead. Once life is gone, it's gone. Life is finite, the most precious thing there is.

Worry twists my gut. If I remain in here any longer sobbing, it will bring Eric in here whether he has the sense to knock before entering or not. I scrub my tears from my eyes and rise to my feet with every intention of heading out that bedroom door, but I become stuck in my spot, my eyes tethered to Guinevere. My heart aches all over again, but this time it's drawn to her. I should leave now, let the babe have the peace of quiet...but seeing her innocent form lying there, so at peace, unperturbed by all this world's troubles...I reach out and place my scarred hand on the babe's torso. Her torso rises and falls beneath my scarred hand much quicker than any adult breathes. I would ask Annabelle if this is normal for the babe to be breathing this fast, this erratically, but something inside me tells me that this is normal. She is a babe just born last evening. This is how babes breathe.

A painfully tender smile pushes into my cheeks. I sit down on the bed, barely shifting it beneath my weight, and savor her breathing. I feel the strength of her life. I dare not reach for her heart to know her exact number of years, but any unpracticed user of Maacthis' power can sense how strong someone's life is, and this babe's life is very, very strong. If no harm should befall her to shorten nor end her life, she could very well live a century. Perhaps a little more should the Maker will it—the door clicks as it opens! I look up, my eyes crossing Eliza's dark ones.

Her eyes shift from her daughter to me and she smiles kindly. "Like I said, a natural born mother!"

I laugh awkwardly and take my hand from Guinevere. "You know, if I had—" I stop myself and motion for her to come in. She nods and steps in, shutting the door behind her.

I smile softly at Eliza and say, "If I had not been imprisoned…" Eliza comes and sits down on the bed beside me, barely shifting the mattress beneath her small frame despite her still swollen belly. Both of our gazes drift to little Guinevere. "I would have been William's wife for…five, six...seven years now!" My smile leaves me, the perfect life Mama and Papa had planned for me gone. "I would have born five, six babes already. That's five…six lives lost!" Tears well in my eyes and threaten to fall. "What a grave loss!"

"No," Eliza says, putting her sinless, unblemished hand on her daughter's torso. "The Maker knows all the choices we will make." I look up at Eliza, meeting her soft gaze. "He knows all who have and who will live and die. There is no life lost—"

"Geoffrey," I choke out.

Eliza stops short.

I shake my head, my heart wrung. "If I had not been there—" I take Eliza's free hand in both of mine "—he would still be alive. Eliza, forgive me! Believe me, if I could give up my pathetic life to bring him back, I would!—"

"No!" Eliza says tearfully and takes her hand from her babe, placing her other hand over mine. "There is nothing to forgive! Geoffrey…" Eliza sniffles and fights to keep her tears back enough to speak. "He made the choice to stand against the Queen's phantom soldiers. He knew…he knew what he was doing and there was nothing any of us could have done to change that."

I shake my head. "But!—"

"Not even you." Eliza squeezes my hands in hers. Despite our best efforts, tears spill down both of our faces. Eliza takes her hands from mine and hugs me tightly, forcing my chin onto her shoulder. I hug her despite my guilt, accepting the gift of her shoulder to cry on. She, too, weeps on my shoulder. Here I was mourning something I never had, yet Eliza had someone so precious in her life and now she has lost him. How can I lose something if I never had it? My tears are completely unwarranted, while hers are justified.

We weep and weep, her over the loss of her husband, and me over my self-pity. God, how horrible. It's like day embracing night, sinlessness embracing sin, selflessness embracing selfishness. Moments pass of weeping. My tears dry up much sooner than Eliza's, but I still hold her. This is the least I can give her after all she has given me.

Eliza weeps some more…until she starts to quiet. Eventually, she pulls back and grabs my arms, something resolute, something sickening, in her glistening eyes. "You don't see it now, but there is a reason you survived fourteen years of imprisonment. There is a reason you escaped!—"

"Luck," I say, shaking my head already at what she is going to say. "It's not fate, not destiny, not God's plan! Please, Eliza, you promised me—"

"Forgive me, Princess, but—"

"Don't call me that!" I hiss. "That title is dead. It died that fateful night I…," I trail off, barring the memories from coming to my mind's forefront. I do not want to relive that fateful night right now.

