Chapter One
Abigail brought the cleaver down onto the neck of the hen, digging the metal into the wood stump and severing the chicken’s spine with a crunch. The carcass kicked and thrashed, blood spurting from the stump that remained.
She cringed, same as she did every time. “Forgive me, Dee-Dee.” She didn’t know why she always apologized. She knew it was simply to make herself feel better. The carcass was still twitching as she tied its feet together to hang it over the metal bucket on the ground to drain the blood. She already had a pot of water to scald the bird to make the feather-plucking easier. That was a trick she’d learned from her aunt. She’d learned a great deal from her aunt.
With a sigh, she walked away from the bloody scene and went to clean her hands. She hated killing animals, but it was just a simple fact of life. Death was always the sad result of having lived. Dee-Dee had grown too old to lay eggs, and one extra mouth to feed who didn’t contribute was one more than she could afford.
Not like it will matter for much longer, anyway.
Dunking her hands in the cold water she had fetched from the brook near her cottage, she watched the crimson liquid lift from her hand and tint the surface. Shutting her eyes, she fought back the sudden tears that rushed forward.
Pretty soon, her chickens would be the problem of someone else. As would be her goat. And her bed. And her furniture. And her land. And her home.
Everything.
Everything she owned would belong to someone else. In truth, it already does. It’s just out of the kindness of Roderick’s heart that he’s given me some time, even if we all know I have nowhere to go.
Fetching the now-still body of the chicken, she picked up the bucket of blood from the ground and headed inside her home. The single room building was small, but it was all she needed. The hearth took up the majority of one wall, stacked stones and mud bricks reaching up nearly as high as she was tall. The pot of water she had placed in the hearth was far enough away from the coals that it wouldn’t boil, but close enough to properly help in cleaning Dee-Dee for dinner.
Placing the animal in the water to sit for a few minutes, she took the blood over to her table by the wall. Dipping her finger into the already-cool liquid, Abigail reached up and drew a symbol on the cloudy glass windowpane. As she drew the lines of the strange shape, she murmured two words to herself over and over again until the shape was completed. “Come home.”
She knew it wouldn’t work. It never did. But it didn’t stop her from trying.
Heading back outside, she went to her garden. If life had to be spent, it should not be wasted. She dug a small hole by the roots of each of her plants, and one by one, poured some of the blood into the dirt.
Life fed death, and death fed life. Dee-Dee was gone, but she would always be part of the cycle.
Putting the rest of her chickens into the coop for the night, as she did not intend to feed the fox that lived in the woods nearby, she locked the wooden gate and finished her chores. Finally, she returned to her fire.
After adjusting the coals around the loaf of bread she was baking, she took the chicken from the water with a wooden spoon through the twine. Sitting down on a blanket on the ground, she began plucking the feathers.
As she did, she began to sing an old tune quietly to herself. She wasn’t sure where she learned it—most likely her aunt, like everything else in her life. Regardless, the simple song calmed her nerves and distracted her from her plight all the same.
Halfway through cleaning what was left of poor Dee-Dee, she heard something outside—a heavy and thick crunch! It startled her so badly she dropped the carcass of the bird.
Frowning, she stood from the ground, and lit a candle from the hearth. Setting it into her lantern, she took it to the door.
Had Marcus come home? Had her spell finally worked? Flicking the latch, she swung open the wood door and peered into the twilight. The sun had just set, and the sky was losing its ruddy colors into the blues and blacks of night. “Hello?”
No one answered. Furrowing her brow as she saw something—the bright white splinters of freshly broken wood against aged, old timbers—she stepped out of her house to investigate. One of the logs that ran between her fence posts had snapped in half, as if something heavy had landed on it.
But what?
Whatever had done it had been far too big for a fox, and she wouldn’t even know why it would have landed there in the first place. An owl or a hawk were far too light to shatter the wood. The beam had been old and beginning to rot, but it had been sturdy enough for a fence panel.
Touching the bright white exposed wood of the inside of the beam, she shook her head. “Odd.” Turning her attention back to the darkness around her that seemed to inch closer with every breath, she called out again. “Hello? Is someone there?”
Silence.
“If you are not my husband,” she said to the shadows with a slight, self-effacing smirk. “Then I have summoned you by mistake. I forgive you for the damage to my fence and will say that our inconveniences are now matched. If you come in kindness, I will have dinner on the table shortly. While I do not have much, I have enough to share.”
