Venya had woken unusually early that morning, not to her usual phone alarm, but to Ves treating her toes as toys and sinking his tiny teeth into one of them.
Venya prepared to visit the village for the first time since settling into the inn.
She needed to look presentable when meeting Melia’s older sister, Talia.
She had washed her hair with the soap Melia had brought her.
It had left her hair coarse, but the rainwater that she had gathered the previous day had softened it as if she had used conditioner.
But she had to rely on Melia to braid her hair, so she left her hair loose.
She couldn’t manage two neat braids herself.
Melia had assured her that she needed to wear her hair in two braids, or villagers would think she was a loose woman.
With a small headscarf, of course.
Venya chuckled.
Melia’s own braids barely qualified as such, already half-undone, and her scarf was usually either missing or askew.
Sometimes she looked like a battle-worn Barbie doll with smudged cheeks and raggedy clothes.
Venya left Ves in her bedroom with a bowl of water and a little food.
After breakfast, he was sleeping on the floor, hugging an old rag he had found in the inn.
Reluctantly, Venya closed the door behind her.
This time, she made sure it was closed.
She couldn’t take him with her or leave him alone for too long, but she didn’t know how long she would be gone.
Her thigh still ached, but she had proper shoes and was less exhausted than the last time she had walked the route, so Venya reached the mill in less than an hour.
It stood just outside the village.
There she met Melia, who waved to her from a distance with a wide smile.
They sat by the mill, watching the rushing water turn the huge wheel, the wooden wheel creaking with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
The morning sun glinted off the water’s surface.
“Now you look like any other villager,” Melia said as she finished braiding Venya’s hair.
Then she tied a yellow scarf on Venya’s head.
“I could have tied it myself,” Venya said, adjusting the scarf on her head.
“Milady, this servant is pleased to serve.” Melia swept one hand outward and gave a theatrical bow.
“Thank you.” Venya dropped into a curtsy fit for a king.
As they walked toward the village, Venya told Melia how she and Ves had buried the mother lynx.
They had covered the body with the flowers they had gathered from the inn yard.
Without a shovel, she had dug with a broken board and her bare hands, removing only a little earth at a time.
It had taken the rest of the day to cover the lynx completely, but the layer of earth was too thin to keep scavengers away for long.
She hoped to borrow a shovel from Melia’s family to finish the job later that day.
Before burying the lynx, she had cut a small tuft of fur for a pendant.
She planned to bind it tightly with thread and hang it from a leather cord once she found both.
But without YouTube videos, she would have to ask someone how to make it.
The thought of the mother lynx reminded her of Ves.
Venya tried to estimate how long she had been gone.
Was he still sleeping?
He had probably already knocked over the water bowl and was now redesigning the bedroom.
“I thought about what happened with the mother lynx all day yesterday.
Do you want to hear?” “Shoot.” “What!?
Shoot you?
Like kill you?” “No.
It’s… never mind, tell me.” Venya sighed.
Some things didn’t translate very well.
“There’s a folk tale in the village.
It says that if you meet a living stone in the forest, you can ask it for knowledge.
But to gain that knowledge, you have to kill it.
Can you kill a stone, though?” “Do you have living stones here?” Venya asked, her eyes wide.
“Of course not.” Considering the magical shocks from beasts and the poisonous haze, Venya wouldn’t have been surprised by living stones.
Even talking ones.
“Let me tell you more.
Then there’s the story of the forest spirit.
It looks almost human, but dirty and ugly.
Just like you did the other day.” Melia grinned.
“Sometimes it appears as a young woman and lures people deep into the forest.
It eats their souls.
If they ever find their way back, they return empty inside.” “I was really dirty and ugly,” Venya agreed.
“I’m sorry.
You weren’t ugly,” Melia said, correcting herself.
“In the other version, it steals children and eats them.
But that might be just parents messing up their kids for no reason.” “How does this relate to anything?” “I mean, maybe the living stone and forest spirits were really magical beasts.
And beasts are dangerous.
They eat people.
Maybe they eat souls too.” Melia glanced sideways at Venya.
“What if the truth behind the stories is that magical beasts…” “Like the lynx,” Venya suggested.
“Yes, like the lynx.
They can shock you, and the shock will give you something.
And they’re dangerous too.” “Maybe it was just static electricity from the fur,” Venya murmured.
“Static…
what?” “Nothing.” Venya raised an eyebrow.
“So you think all three stories came from the same kind of truth?” Melia’s theory was interesting.
“Exactly.
They’ve gotten twisted over time, but each one still has a piece of the truth.
The lynx gave you something when she died.
Maybe she gave you her bond with the cub and the ability to speak our language.” Melia raised one index finger in the air.
“And you can’t deny the facts.
The cub became attached to you unnaturally fast.
Like, immediately.
And I need to correct your speech less and less often.” “Okay, maybe.
So magical beasts exist, and if you meet one in the forest, it might give you something through the shock, as she did… or it might eat you.
But that still doesn’t prove they eat souls.” “And this kept you awake all night and day?” Venya shook her head.
Perhaps there was a seed of truth in it.
The cub didn’t seem to miss his mother and was attached to Venya.
And her brain was adapting quickly to the language.
“Only all day.
Like, twelve hours or so.” As they talked, they arrived at the village.
It looked bigger than she remembered, but then again, she had been in escape mode with tunnel vision the first time.
Cart wheels rattled over the uneven street, a hammer rang somewhere nearby, and they had to dodge people hurrying into shops that had opened for the day.
“Remember that?” Melia pointed across the street at the Lovely Rose inn.
“You bumped into a gentleman in front of it.
That was so funny.” Melia chuckled.
“Oh.
I do remember.
He was shocked.” Venya laughed.
She had forgotten the man.
“You should have seen his eyes.” And felt his warm hands.
Wait, what?
And why was she suddenly thinking about some nobody’s light-blue eyes?
The village truly looked charming and harmless, like something out of a postcard, but Venya knew better.
She tried to be calm, but it turned out to be an impossible task.
Then they passed the spot beside the road where she had woken up with an injured head.
Helplessness squeezed her chest.
The villagers’ faces blurred, and the ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
Her step faltered, and Melia caught her arm.
Then Melia hugged her and wiped a tear from Venya’s cheek.
Venya realized that she had kept too many feelings hidden inside her for days, and seeing the place forced them out.
For a moment, Venya let herself lean into the hug.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her like a child.
It was absurd.
Melia was just a teenager, while Venya was nearly forty.
At least the modern version of her was.
“Don’t waste your tears on these idiots.” Venya nodded and pushed the feeling down.
But she knew that once she was back at the inn, she would let it all out.
The warm scent of fresh bread reached them long before the bakery came into view.
When they arrived, the yard was bustling as baskets of baked goods were loaded onto horse-drawn carts.
The beautiful blue-painted Summerhay family home that stood beside the bakery was two stories tall.
The house was clearly much bigger than most buildings she had seen in the village.
Even so, it was nothing compared to the mansion on top of the hill.
“Come on.
Let’s go inside the house.
Talia is waiting for us in her room,” Melia said, tugging at Venya’s arm.
A short distance behind Melia and Venya, Robert Whitlock walked at an easy pace, careful not to draw their attention.
He knew the baker’s girl, of course.
As the village magistrate, he knew everyone.
It was her unfamiliar friend who interested him.
Those green eyes, still wet with tears, had looked especially inviting.
There was no reason to hurry.
The woman was entering the baker’s house, and Robert knew exactly where to find her.
For now, he preferred to watch.