Silence falls between us.

"Fateful," Eliza says. "I'm not begging you to turn back now and fight the tyrant Queen. You must reach Hammond's fortress first—"

"Stop!—"

"Please," Eliza pleads so softly, yet so damn persistently! "Please just hear me."

Anger wells in my chest, but I restrain it as best as I can despite her broken promise. "You promised me."

Eliza sighs. "I know, but as you and Eric continue onward to Hammond's fortress, please do not forget what happened in Hymark…all the lives lost. None of this was your fault," she says, her voice growing more resolute with each word. "But there are so many lives at the tyrant Queen's mercy. For the last fourteen years, she has slaughtered us one by one. If this continues, soon there will be none of us left."

My eyes widen. My freshly carved heart nearly stops beating. My God, I…is that possible? Will she murder every last soul in Tabor? To think of Mary, of Stephan, of Ben being—Life is finite, a most precious resource. I see so much death around me. Gwen is the only fresh life in this dying land.

Eliza squeezes my arms. "Please…think about it during your journey."

I sigh, my shoulders dropping. "I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in God or the Maker's plan. I question if He is real."

She nods. "I know, but in time, I believe you'll come around." My eyes widen more. Sara said the same thing. Eliza continues, "Sara was meant to inspire you. Eric is meant to protect you."

"Coincidence," I say, though deep down I cannot shake this irking sense that she—no, she's wrong. "Meeting Sara, meeting Eric, meeting you—it's all coincidence. Just…" I shake my head "…astounding luck." How I would love for some solid evidence to show her the error of her beliefs so that she does not cling to this false hope of freedom, but no matter how much I search my mind for it, I find nothing but that same damn irking sense telling me that I am wrong and foolish.

"You'll be leaving Tabor, I hope?" I ask her.

Eliza nods. "Geoffrey's family to the north is just outside Tabor."

I nod, reveling in the relief of her answer. "Good."

Eliza smiles and rubs my arms. "Come! We can help Annabelle prepare dinner."

I rise with her from the bed. "Your babe will be fine here alone?"

She smiles and nods as she starts for the door. "Yes. Please leave the door open so I can keep my eyes on her."

"Of course!" I follow Eliza out of the bedroom, leaving the door open as she requested. I do not spare Eric a glance as I pass by him to join Annabelle and Eliza at the table where she rubs seasonings into slabs of raw goat meat. Annabelle looks up at Eliza and me and grins, silently thanking us for the help.

So, just like any proper family in Jerome's eyes, us women prepare the food and enjoy each other's company while the men lounge in comfortable looking chairs before the fire conversing and laughing over some well deserved drinks for their day's labor. Mary sits at her father's feet with Ben, entertaining the boy by reading a storybook. Stephan sits at the head of the table scrawling away on the parchment he had carried in while Louis sits in the far corner of the room in shadow with that vicious hound. I peek at Louis a few times, but he just keeps stroking the hound with a gentleness I did not think him capable of. He keeps his eyes closed the whole time, seeming so…at peace with his beloved pet.

I'm a little rough at first carving the meat from the bone with the knife, but after Eliza and Annabelle show me a few tricks, I recall my skill with carving rat meat from their bones and apply that to the goat meat. The horrible, three month long nightmare of that winter threatens to plague me a few times, but every time that long, nightmarish memory threatens to replay in my mind, I focus on the goat's hoof that I had discreetly set aside. I am carving apart a goat. Not a rat. Not…no, just a goat.

After we finish rubbing seasonings into the goat meat, we skewer the meat slabs on long metal prongs and place them over the fire to let them cook. Annabelle goes to Mary, hands her a lit rush, and the two go down into the cellar. Annabelle and Mary return soon with a clay jar of cold goat milk and the packages of cheese we had pressed earlier. Mary returns to Ben and continues reading to him while Annabelle joins Eliza and me. Soon, the whole house smells of cloves and salt.

