Cinderella Is Dead(44)
“Who could be singing out here?” I whisper. The sounds of the night creatures have ceased altogether, leaving only the haunting melody in the wind. The trees move high over our heads, their naked branches twisting around each other to form an impenetrable canopy. I cling tightly to Constance’s jacket for fear that if we are separated, we will not be able to find each other again. The song wafts in and out as we push on. Again, I lose track of time. My legs ache, and my hand throbs.
“How long do you think we’ve been walking?” I ask.
“I—I don’t know. Maybe hours, maybe …” Constance’s uncertainty unsettles me even more.
The melody suddenly echoes and becomes louder, building to a crescendo before ceasing altogether. Movement in the shadows catches my eye. Grunts surround us on all sides.
“The wolves,” I whisper.
Constance grabs my hand and takes off. We can’t run, but we move forward as fast as we can. Something pulls at my shoulder, and an earsplitting cry erupts from my throat. Constance slashes at the dark just behind me with her dagger, then yanks me forward through a thick clump of trees where my foot catches on a root, causing us both to fall. Scrambling to my feet, I pull Constance up beside me and we stumble into a large clearing where the night sky is visible. Someone has felled the trees in a perfect circle. In the center stands a small house. I take a deep breath. Relief washes over me. We are out of the woods, but fear rushes in again as I realize we are not alone.
21
A woman emerges from the shadows of the covered porch. She stands on the stoop like a ghost, melding with the dark. The enormous crow that has been following us sits on the broken porch rail next to her. She runs her hand down its back, and it takes off, winging its way over the treetops. Constance steps in front of me, hand on her dagger. The old woman hums the haunting melody. Her eyes, black as coal, move over us. Her withered skin creases as she smiles wide.
“You’re a long way from home,” she says, her voice raspy and low. “I can always tell when someone is close by. The wolves begin to howl. They’re quite hungry this time of year.”
Neither of us move. The woman walks to the edge of the porch. She keeps her eyes on me. Something rustles in the trees behind us. At any moment, the wolves might burst from the tree line and tear us to pieces. Snarls and snaps in the distance draw closer.
“Are you coming in or not?” the woman asks. “You’re more than welcome to stay out here, of course.” She looks past us into the woods. Her fingers twitch as she whispers something under her breath. The grunting and snarling move away from us. She turns and disappears through the doorway. Constance motions for me to follow her as the howl of the wolves fades to nothing. We quickly mount the steps and go inside.
The cottage is in a precarious state. The roof slants downward at a steep angle, and when the wind whips by, the entire structure shudders. Dozens of herbs hang in bushels from the beams under the ceiling, and the rear wall is covered, floor to ceiling, with shelves of jars filled with all manner of strange things—dried herbs, liquids, and even different parts of small animals suspended in a viscous liquid.
A black cauldron hangs over the roaring fire, bubbling with some delicious-smelling concoction. Candles cover every available surface, some lit, some melted into nothing more than little mounds of wax. The air is hazy and thick. The minute I step over the threshold, an odd sense of calm envelops me. My fear of the wolves, the uneasiness of the White Wood—it all fades away.
“You’ve come a very long way,” says the woman. “Venturing this far into the White Wood means only one thing—you’re either very stupid or very desperate.”
“We’re looking for information about the fairy godmother,” I say.
The woman bristles and gives an annoyed huff. “Sit.” She gestures to a wooden table in the kitchen area with a set of mismatched chairs crowded around it.
“Forgive us if we’re hesitant,” Constance says. Her hand never stops hovering over her dagger.
“You’re afraid,” says the woman. “And I don’t blame you, but if you draw that dagger it will be the last thing you ever do.” She settles into a seat by the fire, her gaze steely. “When you say you’re looking for information about the fairy godmother, what you really mean is you’re looking for her magic. What is it you need? A philter to persuade a lover? An elixir to make you beautiful? Need someone dead?”
A chill runs up my back. “You do that?” What have we found in these forsaken woods?
“I do a great many things,” says the old woman.
“And who are you exactly?” Constance asks.
“Oh, come now,” says the woman in a much more serious tone. “You act as if you didn’t know you’d find me here.” She taps her foot on the floor and hums a little tune.
I glance at Constance, who stands stone-faced, her lips parted.
“There’s been a mistake,” I say. “We’re looking for information about the fairy godmother.”
“My dear girl, I don’t know who in this cursed forest would know me better than I know myself, and if you have questions, I suggest you start asking before I throw you out into the dark.”
“It cannot be,” Constance whispers.
I step around the side of the woman’s chair. She studies me silently. Her hair, a wash of gray that melts into a midnight black near the ends, is gathered together in dozens of tight bundles, all of which are pulled behind her and twisted into a single braid. Her frame is solid, round, her skin the color of the deepest, richest sepia. She wears a plain cotton dress with a long gray shawl.