Whichwood(7)

Alice shot Oliver a knowing look, and he seemed to understand. This was their moment. Together they stood tall, screwed up their courage, and said, “Well—would you like some help?”

And it was this—this simple, foolish question—that finally touched the heart of our young protagonist.

Something like hope had whistled through the cracks in her heart, surprising her with a feeling she’d long forgot. It was then that Laylee looked at her trespassers with new eyes. It was then, dear friends, that she finally smiled.




Oh, it would be a very, very long night.





TREAD CAUTIOUSLY, DEAR READER





The moon hung fat and low in the half-lit sky as they three traipsed single-file into the backyard, Laylee leading the way. Night had fallen fast: a skin of darkness had been hitched across the daylight and left to rot until midnight itself had become a curtain of charred flesh you could pinch between two fingers. The clouds were stretched thin as they slunk by, gauzy strokes painted hither and thither. There were many dead lying about these grounds—and many ghosts haunting the hollows in between—but the real monster they faced tonight was the wintertide itself: The cold was a physical enemy, a blistering, forbidding presence stacked thickly in the air. Each step forward was an instigation of aggression, arms punching and heads knocking against icy gusts and fits. Laylee, at least, was well prepared for the wars waged by these freezing nights.

Her work was always done in uniform—in accordance with proper mordeshoor tradition—and she was never more grateful for the ancient armor of her ancestors than she was on these nights. She’d latched an old, intricately hammered chest plate atop her heavy, tattered gown, clamped solid gold cuffs on both forearms and ankles, and upon her head—secured atop her floral scarf—she wore the most impressive heirloom of all: an ancient helmet she wore only in the winters for its added protection against the blustery nights. It was a gold dome of a cap embellished with a series of ornate, hand-hammered flourishes; emblazoned all around the dome in timeworn calligraphy were wise words captured long ago, in a language she still loved to speak. It was the work of the poet Rumi, who’d written,



Last night a sheikh went all about the city, lamp in hand, crying, “I’m weary of all these beasts and devils, and desperately seek out humanity!”

The helmet was topped by a single proud spike that stood five inches tall; the brim adorned by hundreds of fussy hinges from which hung a fringe of jagged chainmail. The sheets of deftly braided steel rained down the back and sides of Laylee’s head, swishing quietly as she walked, leaving dents in the wind. She was thirteen years old and far too terrifying for her age, but she was, at least, entirely prepared to deal with death on even these, the coldest nights of the year. Laylee tugged her scarf across her nose and mouth in a practiced motion, careful lest she breathe in too deeply (on more than one occasion she’d had to rush home for a glass of warm water, frost choking the inside of her throat), and soldiered on.

It was odd: Whichwood was known for its spectacularly painful winters, but this night seemed unusually cold. Laylee, as I mentioned, was armed and bundled to the point of immobility, but her companions were a sight less prepared. They’d at least known to travel with heavy winter cloaks and boots, but they were strangers to this land—their bones were not built to carry this cold—and more than once, Laylee caught herself wondering how they managed. She was sure these two had no idea what they’d agreed to, and part of her worried they’d be scared away too soon. It was only then that she saw how quickly she’d come to rely upon their offer of help, and she hated herself for it. Laylee was too proud to accept charity, but she was too smart to reject it, too. No one had ever before offered to help her, and she couldn’t say no to a good thing now. Certainly she could stand to live with these children in exchange for their assistance—but would her fragile guests survive the night?

She dug the silver tips of her fingers into her palms and clenched her jaw in frustration. Oh, if only she could, she’d rather die than accept the pity of passing strangers.




The farther they walked, the deeper they dipped, and soon the triplet troop was caught thigh-high in the snow, and there was no telling how long they’d last. Laylee glanced briefly in her guests’ direction, but thus far they’d not made a peep of protest, and Laylee couldn’t help but feel a begrudging respect for their resilience. And so, for the first time in a long while, Laylee was inspired to do something kind.

She stopped abruptly, Alice and Oliver quickly following suit. It had been at least two years since Laylee had felt any compulsion to share, but tonight she was feeling more unusual than usual, so she unearthed a small pouch of matches from somewhere inside her cloak and offered its contents to her guests.

They didn’t seem to understand.

Alice shook her head. “N-no, thank you,” she stammered, cold caught in her teeth.

Oliver shook his head, too. “What’s it for?”

“To keep you warm,” said Laylee, confused and—dare I say it?—hurt.

“One m-match?” said Alice, still shivering. “Doesn’t s-seem like it’d d-do much good.”

Laylee withdrew her hand, stung by their rejection, and looked away. She was ashamed of herself for having offered them anything at all. Angrily, she snatched a matchstick from the pouch and popped it in her mouth, vowing to never offer these ingrates anything again.