"That smells good!" Jerome says.

"Aye!" Eric says. I purposely stay between Eliza and Annabelle and speak with them, keeping my back to Eric the whole time. Somehow, our conversation flows naturally despite Annabelle being mute, but Eric is always present at my back regardless of whether he speaks or keeps silent. My heart still tremors with every syllable he utters and falters with every note of his laughter.

The meat soon finishes cooking and we three women take the iron prongs off to let the meat cool.

"We'll split this into three parts," Eliza says. "One part for tonight's dinner, one part for Eric and Greta to take with them tomorrow, and one part for Jerome's family to eat later."

Eliza and Annabelle both look at me, my secret trapped between our six native brown eyes. I smile at both of them and nod my silent gratitude to them. They do not return my smile. That steals my smile. No doubt Annabelle feels the same about my refusal to fight Ravenna as Eliza does. But there is nothing I can say nor do to convince them that their hope of freedom is for naught. With frowning mouths, Annabelle, Eliza and I split the meat into three parts; one part for tonight's dinner, one part for Eric and me, and one part for Jerome's family to eat later. After we finish parting the meat and pack the two other parts into sacks, we grab plates and distribute the meat and cheese accordingly for each person. Eliza grabs nine cups and pours the goat milk into each one. I pick up two plates and go to bring one to Jerome, but Eliza steps in front of me and hands Jerome his plate. I laugh at my awkwardness and turn to Mary and Ben to give them these two plates, but Annabelle cuts in front of me with two plates in her hands and passes them to her children.

"Ye gonna feed me or no'?" Eric asks with the sound of a grin. My feet turn to him against my will, my eyes crossing his blue ones and ensnaring me. He grins wider and holds his bear-sized hand out, waiting for me to serve him his plate. I swallow. This is what I was hoping to avoid—facing him, looking at him, interacting with him, if only to preserve my life. Despite my complete unwillingness, part of me...part of me likes his attention.

I can't help the bashful smile spreading my lips and my blazing cheeks as I place the plate in his hand, his rough fingertips grazing mine. Shockwaves shoot up my arm and down into my chest, making my heart falter once before it finds its rhythm.

"Sorry," I tell him, so reluctant yet so desperate to pull my fingertips from his, but I manage to do so.

He grins and stands up from his comfortable seat before the hearth. He steps aside and gestures to the chair. "Sit."

My eyes widen and I take a step back, shaking my head. "Oh no, no I can't—"

"I dinnae need the seat." He grabs my free hand despite my protest and pulls me to the chair, not too gently, but not too roughly either. I stop before the chair, my eyes still caught in his.

His smile softens to something kind…tender. "Sit."

Guilt and reluctance weigh on my weakened heart. "Thank you." As I go to sit down, my knees grow weak and wobble. I nearly collapse into the chair, but Eric's hand tightens about mine before I fall back and he helps me to sit down gently.

His eyes widen as his smile falls "Ye alright?" he asks, concern filling his eyes.

My smile leaves me. "I'm fine." I ease my hand out of his and cling to my plate with both hands. Already I miss his rough skin against mine! Why!? This must be Maacthis' evil.

He only frowns, his eyes failing to stray from me. "Are ye sure? Yer paler."

I frown at him. For him to notice a subtle change in the shade of my skin and be concerned about it as he is…it works its way into every bit of my freshly carved heart. "I'm sure," I say. What else can I say? Oh yes Eric, I carved three years from my heart with Maacthis' knife and infused my life into the land so that it can bring forth three years of crops for Jerome's family!? I'd laugh aloud if I could.

Eric frowns at me, his concern still in his eyes. "Eat. I'll get ye some milk." He sets his plate down on the floor and goes to the table where Eliza had poured the cups of milk before I can say anything. He picks up two cups and comes back, stopping before me. He offers me one of the cups.

My heart softens for him. Perhaps too much. "Thank you." I offer him a smile and accept the cup from him, the smile half forced, but half genuine.

