Evening settled over the village as the sun completed its slow walk across the sky. The bolt slid home with a heavy click. A brass bell on the entry beam gave a short chime.

  “I saw you slip off with that boy, daughter.”

  The reeve carefully set the peg into the hasp, only then turning. He stroked his moustache out of habit.

  “He has a name.” Dara folded her arms across her chest. A strand of hair had worked free of her braid and fallen to her temple. She didn’t brush it away.

  “Dara, you know we want what’s best for you,” her mother said, touching her hand lightly. The girl stepped half a pace aside. She didn’t yank her hand away, but the dodge was enough to change her mother’s face.

  “And who do you want to marry me off to? Some wandering knight, or a townsman?”

  “We’ve talked about this many time.” The reeve’s brows drew together over his nose like two threads. “Algar’s just a peasant, and I’m the reeve. The village is watching. We should marry you to someone of higher station than me.”

  “A purse isn’t everything. He could love me; he’s got a good heart, and he works hard.”

  “A good heart won’t feed you in winter.” His eyes dropped, despite himself, to her hands. “Child, you don’t yet know the taste of life. What’s a heart to you if you meet hunger and want? We only want—”

  “I’m sick of what everybody wants for me! I’ll decide for myself.”

  Mother flinched and uncertainly slid a vase with fresh mint sprigs a little to the side. The lamp flame dipped for a blink; the house itself seemed to hold its breath.

  “You will not speak to us like that!”

  The reeve’s fist fell flat on the table. The vase toppled and rolled. Water spread in a wide, cold smear and began to drip steadily to the floor. The scent of mint grew sharper.

  “Off to bed. I won’t discuss this again.”

  “That’s not a discussion; it’s an order,” Dara shot back under her breath, already turning away.

  She crossed the entry fast, as if afraid someone would stop her. Her door banged, though she hadn’t slammed it hard. Behind her came the rustle of her mother’s voice—hurried syllables she couldn’t make out. Tears welled up against her will. She collapsed onto the bed, gulping air.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Night was already coming in through the window—darkness arriving slowly, as it did at summer’s end. Far off, a wagon creaked past; wheels rasped in the muffled quiet. Somewhere farther, a dog barked.

  Bitterness came without warning. She’d seen plenty of men in her life and how they treated women. In the market, the city ones liked to look longer than they should. Sometimes they’d touch at the table, pretending to reach for bread. More than once she’d met it with a hard stare. She didn’t need a keeper. She needed a choice.

  Algar wasn’t perfect. He didn’t laugh at the right moments; he kept silent longer than was polite. He was strong, brave, and he didn’t gripe at work. There was something about him—a mist of mystery she didn’t want to blow into smoke just to see what lay underneath.

  She sat and pulled off her shoes. With a fingernail she pried at the clasp that always stuck on her left foot. She shoved them under the bed any which way. She slid her dress off her shoulders, folded it in half, and tossed it on the chest. She didn’t have the strength to put it neatly away.

  She lay down again but couldn’t sleep. Her feelings buffeted her side to side like wind shaking a sheet on a line. She lay on her back, then her side, then her back again. She lost track of time. A thought she was ashamed of pricked her—brief and sharp: let something bad happen to her parents—something small, no great harm, just enough for them to feel a sliver of her pain.

  A wolf’s howl drifted from outside—long, low, slipping under the boards. Closer than last time. She’d heard it a few times during the festival and ignored it. In a village, dogs sometimes bay at the moon, and wolves fear to cross a road where folks have left a wagon. She wouldn’t frighten herself.

  She turned her back to the window. Through a gap in the boards a cool night draft slipped in and brushed her spine—a welcome change after the day’s heat. She thought that at dawn they’d surely roust her to work—milk, cheeses, strings, ribbons. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come.

  Another howl. Closer. Less wolf and more the rasp of metal. An image opened before her: the ring on the square, a staff in Algar’s hand, a motion simple and clean, without show. From nowhere came the picture of his face when he looked at the axe blade.

  Suddenly a terrible scream tore the air—somewhere near the house, she thought. She must have dozed. Fire. Something outside the window was burning, and burning hard. She dove into her sandals and looked for trousers and some kind of shirt. Another shriek came, closer this time—maybe even from the next room.

  “Run!” That was her father, surely. And a growl. Something was wrong. Then a heavy blow smashed into her door, and another, and another. The wood gave way at last, and two wolves began to push inside. They were enormous, and their eyes shone with black fire. She had no intention of staring. She went out the window.

  The whole village was burning, and at least a dozen of the beasts were running loose. Villagers’ blood flowed thick and fast. Someone tried fighting them with a pitchfork but hadn’t the slightest chance. This was the end. Her heart climbed into her throat; her hands shook; her legs turned to water. Everyone here would die. The only thing she could do was run.