Page 8 of Wench

Bravery is not survival.

Her shoulders shake as the realization sinks in. She cannot run. She cannot fight. The Sheriff will take what her father gives; she will be nothing more than a pawn shuttled between men until she breaks.

And the forest watches, indifferent.

Marian’s nails dig furrows through moss and mud, reaching deeper for the edge of a freedom she will never grasp.

There are no choices left. Only the cage.

ChapterThree

The forest does not answer her cries. It only listens, vast and unyielding, the greenery wrapping close as though to smother the sound.

Marian does not know how long she has lain there.

Eventually, gentle hands, familiar and sure, find her shoulders and coax her upright. Marian resists at first, body limp, but Tilda is insistent, whispering soft, indistinct words.

Marian lets herself be pulled. Her muscles are spent, her head heavy as stone against her neck. She stumbles when she tries to stand, the skirts of her frock sodden with earth and clinging to her shins. Tilda’s arm steadies her waist, firm but careful, guiding each step back toward the manor.

They cross the courtyard quickly, the crunch of gravel beneath their boots the only sound. No servants dare approach. Perhaps they see the mud streaked across Marian’s face and gown, the red-rimmed and swollen eyes, and think her cursed.

Inside, the manor is warm with torchlight, though Marian feels no heat. Tilda keeps them moving, murmuring that it is only a few steps more, only one more turn, only one more stair, until they’re safe inside Marian’s chamber. Tilda closes the door behind them and guides her toward the bed. Marian is pliant beneath Tilda’s hands as her maid unlaces her frock and pulls it free. It lands in a heap on the floorboards, dark with wet earth. Stockings are peeled from her legs, braid unravelled until damp strands fall in a dishevelled curtain about her shoulders.

Tilda does not bother with cloth or soap. She lays Marian down as she is: a girl returned from the edge of something vast and terrible.

Marian curls onto her side, knees drawn tight to her chest. The pillow muffles the shallow breaths that shudder through her ribs as if her body has forgotten how to move without breaking. She stares past the bed, past the worn curtains, past the wavering torchlight on the chamber walls. Beyond the glass of her window, the night stretches wide, an ocean of black ink scattered with pinpricks of silver.

She can feel the grit on her skin, the sting of a split lip, the dull throb of her cheek where her father’s hand landed. None of it matters. What burns deeper is the knowledge that no part of her is safe any more.

So she begins to empty herself.

Piece by piece, she strips away what remains of softness.

She pulls out every tender thought, every fragment of hope, every corner of herself that might still love or long. She leaves them behind where the Sheriff can never reach them.

Her body shakes, though not with sobs. The tears are gone, wrung dry in the forest. What comes now is quieter, a slow unravelling. She feels herself becoming smaller, harder, until there is nothing left inside her for them to ruin.

When dawn finally breaks, it does so softly. Light spills across the sill in muted ribbons. Dust motes stir in the shaft of it, floating without weight or destination. The warmth does not touch her. It slides across her face, her hair, her rumpled bedding, and she feels nothing.

The door creaks and, even without looking, she knows it’s Tilda; no one else would dare. She does not waste words, knowing there is nothing she could say that Marian would hear. No questions, no fuss.

Tilda steadies Marian by the elbows and eases her onto the stool near the hearth, before crossing to the armoire. She opens it with a creak and rummages for a moment before drawing out a dress the colour of old smoke.

It’s plain – severe, even. The fabric is a heavy wool that drinks the light rather than reflecting it. The sleeves are long and narrow, meant more for penance than comfort, and the skirt falls straight to the floor without embroidery or trim. The collar is high and a faint scent of cedar clings to it from years of being folded away.

A gown fit for a funeral.

Limbs stiff, Marian allows herself to be moved like a marionette. She doesn’t meet Tilda’s eyes, afraid of what she might see: grief, or worse, pity. Her reflection in the warped glass of the mirror looks like a ghost.

Tilda brushes the salt from Marian’s cheek, the gesture tender as a lullaby.

‘You’re going to survive this,’ Tilda finally mutters.

‘I don’t feel like surviving.’ Marian’s voice is a rasp, scraped raw by the long night.

Tilda turns, reaching for the brush in her apron. She begins gently working through the tangles in Marian’s hair. ‘You don’t have to feel it. You just have to choose it. One breath at a time.’

She braids Marian’s dark-cherry strands carefully, tucking them into a woven crown before reaching into the depths of a trunk. She withdraws a small scrap of velvet the colour of dried roses. With trembling fingers, she unwraps it slowly, the fabric falling away to reveal a delicate fox-shaped hairpin of old silver, tarnished but still gleaming faintly. The fox’s body is lithe and delicate, inlaid with copper eyes like wildfire. The edge of its tail has been sharpened to a fine, lethal point that no one but the wearer would suspect.