He returns my smile and sits down on the floor beside me where he had set his plate down.

We all eat while most everyone converses. Even Annabelle manages to become part of the chatting with her head nods and expressive looks. I keep silent. Eric's concerned eyes keep flitting to me…as if he is checking to see that I am still breathing. I give him the biggest smile I can muster every time he looks my way, but he barely returns my smile half the time. His concern for me...it's been fourteen years since most anyone has cared for me like this. Sure, there was Sara, and there is Annabelle and Eliza, but all three of them cared and care for me with this dreadful, false hope that I will deliver them from Ravenna's tyranny. They cared and care for me because they expect that I'll do something for them. Eric…my heart drops when our eyes cross again, his icy blue, foreign-born eyes still concerned. He expects repayment for his good deeds, too, but at the same time he has asked for so cheap a price for so steep a service. God, far steeper than he can ever know until I am safe in William's arms within Hammond's fortress walls.

"Eric?" I lean towards him so that I do not have to speak so loudly amidst all the lively chatter. His eyes still on me. "Tell me the truth. Geoffrey told me that this journey to Hammond's fortress is four months long! Yet all you have asked for is fifty gold pieces and a young horse with all her tack. If Je—"

"Forget the horse and her tack," Eric says, something lightening his eyes. "I found my horse today."

"Oh." My brows furrow, but this news is nothing to question further. So he found a wild horse and tamed it, or he stole it, or Jerome gave him one. "That still leaves the fifty gold pieces," I say. Eric puts a piece of meat in his mouth and chews while I continue, "That's now an even cheaper price for the undertaking you have agreed to! How do I know that you're not going to abandon me in the night?" He slows his chewing and stops. "Sure, you say you want your gold only for more ale, but you would gain far more gold and therefore far more ale if you sold me into some brothel or—"

"Quiet!" he hisses. He sets his plate down on the floor, steals my empty plate from my lap, and sets it down on the floor. He snatches my free hand in his, holding me captive. "Come with me, I'll explain," he whispers. How I want to pull my hand from his, but there's nothing I can do against his mountain man grip as he gets to his feet and hauls me out of this comfortable chair. I set my cup on the chair's cushioned seat and let him lead me around the corner to the top of the stairs that he led me up last night.

"Please," I halt in my steps at the top of the stairs, fear churning my stomach, "not down into that darkness again." I avoided it earlier.

He turns to me, his grip about my hand loosening enough that I could pull away if I want to…but I don't. "Yer no' goin' down there again, ye have my word." His eyes soften with something I have never seen before, not on his face nor on anyone else's. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it. "Ye said ye trusted me. Where's that trust now!?"

I shake my head at him, my brows furrowed and my mind thoroughly scrambled. "Why do you care if I trust you or not?"

He takes his hand from mine, leaving me so exposed, so vulnerable. "Because ye need to trust me if we are to reach Hammond's fortress alive and well. If there's too much distrust between us, we'll ne'er rest because we'll ne'er be able to close our eyes around each other! If we cannae rest, then we will quickly lose our strength for this journey. The road to Hammond's is four months long, aye, and we'll be travelin' over very difficult land with this winter's snow fallin' on us! Greta," he grabs my shoulders and hunches his back to put his eyes more level with mine, my heart squeezing at the false name, "ten days ago, Ravenna's brother and phantom soldiers found me face down in the mud behind a godsforsaken tavern! They forced me to Ravenna's throne all covered in ravens. Ravens, no' crows," he sneers and shakes his head. "She threatened to kill me if I refused to hunt ye. I begged her to kill me." My eyes widen. He begged her to kill him? I never…it never crossed my mind that he wants to die.

Eric breathes in deeply, his bright eyes ensnaring me. "But…" he releases my shoulders and straightens his back, grief and regret darkening his eyes "…she swore to me she could bring Sara back." His body emanates his regret and embarrassment like fire's heat that burns my soul.

