For the Wolf by Hannah Whitten (freda ebook reader .txt) 📕

fabric itched. Her bed smelled like roses, so different from the coffee-and-leaves scent she was used to now. Red was a warped puzzle piece, her changes nearly too subtle to see, but enough to keep her from fitting back into the place she’d left.

Still, she fell asleep nearly as soon as she closed her eyes, exhaustion pulling her down into the dark.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

R ed knew Eammon’s movements by now, cataloged in moments of feigned sleep, observed through half-closed eyelids.

Whatever moved in this room wasn’t Eammon.

The air smelled wrong, like flowers, like rain. The movement stopped, and something whispered, feminine and strange.

Teeth bared, Red shot up from the couch, fingers hooked like claws.

White walls, silver shine, and the terrified faces of three handmaidens. No forest. No Keep.

No Eammon.

The maid closest to her recovered, straightening with a conciliatory smile. She curtsied, but her eyes still held the sheen of cornered prey. Behind her, the other two clutched sheets to their chests and watched Red as though she might attack, some feral creature from the Wilderwood.

Well. They weren’t entirely wrong.

Pushing tangled hair from her eyes, Red tried for a smile. It only seemed to frighten them more.

The first steeled herself to speak. “Morning, Lady Wolf. The Queen asks that you meet her in the gardens when you’re ready.”

Right. Today was the day she’d finally see the Shrine. See what Neve was doing and how she could fix it.

What would be left of them, once she did? What would be between them to pick up and put back together?

“Breakfast is on the table,” piped up one of the others, like their courage was a collective thing. “And clothes in the wardrobe.”

“Thank you.” Red stood awkwardly, crossing her arms over her chest. The three of them gawked at her like a myth come to life, like they didn’t quite believe she existed.

She hadn’t missed this feeling.

Her cloak lay over the back of the chair they clustered around, and the dart of their eyes confirmed it was the subject of the whispering. Their gazes held a wordless conversation, then the one who’d spoken first turned to Red.

“We’d heard you came back with a different cloak,” she said, voice steady despite her knotted hands. “An embroidered one. Like a bridal cloak.”

Of course they’d heard. She’d paraded through the palace in it, told Noruscan to call her Lady Wolf. The seasoned court gossips must’ve put two and two together. Red gave one weary nod.

Three pairs of eyes grew even wider, something she hadn’t thought possible. They looked at one another, somewhat at a loss, before one of the previously reticent handmaidens took a tiny step forward. “So you . . . you married the Wolf?”

Wolf and monster were interchangeable in her tone. Red stiffened, though not long ago she would’ve done the same. How unfair, the way history twisted.

“I did.” Red headed for the wardrobe. The handmaidens moved as one, backing away like a school of fish.

The brave one spoke again. “Isn’t he wicked?”

“No.” Red pulled out the first dress her fist closed on. Forestcolored, embroidered in white thread that reminded her of scars. “No more wicked than any other man. Far less wicked than most.”

Silence. Red didn’t look at them, didn’t want to see if the looks on their faces were surprise or disbelief or something in between. “You’re free to go. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

Skirts rustled through the door, but the brave one lingered beneath the lintel. When Red turned, she didn’t flinch, eyes narrowed. “Did he tell you why the Second Daughters have to go to the Wilderwood?” she asked. “The truth?”

Some things were too hard to explain. Some things were too heavy for fragile belief to shoulder. And Red didn’t have time to even try.

“Because the monsters are real,” she said. “And even the Wolf needs help sometimes.”

The handmaid’s eyes widened. She curtsied, quick and clumsy, and disappeared through the door.

The blooming season in Valleyda was always short, summer truncated by northern cold, and things were generally more brown than green by the time autumn approached. Still, it was strange for the gardens to be almost wholly dead. Hedges were nothing but sharp bundles of twigs; flower beds held only dry grass. Even the hardier blooms that usually lived until the first snow were limp and nearly colorless.

Neve waited beneath a barren arbor. Tired shadows stood out beneath her eyes, but when she spotted Red, her mouth flickered a smile. “You look well.”

She’d availed herself of the washbasin in Neve’s room, wiping stray smudges of dirt from her jaw, working out the snarls in her hair. It was the first time in a long while Red had looked in a mirror for the purpose of seeing herself, and the changes were obvious. Her eyes weren’t as hollow. Her mouth wasn’t so thin. The line of her shoulders was crooked, like something weighed on them. It had reminded her of Eammon, and she’d had to squeeze her eyes shut for a moment.

Red dropped a mock curtsy. “It’s been a while since I wore a dress,” she said, picking at the embroidery on her sleeve.

“You would reappear dressed like a storybook huntsman.” Neve shook her head, lips twisted in a wry grin. “I’m surprised no courtiers swooned at the immodesty.”

“Immodest or not, dressing like a storybook huntsman is far more practical.”

The grin vanished. “For traipsing through the Wilderwood, I suppose it is.”

Her voice drew battle lines. Red wilted.

Neve turned to walk down the pathway, and Red fell in beside her, their silence as chilly as the autumn air. The twigs of a barren hedge scraped Red’s arm as they passed. She could almost see the leaves withering, months of decay distilled into seconds. A strange scent tickled her nose, cold and somehow familiar. It plucked at her, something she should recognize, but she couldn’t quite draw all of it together into a conclusion. “What’s wrong with them?”

Neve’s shoulders stiffened, but her voice was mild. “It’s been a