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Stones line the way to the front door like a path. None of them match; all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Some stick out far enough that I almost trip over more than one of them even as I look down at them while walking, or maybe it’s because I’m looking down. Either way, they’re beautiful. Some of them shine in the candlelight that flickers in the windows as we get closer, and I have to resist the urge to dig them up.
Somehow, I don’t think he would appreciate me trying to steal his walk path.
It reminds me of fairy homes from picture books and cartoons I’d seen as a child.
The cabin is adorable, for lack of a better way to describe it.
I bite my tongue against the urge to tell him as much, worried I might piss him off further.
He pushes open the door and disappears inside. I’m only a few steps behind him, but even with my focus on the ground, it’s almost as if I can feel that he’s gone. I’d been happy to stay out here and explore a moment ago, but now I find that sounds like a terrible idea.
Looking around, everything seems less inviting. The shadows are darker, the stones less appealing, and I’m not sure what lurks in these woods, but I very much feel like the prey I am.
I run to the porch, hopping over the stairs, and dash to the door, only to come to a grinding halt just inside.
“Holy shit!”
I thought the cabin looked like it was pulled from the pages of a fairytale before, but now I’m positive there’s no other way to explain this place.
It’s not big, but I could have guessed that from the outside. What I couldn’t have guessed was just how much stuff was in here. The main room is almost like a dining room of sorts, but instead of a clear table to eat at, it’s full of all types of things. Bottles, books, plants, both dried and in pots, candles, and bowls. There’s so much here that my eyes flit from one thing to the next, unsure what to look at first. The wall to my right is a floor-to-ceiling shelving system that resembles a shallow bookcase. It’s full of hundreds, if not thousands, of bottles, much like the ones on the table, each labeled and sorted to perfection, from what I can see.
My feet carry me to the table without thought, as curiosity gets the better of me. A book lies open, with an old-fashioned feather quill and a small container of ink next to it.
What fucking year is it?
I shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter what year it is. It’s not as if I’ll be here long. I just need to find a way home, back to the guys, and that’s it. Even still, I can’t help but look closer at it. Whoever wrote it has beautiful handwriting. Each letter is drawn with care, extra swirly but still legible. It’s like the writing you would see on a formal invitation to a pack binding or some other high-class event.
It’s too bad I can’t read a single word of it.
Whatever language it’s in definitely isn’t English.
A few bottles litter the table in front of the book, and I lean closer for a better look. I can’t read the labels either, but one bottle contains the most beautiful purple liquid. It shimmers even in the low light, and I have to pull back and move on to resist reaching out to grab it.
Who knows what could be in it.
There’s a mortar and pestle that looks as if it were abandoned mid-use. The bottom is lined with an almost tar-like substance. The smell that wafts from it is so bitter that I cover my nose before moving toward the plants.
There has to be at least twenty different plants, all in various stages of growth, littering the table and a few dozen dried bunches scattered around.
Much to the guys’ amusement, I’ve never been good with plants. I once killed an aloe plant, and they never let me live it down. Apparently, it’s supposed to be one of the easiest things to keep alive.
With everything littered on the table, all I can think of is some of the older witch movies or the new Sabrina series, witches and spells. I snort at the thought. Everyone knows witches aren’t real, but if they were, this is what I imagine their house would look like.
I round the table’s far side and find a tiny bright pink vine. It’s in a pot, but there’s a little mini ladder in the soil, and it works its way up and around it.
“Not that one.”
I hadn’t even realized I was reaching for it until he said something.
“Oh, sorry… I didn’t mean–.” I trail off, unsure of what to say. If I tell him I didn’t mean to touch it, I’ll sound crazy, and considering he already found me in the woods, lost and alone, I don’t think adding more crazy is a good idea.
“It’s poisonous,” he says as a way of explanation that I didn’t ask for and probably don’t even deserve.
I step back, eyeing the plant as if it’s going to attack me, while I edge back down the table where it’s hopefully safer.
“If it’s poisonous, why have it?” I ask before I can stop myself. His brows pull together again, and I realize I’m being rude.
“Shit, sorry. I’m being rude. Ignore me,” I tell him, stopping back by the door that’s now closed.