I frown at him. "Nobody can be brought back from the dead—"

"Ye told me that already!—" He stops himself and sucks in a deep breath. His face falls with sudden sadness. "'A life for a life,' she said," he admits, his words barely louder than a whisper. He scowls suddenly. "And like the damned fool I am, I fell for it."

My frown deepens, another troublesome thought arising in my mind—further reason to not trust him. "Damned fool, drunkard, gullible—doesn't matter then or now." His eyes open up, but I continue, "You still chose to hunt someone down who you knew nothing about! Sara…God, she has passed into eternal rest, and you would seek to bring her back to this hell!?" I gesture to the wood beams beneath our feet. "That is pretty damn selfish!—"

"I know!" he snaps. He stops himself again and draws in another deep breath. "I know," he says, his tongue still sharp but kinder. "I'm sorry. Yer right. I'm selfish. I have and ne'er will claim to be better than that, but I huvnae told ye one lie."

"Hmm," I hum to myself. He has not told me a single lie…but—"You did lie once," I tell him.

His eyes widen. "When!?"

A faint smile tugs at my mouth. "Back in that dark forest when you threatened to kill me should I make noise. I made noise."

He raises his eyebrows at me, the air about him shifting to something lighter. "A lot of noise."

"And yet here I am still breathing...my heart beating." I almost gesture to myself, but I wrap my arms about me in a futile attempt to hide my starved shape from him. I did not see this before. The fact that I am still breathing unharmed in his presence, that my heart still beats—that is almost enough to convince me to trust him. If only I had known before to look back to the very beginning, I could have saved this whole discussion from happening. Though since we are here now, why not finish this?

"If you never tell a lie, then you must kill me now."

"What!? Yer pullin' my leg!"

I raise my brows at him. "I'm not pulling your leg. I'm testing you."

He throws out his arms, exposing his throat, chest, and belly—vital areas that one would cover to protect before a threat. "What do ye want me to say!? A man disnae kill the innocent." He scoffs and drops his arms, smacking the sides of his leather trousers. "I'm selfish, but I'm a man."

I swallow. Here I am still breathing unharmed before him. God above, he is right about both of us needing to trust each other. Most every night that I have closed my eyes before him to sleep, those rests have been short, fitful, and more often plagued by nightmares of my wretched past that I would give anything to forget. The two nights I chose to trust him, I found more rest. Those two nights of rest…God, it was closest to the nights I had before my fourteen years of imprisonment. I remember that family he saved in Hymark. Eric carrying me to Hymark, him coming back for me, him leading me and protecting me—all that can benefit him should he seek to sell me to a brothel or to gain favor with Hammond, but saving that family in Hymark…I cannot think of how that would have benefited him.

The tense muscles in my face relax. This and the fact that I am still breathing unharmed before him—I still cannot trust him with my true name until I am in William's arms within Hammond's fortress walls, but I can trust him enough to deliver me to Hammond's alive and well.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I trust you enough to close my eyes around you. See." I close my eyes for him. His chuckling flows into my ears and soothes my freshly carved heart like balm, renewing it...just like that mysterious force that came over my heart and pushed away Maacthis' evil—which occurred when Eric looked down at me.

"I take it I passed yer test," he says, his chuckling ebbing.

I nod, keeping my eyes closed still.

"Ye said ye trusted me before, but then ye went back on yer word, and now ye say trust me again!" he says, his voice building with each word. That gets me to open my eyes. There is some anger in his eyes, but nothing that frightens me. It's justified anger and frustration for my wavering. "Tell me this back and forth is gonna stop," he begs.

A bold idea comes to mind. One that should prove to him I'm done going back and forth with my trust. That terrible, sinful heat stirs in my loins. My heart flutters and misses a beat, but it keeps beating as I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around him, pressing my pitiful breasts against his hard stomach. I bury my face into his chest and inhale his scent—smoke, wood, earth—a smile cracks my lips—and the faint smell of him needing a bath.