Turning back to her home, she thought for a moment she heard something in the line of trees. A whisper, perhaps? She whirled, lifting her lantern, and tried her best to see into the encroaching night.
I’m just frightening myself. The log let go of its own accord. I suppose I should be grateful I do not have to fix it.
With a shake of her head, she headed back into her home. Latching the door, she blew out her candle, and began to hum her old song once more. The fire of the hearth was enough to see by, and she didn’t want to waste what she had.
Touching the necklace she wore, a carved owl made of wood that hung around her neck from a twine, she turned to look at the one candle that did still burn in the dim light of her home. One candle that never blew out or burned low. Since the moment it had sparked to life, it hadn’t once flickered, nor had the wick grown shorter.
Casting it a baleful glance, she returned to her work of cleaning Dee-Dee and preparing the chicken meat for a stew. It was just as she finished slicing the meat and bones and putting them in her vegetable broth that she was once more startled so badly that she nearly upended the contents of the pot.
Wham, wham, wham!
It was a heavy knock on her door.
***
“If you are not my husband, then I have summoned you by mistake.”
It took every ounce of Valroy’s willpower not to howl in laughter at the irony.
He settled for grinning from within the darkness of the woods. He watched the silhouette of the young woman lift the lantern high to seek out whatever had made the noise and broken her fence. But no matter how she searched, she would not find him. Not unless he wished to be seen.
And for now, he was content simply to watch.
“I forgive you for the damage to my fence and will say that our inconveniences are now matched.”
Hardly! The fact that the fence could not hold my weight is entirely your fault, silly thing. He had landed to it from a height, and it had snapped under him like a twig. She was the one to blame for that, not he.
“If you come in kindness, I will have dinner on the table shortly, and while I do not have much, I have enough to share.”
That was intriguing enough that he shifted, unfurling one of his wings so that he might lean his arm on the tree that he was standing beside. She was inviting in whatever it was she had summoned? Either she was a fool, or she was a fool who thought she could protect herself.
Which was it?
He watched as the young woman returned to her house, shutting the door behind her. He could smell the scent of baking bread and simmering vegetables. Nothing interesting, and nothing terribly savory, but likely edible.
Walking out from the darkness, still hidden from view, he jumped over the fence as he made his way to the tiny little hut that the woman called home. It was made poorly—as most mortal structures seemed to be—with little more than mud and muck and slabs of trees to keep out the weather. The roof was straw hatch and looked as though it had not been maintained in some time.
In fact, most of the house looked neglected. The windows had been scrubbed, and everything looked tidy—but water was a destructive force, especially to human construction. It was beginning to rot and wear, much like the woman’s fence.
He ran a hand along the outside of her little home as he circled it slowly, thoughtfully, peering into the few and dingy windows as he passed. He saw her, kneeling by the fire next to a basket of feathers, slicing up a chicken and tossing pieces into a pot of water.
You do not have much, indeed. He huffed. Mortals.
It was when he passed one window in particular that he paused. There, drawn on the glass, was a symbol. He touched the opposite side of the glass, pressing his fingertips to the cool surface.
Biting his tongue was the only thing keeping him cackling. It was too perfect! Now he knew precisely what kind of fool she was.
The kind who thought herself a witch.
Prowling back to the front of her house, he wrapped his wings around himself like a cloak, effortlessly changing his form. Lifting a gnarled, bony hand, he grinned wide…and knocked on the door.
***
Abigail paused, her hand hovering over the latch. Someone had knocked. Someone was there. Her heart had lodged into her throat, pounding loudly. Had Marcus truly returned? She swallowed down her heart and her hope. No. She wouldn’t let herself believe that it was her husband standing upon the other side of the door.
She would almost believe it to be a shade or a corpse of the man, some broken resemblance of the man she had married, if she had not known for certain that Marcus still lived. Her magic was not strong—she was not like Aunt Margery—but the candle that told her of Marcus’ life still blazed upon the windowsill, bright and strong as ever.
He was alive. And he was not here.
Then who was it?
The knock came again, harder than before, making her nearly leap out of her own skin. It was rude to leave whoever it was standing on her stoop. With a breath, she clicked the latch and opened the door, not knowing what to expect.
