Greythorne (Bloodleaf 2)

“They are both very irritating,” Onal agreed. “But it can’t be helped. They’re young and stupid.”

“So why, exactly, have you brought them to me?”

Onal’s gaze moved to me. “I’m still a little foggy on the details, but it seems as if the fate of the world is at stake.”

“I wondered what it would take to get you to come back here. Now I know: the end of the world.” Rosetta gave a mirthless smile. “Welcome home, little sister.”

* * *

The water they doused me with was frigid; it didn’t help that I was standing in naught but my underclothes in the windiest part of the clearing.

“You’re . . . sisters?” I asked, teeth chattering as Onal handed Rosetta another bucket and went to the well to refill the first.

“You don’t see the resemblance?” Rosetta asked, emptying another bucket over my head without warning.

I gasped as the icy splash of water hit me. When I recovered enough to speak, I said through gritted teeth, “No. I can see it.”

Rosetta handed me a homemade cake of soap. “Scrub,” she ordered, and I obeyed, barely getting a good lather up before she soaked me again. I shrieked.

Kellan, waiting nearby with his back turned, was chuckling.

“I don’t know what you think is so funny,” Onal said. “You’re next.”

Rosetta put down her bucket and waved me forward, handing me an old blanket to wrap around my shoulders. “That will have to do. There’s a trunk of old clothing under the stairs. You can wear whatever you find.”

Behind me, Kellan’s peals of laughter were cut off by the sound of a splash as Onal tossed her first bucket over him.

* * *

The interior of the cottage was warm and snug and smelled of sage and cedar. The trunk Rosetta had mentioned was filled with clothes of meticulous construction but of long-outdated style. I found a dress that looked as if it would fit well enough, a simple shift of pale green with long, loose sleeves and that tightened at the bodice with ties down each side of the waist.

When the task of dressing was over, I turned my attention to my hair, running my fingers through the wet tangles as I wandered around the cottage. The main parlor contained an odd collection of rough-hewn furniture and homespun fabrics that were woven into intricate designs. Spells, probably, I thought, wincing as I tugged a knot from my hair.

In one corner was a spinning wheel—a large, lumbering device made of old well-oiled oak. In the other corner, a cradle sat under a thick layer of dust. A rag doll was nestled within, and the teardrop flowers painted on the sides bloomed in faded red-violet.

My eyes drifted up from the cradle to an oval portrait frame hung above it. For a minute, it looked as if the frame was empty, but closer inspection revealed that it was, in fact, a mirror that had been turned to face the wall.

I cataloged the bric-a-brac over the mantel: strings of herbs hung to dry in the fire’s heat, a dusty clock that seemed to have been robbed of its gears, and a line of a half dozen carved figurines of varying sizes. The first was a young maiden made of white pine with tresses almost to her feet and a look of wondering innocence on her face. The second figurine was another young woman, this time carved from plush mahogany. She was warm and lovely, endowed with comely curves and a cloud of curling locks. The third was much younger—just a child, really, carved out of deep walnut. Her back was straight, chin defiantly aloft, with a sleek fall of hair that gleamed in the light. In her arms, she held a baby, or a tiny doll.

The next few were animals: A fox, a bear, a snowy owl . . .

Kellan entered the room behind me, muttering curses through his chattering teeth. He made a beeline to the fire, clothed in nothing but his dripping braies and an abundance of goose bumps. “I asked Rosetta if she had anything I could change into, and she laughed and said none of her dresses would fit me.” He sighed in relief as he turned his backside to the warmth of the fire.

“Shame,” I said. “You’d look ravishing in a dress.”

“I know it,” he said. “But she doesn’t want my arms tearing any of the seams.”

“A valid concern,” I said, eyeing his swordsman’s shoulders. Then I said, “Kellan, look here. What do you see?”

He turned toward the mantel. Then his eyebrows shot up. “They look like . . .”

“. . . the statues from the hedge maze,” I finished for him. I picked up the carving of the littlest girl. “They are almost exactly alike.”

“Come away from there.” Rosetta had come in with a section she’d cut away from the wolf pelt, Onal following on her heels.

“This one looks like you, Rosetta,” I said, undaunted. I pointed to the mahogany maiden.

“The first one is Galantha, our sister who passed away,” Rosetta said, more focused on spreading out the piece of wolfskin on the table. She glanced at Onal. “The little one is Begonia.”