"I'm done going back and forth, trusting you and then not trusting you," I say into his chest, his woolen shirt muffling my voice. "I'm done with all that." Despite the rough wool of his shirt, I turn my right cheek into his chest, almost enjoying the chafing of his shirt against my fiery skin. I stretch my fingers and press my hands fully into his back, boldly feeling his muscles beneath his shoulder blades. My loins swell painfully with hot blood. God, I'm not sure how much more of this I can take before I do or say something obscene. Surely this intimate of an embrace will convince him. His arms go about me and hold me securely to him, enveloping me in such safety. More safety than I have felt in Papa's arms. How is it possible that this man, this stranger really, makes me feel safer than Papa ever did?

"What changed yer mind?" he asks. Smart. Intuitive.

I curl my fingers into his shirt, gripping two handfuls. "I saw you save that family in Hymark when you came back for me. Those two little boys, their mother and their father—"

"Ye saw that!?" he asks, surprised.

I swallow. I pray that his surprise is not of a bad sort. "Yes."

He grabs my arms and pulls us apart, my eyes crossing his and becoming ensnared. "I'm glad ye saw that." He offers me a small smile and pats my arm. "Com'on, let's rejoin the happy livin'."

He takes my hand and leads me back into the main room where the family and Eliza sit chatting and laughing. Louis sits beside the hearth in its shadow, that vicious grey hound resting his head on Louis' lap. We rejoin the group, a new and rare vitality filling me. Though I am and will always be weakened from the three years I had cut from my heart, I pick up my cup and sit down in the chair more easily with Eric's helping hand.

"About time you rejoined us! Where did you two sneak off to!?" Jerome asks, the sound of a smug grin in his words. My eyes widen and dart to him, my heart racing. He wears a big grin, mischief gleaming in his eyes. Oh, what he must think!

"Ye've a dirty mind, Jerome!" Eric says, laughing.

I jump in. "We just had to speak in private for a moment concerning our upcoming journey and the difficulties that may be ahead of us." My explanation pulls Jerome's eyes to me, his smile lessening and his mischief dissipating.

"Will be ahead of us," Eric says. I look to Eric and our eyes lock. My heart flutters and my stomach stirs, but my heart still feels stronger than before. He tears his eyes from mine and looks at Jerome, saying, "That's it."

"What a shame." Jerome smacks his lips while the women and children still chat amongst each other, oblivious to us. "And here I thought it was some exciting little tryst."

Jerome's teasing words, though only teasing, brand my ears and cheeks like a steaming iron. I squirm in my seat for a more tolerable position—Eric's eyes dart up to me, freezing me in their icy depths. His laughter ebbs when he sees me, though even his brief laughter seemed hesitant.

A few whistling notes of a wind instrument cut through us, hushing us all and drawing our attention to Stephan playing a flute, moving his long, graceful fingers along the little holes. Goodness above, I recognize this tune. The First Snow Drop, I think. This was one of the five common folk songs that nobility would tolerate being played in court.

"Here is the first snow drop! Come, my sweet, and see!" Mary sings, her voice young and pretty. Very easy on my ears.

"Come, my sweet! Come, my sweet! Come, my sweet, and see!" Eliza sings with Mary, making everyone grin. The tune gets to me and cracks me out of my shell.

"What is that you said to me?" I sing with Eliza and Mary, drawing everyone's eyes to me. I shrink and quiet myself as Eliza, Mary, and Jerome sing, "Here is the first snow drop! Come, my sweet, and see!"

"Don't be shy, Greta!" Mary says.

I shrug and laugh awkwardly, but I join in with their singing. "Come, my sweet! Come, my sweet! Come, my sweet, and see!"

"What is that first something drop?" I end up singing all on my own, earning everyone's laughter. I roll my eyes but laugh with them, accepting the role of the deaf wench that they had given me.

The air bubbling with excitement and fun, we laugh and sing, "See there on that pine tree, glistening in the sun, frozen water dripping! That is the first snow drop, my sweet!

"Come, my sweet! Come, my sweet! Come, my sweet, and see!

"Listen to the song she plays, chiming 'gainst the pine cones! As the breeze comes and goes, gentle as a newborn babe!