Her heart, which seemed to not want to stay where it was supposed to, sank straight from her throat, past her ribs where it belonged, and right into the pit of her stomach. She had known it was not going to be Marcus standing there to greet her.
But she had childishly hoped all the same.
No, instead was…one of the tallest men she had ever seen. Even hunched over, his back curved with age and the weight of years, she had to look up to greet him. She was not particularly short by any means, but he was nearly two handspans higher, and at least twice as broad.
Long, white hair hanged down by his face, unkempt and unwashed. A ragged gray cloak was slung around him, looking as though it had once been dyed a great rich blue. He had a wood cane in his hand, as crooked and wrinkled as the hand that gripped it.
“I—hello.”
“You summoned your husband, didn’t you?” He grinned. His features revealed a man who, when younger, must have been beautiful. His eyes were like dull sapphires, grown over with a haze of age like the rest of him. “Here I am.” He held out an arm at his side.
She couldn’t help it. She chuckled at his bad joke. “Good evening, sir.” The man was a vagrant, living off the dirt and in the wilds, judging by his condition. “Do you come in kindness, or cruelty?”
“Hmmm…” He scratched the gray and dirty beard that adorned his face in teasing thoughtfulness. “Tonight, kindness, I think.”
“Then come in. Dinner is nearly ready. I apologize for having summoned you.” She shook her head with a smile and took a step back to let him in. “My magic must have misfired.”
“Perhaps it did. Perhaps it didn’t. But I see I am in the presence of a dangerous witch and should take great care.” The teasing tone to his voice made it clear he didn’t take her seriously.
She played along. “Oh, yes. I am a powerful sorceress and could turn you into a chicken quite easily if angered.”
“Goodness. At least I would make a tasty stew.” He stepped into her home, moving far easier than she would have expected for someone of his age. His cane clicked on the wood slats of the floor as he swiveled his head this way and that, taking in everything around him. “In truth, I was merely passing by and heard you. I’m not one to pass up an invitation for dinner.”
“No, it doesn’t seem that you are.” She shut the door behind him and went back to the hearth. “Make yourself at home.”
“Oh, I very much plan to.”
There was a darkness in those words that gave her pause. But when she turned to him, he was poking at several of her dried bunches of herbs on the wall, a harmless smile on his face. He was just a doddery old vagrant. If he attacked her, even with his added height and weight, she was certain she could stick a knife in his neck before he got very far. Just in case, she pocketed the one she was using to clean the chicken after wiping it clean on a rag. “What is your name, good sir? I’m Abigail Moore.”
“Abraham. I have no family name. I have no family.”
“Neither do I, I suppose.” She paused. She wasn’t sure why she had the impulse to say it, but she hadn’t stopped herself in time. She did not know this man. But she had said it all the same. Grabbing some rags, she pulled the bread from the pot over the coals and brought it to her table. Abraham was standing by a window, staring at the candle that burned upon the sill.
He reached out to touch it.
“No!”
He jerked in surprise at her outburst, turning his head to her with such sharpness and such a look of anger that she recoiled, worried he might strike her. But like it was only a dream, the moment was gone as fast as it had come. His expression was confused and soft, not violent. “Forgive me,” he said with a lopsided smile.
“It’s…” She didn’t know how to explain it.
“A candle of life.” He walked away from it, cane clicking on the wood floor. He walked up to her, dull sapphire eyes seeming to look straight through her. “For a man who lives but is not here, by my estimation.”
“My husband—”
“Ah, ah—” He chuckled. “Your husband is right here, remember?” He pressed a hand to his chest, twisted fingers splayed wide.
She shouldn’t be surprised that a vagrant who lived in the woods would be odd in the head. But her aunt had taught her to be kind to all, regardless of her concerns, and she would stay true to the wise woman’s words. “Yes. Right. Forgive me, I forgot.”
“Forgetting your own husband! Tsk, tsk.” He walked to the table and sat down at it, the wood chair creaking beneath his weight. He picked up a pitcher of water and poured them both a glass, and then began to slice the bread into pieces. “The stew smells ready, don’t you think?”
Abigail stood there, stunned for a moment, watching the strange man as he truly did make himself right at home. But that was not what concerned her. That was not what made fear crawl up her spine.
It was that the wooden goblet he lifted to his lips should have been filled with water. Water was what was in the pitcher. Water was what he poured out.
But what stained his lips was wine.
I have made a terrible mistake.