The Wood Wife by Terri Windling (the false prince TXT) 📕

been writing again, that was clear. But what did all the rest of it mean? And why did he write that he’d meet her again when he’d never met her at all?

April 16th was the night he had died. The Night of the Dark Stone—whatever that was. The night he’d been left dead out in the desert, his “gin-sodden tongue” silenced forever.

She folded up the letter again and sat there simply holding it. Sorrow was a rock lodged in her chest. She wished she was a woman who could cry. She wished she could wail and howl with grief—not just for what the world of poetry had lost, but for what she had lost and would not have again: the man whose work had inspired her; whose unexpected friendship had been so conditional, yet so necessary; whose long and supportive letters had followed her halfway around the world. But she never cried. Not once, in all the long years since death had claimed her parents. Back then she had cried enough tears that perhaps she simply had none left now.

She had a history of losing the ones she loved. She was seven when a car crash took her parents; her only grandmother died not long thereafter. For years she used to watch Nigel while he slept, certain that she’d lose him too. When Tat flew over, Maggie would not rest until the plane safely reached the ground. She called her granddaddy in West Virginia once a week, to be certain he was still there.

In the hills the coyotes knew her pain, gave voice to the tears the woman would not shed. One called to her; another added his voice; then another; and another. Their eerie song filled up the canyon. The half-blind, lone coyote heard them; and Dora’s cats; and Tomás, in the hills. But Maggie, like Davis Cooper’s God, was deaf to the language of their call.

• • •

Dora sat feeding mesquite branches to the fire. Her face was pale, her eyes were red; the cats were huddled close to her side, sensing her distress. Beyond the circle of warmth from the hearth, the early morning was cold, and still. The sun hovered behind Rincon Peak, preparing to start the day. Juan was somewhere out on the hundreds of trails that crisscrossed the mountains. Or had fallen down some steep ravine, or had stepped on a rattlesnake in the dark, and now lay helpless, waiting for day to come and someone to find him.

She rose stiffly from the chair. The cats jumped down to wind around her feet and herd her into the kitchen. She opened up the cat food tins, feeling dazed by lack of sleep. This was the third time he’d gone off this week. But he’d always returned long before dawn—except for that once, six months ago. She shuddered, and reached for her sweater. It was cold at this end of the room.

Dora put four cat food bowls on the floor, one for each cat so they would not fight, then she took the dog’s water dish to the sink. The dog had disappeared as well, and she hoped Bandido, their big old mutt, was in the mountains looking after Juan. As she looked out the window over the sink she saw two shadows approaching the house, a smaller shadow trailing behind. She set down the bowl and it shattered, knifing a gash through the palm of her hand.

Dora grabbed a dishrag, staunched the gush of blood, and rushed to open the door. Outside, Fox was crossing the cobbled stable yard, half carrying Juan as he limped along. Juan’s feet were bare, his chest was bare, and his lips were blue with cold. Dark red paint was crusted on his fingers and streaked his skin.

“Where was he?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Fox looked at her, his eyes flat and dark. “By Red Springs. He’s freezing. Help me get him inside.”

“Juan?” Dora said as she took his other arm. His eyes slid across her face and away. “Come inside now. Lean on me. It’s nice and warm by the fire,” she said, hearing herself speak in the soothing voice that she usually used for the cats.

She turned and whistled for Bandido del Corazón—but the creature who lurked at the edge of the yard was a coyote, not a dog. It regarded her with steady eyes, and then disappeared through the creosote. Bandido emerged from under the couch where he had been hiding all night.

They sat Juan down in the chair by the hearth. She wrapped the quilt around him. His feet were torn and bloody, as though he had walked a long, long way. She tucked a pillow under his head, and Bandido settled in close by his feet. Juan’s eyes were closed, his breath even; he was already fast asleep.

She looked up at Fox, who stood holding a cat, gazing into the fire. “Have tea with me, Johnny?” Dora whispered. He nodded and followed her to the kitchen.

Fox sat down at the table he’d built for her and Juan last year, made out of mesquite wood polished to a smooth, rich red-brown surface. The cat slid from Fox’s arms to his lap, and two of her litter mates joined her; the fourth sat purring on Fox’s boot with a silly grin on her face. He’d always had a gift for charming cats, and dogs … and women too, Dora thought, as she put the kettle on the stove. He was a good-looking devil, long and lanky, with skin tanned deep by the desert sun, his brown hair as perpetually dishevelled as his rumpled flannel shirts and his dusty jeans. His smile was an endearing one, revealing a chipped front tooth. Dora placed a mug in front of him, and washed another one for herself. Then she sat down at the table, all her energy draining in a rush.

Fox touched her hand, wrapped with the bloody rag. “What’s going on?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I