"Come, my sweet! Come, my sweet! Gird your skirts and come!

"What is that you said to me!?" I sing by myself.

The rest of them sing, "With a huff, with a puff, I shout 'HELL, MY SWEET! HELL, MY SWEET! CLEAN YOUR EARS OUT, PLEASE!'"

Stephan plays the last few notes on his flute, ending with one long, quivering note. He pulls the flute away from his mouth and holds his arms out, grinning. "How was that!?" he asks, huffing to catch his breath.

"Exquisite!" Eliza says and claps, and we all clap with her. "You are a very talented young man."

"Yes," I agree with Eliza as our clapping ebbs. Stephan looks at me, his proud smile pushing into his eyes. "Don't ever give up on your flute! It's a light in these dark times."

"Yes, you said it!" Jerome says.

Stephan grins even bigger and points at me. "You've got a nice voice! You should sing more often!"

"Oh yes!" Eliza turns her head to me, smiling sweetly. "You have a lovely voice, Greta. Keep singing whenever you can. You must keep your voice strong. You're going to need it."

My eyes widen and my cheeks burn. I know nobody else knows, save Annabelle, what Eliza is silently telling me by her spoken words, but to still be called out like that! I feel all their eyes on me without having to look around, especially the unique weight of Eric's.

"Aye, she's right!" Eric bumps the side of my thigh with his knuckles, sending a jolt up my leg and spine that makes me jump in my chair. I glance down at Eric and find myself ensnared in his smiling gaze. Again! His smile lessens. "Ye have quite the voice. Dinnae lose it."

I force a smile to fake some semblance of normalcy, but I abhor the compliment. I dread what will happen to me should I keep my voice strong. God, how disheartening this is. Singing was my only respite from that fourteen years of hell, and now to have it turned into something that will lead me back to hell! I cannot sing anymore. I must let my voice weaken.

The rest of the evening passes without any more words thrown my way, though I catch Eric eyeing me a few times. He smiles faintly at me each time my eyes cross his, but that does nothing to hide the intelligence in his eyes. His mind is far superior to mine. These past nine days, I always see him studying everything about him, from the land to the people to the animals to even which way the damn wind is blowing! He is a man who likes to know everything he can know, though he possesses no scholarly thirst for knowledge. Rather, his thirst for knowledge is driven by…well, something I cannot decipher with my limited mind. That frightens me.

Before I know it, we are all lying on our furs for the night, my limited mind still trying to decide if Eric's intelligence is a threat to me. We have four months ahead of us. That is four months I must keep my four dark truths hidden from him. If he knew the four dark truths that I must hide from him—who I really am, that I attempted to take my life, that I had to do what I did to Sara's flesh to stay alive, and that the power of Maacthis' evil dwells in me—if he knew anyone of these, surely he would leave me behind. He would abandon me out of disgust or anger…or he would kill me in his rage. The only reason I am still alive now is because he knows none of these dark truths. His intelligence—is it an intelligence that could learn my four dark truths without me saying a word about it?

I clench my teeth so hard and try to push these horrible thoughts from my mind. I promised him I was done with this back and forth of trusting him and not trusting him...but to trust him too much could spell my end and the end to fulfilling my promise to Greta. I pry open my jaw to alleviate the crushing pain in my gums. Think of something else, Snow. Annabelle and Jerome, Louis and Ben...what happened to this family? Something terrible happened, but what? I roll my head just enough to look at Eric out of the corners of my eyes. His back is to me, his breathing slow and steady with sleep. Perhaps he would know, but he was reluctant to tell me why Jerome first greeted us with such hostility. The two men seem to be on better terms now, but why Jerome would hold a grudge for so long because Eric didn't say goodbye...I doubt Eric would tell me if I asked him why. Perhaps it is best to not press him...for now at least. There's no telling where these four months will take us. If I earn his trust enough, perhaps he will tell me then. Perhaps…

My eyes grow too heavy to keep open. Darkness consumes me.