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They didn't tell her where they found the meat.
She knew that Florinda had died, of course. For weeks she had heard her sister crying, complaining that her belly hurt, that she was so hungry, so tired. Lucinda had cried too, and just as often, but at least she knew to quiet down when mother told them to shut up. At least she knew to hang back, and let those with eyes forge the path in front of her.
Florinda and the steward were fighting, when it happened. Her mother told her that Florinda had tripped and fallen into the ravine. It was years before it occurred to Lucinda that she might have been lying.
They didn't tell her where they found the meat, in any case. She supposed that she ought to have figured it out, but Lucinda had always treasured her beauty over her mind.
The steward was next to go. He and mother had been fighting more and more, as the air grew colder and the nights longer, and their bellies grew empty once again. He had been killed in a hunting accident, mother said. He had died ensuring that they would not starve. For the greater good.
In retrospect, she supposed this wasn't a complete lie.
The next few months were the hardest. Perhaps, if it had been mother alone in the woods, everything would have been alright. Mother was always so clever, so resourceful. But when you're lost in the woods, and winter is upon you, it's difficult enough to find enough food for yourself, let alone for another person. And mother had always loved Lucinda so much. A woman would do anything to protect her own children, she always said.
Mother's hands always used to be so soft. But when Lucinda reached out to her, to clasp her hands, it was like she was grasping chicken bones.
Eventually, mother grew too weak to gather food. They had taken shelter in the ruins of an old, abandoned cottage. Mother knew that she was dying, she had known it for days. She pressed her lips to her poor, blind daughter's forehead, and told her how much she loved her. And then, she told Lucinda what she would have to do next.
That night, Lucinda cried harder than she had ever cried before. She had never been so glad to be blind, so that she could not see what her own hands were doing.
She had been a picky eater once, only eating the finest of foods. But months wandering the woods had hardened her stomach, deadened her palate. She kept the meal down that night, and slept with a full belly.
She dreamed of wolves and witches, blood and treacle.
In the morning, she set herself to repairing the cottage. Lucinda knew that she would not be able to wander anymore, not without someone to guide her along the unfamiliar ground. Besides, they had been trying to find a way out of the woods, back to civilization, for months. They couldn't find the path with two sets of eyes, she wasn't going to find it with none. Back at the castle, she had gotten quite handy at feeling her way around. If she was somewhere familiar, if she could go slowly, she would be alright. She had enough food to last her a few more days, if she was careful. But once that ran out, she would have to find a difference source of food.
Lucinda had always put her beauty before her mind, but she was quite sure she was not beautiful anymore. She could feel her hollow cheeks, and her hair had begun falling out in clumps. Her mouth tasted sour, and her teeth were coming loose. She had become quite ugly, and Lucinda was shocked to find that she didn't particularly care. Her looks had never made her particularly happy before, not really, so in a way it was a relief to not have to worry about that anymore.
She did have to worry about food, though. In time, the meat ran out, and she used the bones for broth, and she buried what she couldn't use behind the cottage. Eating plants was very tricky. She did not have the luxury of sight to warn her if it was poisonous or not. She learned to eat slowly, a nibble at a time. She learned the smell and feel of the safe ones, and even managed to salvage a few seeds of those, to plant around the cottage. Sometimes she managed to snare a rabbit, but there was so little meat on them, and the taste seemed so odd to her now. She wasn't quite sure why.
Repairs went well. Lucinda knew the cottage was not the prettiest, but it was sturdy, and it kept out the worst of the cold. She learned her way around, learned exactly how many steps it would take to cross the floor, to go around. She learned the sound the floorboards made when they started to give way, the rustle of thatch coming loose. She was very pleased to find the iron stove in the corner still worked, after a good deal of cleaning. In time, she stopped thinking of the cottage as a shelter, and started thinking of it as a friend. Sometimes she would talk to it, chattering pleasantly, and she would imagine that it spoke back to her. Sometimes she heard the voice of her sister, sometimes her mother. Sometimes she thought it sounded an awful lot like that strange woman, the one who wanted to give that boy to the giant. Lucinda wasn't quite sure why she picked that voice for the house, or even where she came up with some of its replies, but she was glad for the variety.
Her conversations to the house were varied. She would tell it about the clothes she used to wear, about the jokes she used to pull on silly little Cinderella. Most often, though, she talked about what she would like to eat. Oh, how she missed eating sweets, she said. How she loved the smell of sugar, the way fresh cake felt under her fingers. If she thought very, very hard about it, she could imagine it. Mother would never allow Lucinda to try her hand at baking-- it was a peasant's job, not at all fit for a lady of her standing, but even so, Lucinda wished she could have tried it, just once. Sometimes she would play at baking, imagine mixing up the batter, and putting it into the lovely little stove. Sometimes she could almost smell the imagined confections as they baked, almost taste them.
It was winter when the first child came. Lucinda's heart almost gave out with glee. It had been so very long since she last spoke to a real, living person. She hoped that her appearance wouldn't frighten to visitor off, wished so desperately that she could appear presentable, just for a little while. The child was too polite to point out Lucinda's appearance, she supposed, and for that she was grateful.
It was a girl child, Lucinda learned. A baker's daughter, on her way to visit some relatives. She'd gotten turned around in the woods, she said, and found herself quite lost. Lucinda was very sympathetic. She had a wonderful time speaking to the child, and the girl was even kind enough to share some of the sweets she'd brought with her. They weren't very good, Lucinda was quite disappointed to find, but she didn't tell the little dear that.
Lucinda couldn't remember the last time she was so happy.
She insisted the child stay the night. The woods were even more dangerous at night, after all, and it was getting quite late. The child obliged-- Lucinda didn't recall building a guest room, didn't recall salvaging another bed, but there it was. Perhaps she had just forgotten.
That night, Lucinda dreamed of blood and treacle, and how empty the cottage seemed sometimes. In the morning, she asked the little girl if perhaps she would like to stay another night. The girl declined.
There is a way to make her stay, mother's voice whispered, in the back of Lucinda's mind.
It was winter, besides. Food was quite hard to come by nowadays. And she was such a lovely, plump little thing, too.
She made sure the meat lasted. She made sure to boil the bones for stock, and bury the rest behind the house, right next to mother. Mother would like the company, Lucinda was quite sure.
The next to come was a boy. He was a woodcutter's son, separated from his father. He said that he'd smelled the pie Lucinda was baking-- she couldn't recall where she'd gotten the ingredients, but there they were. He was a skinny one, Lucinda found. She could tell when she held his hand. What he needed was some meat on his bones, some fattening up. She managed to keep him there for two more days before he tried to run, and then she locked him in the cellar-- when had she dug the cellar? She couldn't recall. But there it was.
More came, over time. It was better in the winter, when times were hard and children were sent into the woods to find food. The house spoke in all kinds of voices now. Boys and girls both. Lucinda found herself quite content. She made sweets often now, but she didn't eat them. She found meat much more satisfying, you see.
Lucinda could feel herself getting older, though. Hardship had aged her, and her foot had never really healed quite right. It would be very nice, Lucinda thought to herself, to have a daughter-- a real, flesh and blood one, not like all the little ones who lived behind the cottage now. Someone to love and care for, as her own mother had cared for her. She would be sure to feed her little one well, so that she would never know the pain that Lucinda herself had felt, so many years ago.
Yes, Lucinda decided. The next time a girl came by, she would do just that.