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The sky did not respond. Nor, for that matter, did the god.
It was an old myth, one of countless tales that blamed the gods for everything. Rain and snowstorms were the fault of Solvilde; uneven stitches on a piece of embroidery were a trick of Hulda; a plague, the work of Velos.
Of course, as Wyrdith was the god of fortune, nearly everything could be placed on their shoulders.
It hardly seemed fair.
“All right, Zelig. We’ll be fine. Let’s go home.”
Tightening her jaw, she flicked the reins and they set off toward the Aschen Wood.
The storm offered no mercy, and by the time the road met the tree line, she was once again soaked through to her chemise. Zelig froze at the edge of the forest, great gobs of rainwater splattering onto the muddied road, while before them, the trees’ shadows disappeared into mist and gloom.
Serilda felt a tug behind her navel, like a rope was tied to her insides, gently pulling her forward.
She inhaled sharply, her breath wavering.
She was simultaneously repelled by the woods and drawn to it. If the trees had a voice, they would have been chanting a dark lullaby, calling her closer, promising to envelop her and keep her. She hesitated, gathering her courage, feeling the tendrils of old magic reaching out to touch her, before vanishing in the gray light of day.
The woods were both living and dead.
Hero and villain.
The dark and the light.
There are two sides to every story.
Serilda was dizzy with fear, but she gripped the reins and dug her heels into Zelig’s side.
He whinnied loudly and reared his head. Rather than trotting forward, he backed away.
“Go on, now,” she encouraged, leaning forward to pat the side of his face. “I’m here.” She urged him forward again.
This time, Zelig lifted up onto his hind legs with a desperate squeal. Serilda cried out, clutching the reins tighter to keep from being thrown off.
As soon as his hooves hit the dirt again, Zelig turned and bolted away from the woods, back toward Adalheid and safety.
“Zelig, no!” she shouted. At the last minute, she was able to swerve him away from the city gate, heading toward the western road instead.
He slowed to a canter, though his breaths were still quickened.
With a frustrated groan, Serilda glanced back over her shoulder. The woods had been swallowed up again in mist.
“Suit yourself,” she grumbled. “We’ll go the long way.”
The rain stopped somewhere before Fleck, but Serilda did not dry out the entire ride. Dusk was approaching by the time Märchenfeld finally came into view, tucked into its valley by the river. Though equal parts cold and miserable, Serilda was overcome with happiness to be home. Even Zelig’s steady clomping steps seemed to pick up at the sight.
As soon as they reached the mill, she tied Zelig to the hitching post, promising she would be back with his supper, and ran into the house. But she had no sooner opened the door than she knew Papa wasn’t home. There was no fire in the hearth. No food simmering in the pot. She’d forgotten how barren they’d left the house, having sold off so many of their belongings before leaving for Mondbrück. It felt like entering the home of a stranger.
Cold. Abandoned.
Decidedly unwelcoming.
A loud grinding noise drew her attention toward the back wall. It took her exhausted mind a moment to place it.
The mill.
Someone was operating the mill.
