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The trees press in on all sides, dwarfing Eileen as she makes her way through the forest, reminding her how very small she is. Here, at the edge of the village, only the outer circle of woods has been cleared. Most of the forest blooms outwards, vast and unmeasured. In the deepest parts, it is dark, even at noon.
Eileen’s heart thuds dully in her ears. Every few feet she has to remind herself to breathe deeply. Her breath and her heart are trying to run away with her, following some primal urge of her brain that longs for comfort and safety.
Once, her grandfather told her that the trees breathe like men do, only much more slowly. In the coldest part of night, the trees take their daily breath. If you are there with them when it happens, you will suffocate, because there will be no air left for you.
She’d thought that was nothing but a tale to frighten children.
Now she is not so sure.
She stumbles over a root, tearing the hem of her rough homespun skirt as she catches herself on the trunk of an ancient tree. The bark is rough and grey in places, but she can feel the life pulsing underneath. The tree would speak to her, if only she would be still enough to listen.
“I’m sorry Your Honor,” she says as she tugs her skirt free of the root. “I must be home before sundown, you see.”
She hurries between the trees as quickly as she can, following a path that only her heart can see. In some places, the trees are so close together, she has to turn sideways to squeeze between them. The underbrush beyond sways in the breeze, and the scuttling of wild beasts murmurs in the distance.
“And won’t that be a fine end for you,” she mutters. “Survive a Plague only to be eaten by wolves.”
Maybe Tobias was right about her. Maybe she is mad.
But Tobias is dead, and all his opinions with him. As far as she knows, nobody misses either one.
Just as she has convinced herself that her heart has lied to her, she finds what she seeks. The trees open to a small clearing, where the grass grows in short blue tufts between the rocks. There, next to an old cherry tree, is a wounded doe, her leg caught in one of the Duke’s snares.
The doe’s fur is so white, it hurts to look at her. Her eyes are bright blue, and so wide and sad it breaks Eileen’s heart.
“What are you doing this way, Love?” Eileen says, approaching slowly.
The doe sighs, but does not try to escape. Perhaps she has given up already.
“Now, there’s no need for that yet,” Eileen says, using the tone she’d once used to soothe Severus, when he’d been a fussy wee babe. “Let’s see how bad it all is before we go giving up the ghost, shall we?”
She moves slowly through the clearing, not wanting the doe to startle and cause more damage by trying to tear her leg from the trap. When she is close enough to touch the beautiful creature, the doe lays her head down on the grass. Eileen carefully pries open the trap, straining to hold it steady while the doe pulls her leg free. But even then, the doe does not run.
Eileen lets the trap snap shut. Then she pulls a strip of clean linen from her pouch. This she wets with water from her water skin.
“I’m going to clean you up best I can, alright, Love?” she says.
The doe stares at Eileen with her unnervingly blue eyes while Eileen cleans the wound and applies a healing poultice. She hums a lullaby as she works, an old song about fairy queens and clever youngest sons, hoping to keep the doe still until the paste dries. The doe’s leg seems sound enough, thank the Lord. She will not have to use her dagger this afternoon for a mercy killing.
“I dreamt about you last night, did you know that?” she says. “Did you dream of me?”
The doe’s head rears up at that, and then she is on her feet, bounding away through the underbrush. Soon only the moving of the leaves as they let the creature pass show that the doe was ever there at all.
Eileen sits back on her heels, watching the path the doe has taken. Her heart feels oddly empty now, though this is the best of all possible outcomes.
“You’re welcome,” she says, chiding herself for a fool. “It was my pleasure.”
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
The rhythm of the ax as it works through the rough wood, hewing it into something fit to be stacked next to the house is Eileen’s favorite chore. The stretch and pull of her muscles, the beat of the metal on wood brings her into a trance like few other things can. It is not the melancholy trance of the spinning wheel, or the tedium of hauling water in from the well. The wood trance always leads her into a special place of dreams, where she can pretend to be a princess, or a bird on the wing. Whatever takes her fancy in the moment.
In this moment, she is chasing after the threads of last night’s dream. Waking has torn all but glimpses of it from her mind. Those few shreds she clings to, holding them close to her heart. A woman, wise and sad, but beautiful, with long blonde hair flowing down her back, and blue eyes like the white doe Eileen rescued the day before. A song with a haunting melody drifting on the breeze. The first few notes are lodged in her heart, but she cannot for the life of her remember any more of it. The brush of lips across her cheek—petal-soft, like a fairy’s wing.
The pounding of hoofbeats on the dirt path that serves as a road drags Eileen from her thoughts. Her hands tighten on the handle of the ax as her eyes search for the rider. She wishes it might be her son. It has been so many years since she has seen him, she wonders if she would even recognize him. But she also knows how unlikely this is. Monks seldom leave the enclosure of the monastery, and certainly not on so frivolous an errand as a visit to an earthly mother.
The black horse that comes into view is far to fine a creature for a monk, in any case. The man perched on its back is robed in the sort of riches Eileen will never touch, even with the tips of her fingers. Orion, Lord Blackthorn, draws his mount to a halt, using a softer hand for the creature than he has ever used for a woman. Eileen dips into an awkward curtsey, waiting for that hand to fall on the back of her neck.
“The white doe—have you seen it?” he demands without preamble.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Eileen says, her hands growing cold.
“The white doe. The Duke snared it only yesterday, but someone has spirited it away. Have you seen it?”
She shivers at the mention of the Duke Valée de la Mort. She would rather face the devil himself than that heartless man. If she were wise, she would point Lord Blackthorn in the white doe’s direction, and save herself.
Eileen’s heart is too soft to be wise.
“No, my lord. I have not seen such a creature,” she says.
Lord Blackthorn’s horse paws the ground, snorting impatiently. Eileen holds her breath, wondering if it will be her last. They say Lord Blackthorn can read men’s hearts.
Perhaps he has not had the same luck reading the heart of a woman.
“Very well,” he says. “If it passes this way, you are to detain it if you can, and send word to the castle.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
He rides on, heading towards the heart of the village. There is no need to explain the punishment that will follow if his orders are not obeyed. Everyone knows that Lord Blackthorn loves to mete out punishment the way some men love to drink good wine.
Eileen picks up her ax, and returns to her chopping. The rhythm does little to soothe her troubled heart.
Eileen sits bolt upright on her straw mat, her eyes blinking hard against the darkness. There is a rustling outside the hole in the wall that serves as a window, and she reaches for the knife she keeps on the floor next to her when she sleeps. Her fingers wrap around the worn handle. She holds it close to her chest. The cold metal reassures her as she creeps to the window to peek out.
The white doe looks back at her, its coat shining like a star in the inky blackness of the night. Eileen drops the knife, it thuds onto the dirt floor at her feet.
“You can’t be here,” Eileen says. “They’re looking for you. Everyone is looking for you.”
The doe tilts her head, studying Eileen with her wise, sad eyes.
“You have to go. Shoo. Get out of here.”
The doe makes no move to run. Eileen tells herself she should ignore the creature and go back to bed. Pretend she’s seen nothing. The doe will leave on her own, or she won’t. It’s none of Eileen’s concern anyway.
“I really have gone mad, haven’t I?” Eileen mutters as she quickly pulls on her homespun dress and woven belt.
She shoves her knife into her belt, and hurries out into the night. The doe’s ear twitches as she approaches, but she stays where she is. Eileen places a trembling hand on the creature’s head, and the doe leans into the touch. Warmth melts whatever is left of Eileen’s icy heart, and her eyes blur with tears.
Surely this beautiful doe does not belong here in the muck with the rest of them.
The silence of the night is broken by the echo of the hunter’s horn. Hoofbeats thud in the distance. Eileen knows Lord Blackthorn is coming for them. They have only minutes until he arrives.
The warmth in her heart grows, a fire flaring to life, rolling through every limb and outward. She knows what this fire is—she’s carried it locked inside since childhood, when the priest and her father put the fear of God in her, teaching her that this power was of the devil and would only drag her down into hell with him.
The fire is the only thing that will save the doe now.
Eileen closes her eyes, and sets the fire free.
A golden light wraps itself around the doe’s body, even as Lord Blackthorn and his men come thundering into view. Eileen’s arms tighten around the doe’s neck. She is ready to use her body as a shield, little good will it do them. But the men ride on, as though they cannot see either the woman, or the creature.
When the men are out of sight, Eileen lets out the breath she has been holding.
“We can’t stay here, Love,” she says. “They will be back, and more trouble with them.”
The doe’s eyes seem to smile at hers. The creature turns, and starts down the path towards the sea. At the turning, she pauses, looking back, her eyes asking Well? Aren’t you coming with me?
Eileen does not even go back into the hut for her cloak.
They walk all night in silence, protected by the golden light. As the dawn blushes rosy and clear across the sky, they reach the sea. A boat is waiting for them. Eileen is sure it must be manned by fairies or changelings. The doe steps aboard without hesitation.
“I suppose there’s no sense in doing this halfway,” Eileen says as she climbs aboard.
The sea is smooth as glass this morning, but the boat has no trouble cutting through the calm waters. The sun has barely climbed over the horizon when Eileen and the doe reach the shore of the island in the distance. The doe splashes through the shallows, bounding up onto the sandy beach. Eileen is slower to reach land, for she spends too much time looking backwards over the path they have come, listening to the doubts clamoring in her heart.
“Don’t be sad, Sweeting,” says a voice from the shore. “You’ve set me free. And yourself as well.”
Eileen’s head whips around. In place of the white doe is a woman, wise and sad, but beautiful, her blonde hair flowing down her back. Her eyes are smiling now, the same blue eyes of the doe who has led her here.
“There’s no sense in looking backwards,” the woman says. “It is the future you seek.”
“I’ve never been much good at seeing the future,” Eileen says as she joins the woman on the shore.
The woman laughs, and holds out her hands. “I will see it for the both of us, then. Will you come with me?”
The woman’s hands are warm and firm in Eileen’s. “Who are you?”
“A woman, same as you. I was called Sybill once, before the Duke found me.” She smiles shyly. “I would not mind being called Sybill again.”
“Sybill.” The name is sweet on her tongue, and Eileen feels as though she has come home to a place she has never been. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”
Sybill’s lips brush against Eileen’s, petal-soft, like a fairy’s wing. And when Eileen opens her eyes, Sybill is still there with her, glowing in the golden light of dawn.