By the time she reached her room, the nausea had passed, but still she felt awful. Only once she reached the foot of the bed and was able to lean into it did she understand what was happening. Grief—terrible, throbbing grief. She grasped at her chest as if to stop the pain, trying to understand why the girl’s death paralyzed her so. She’d only met Fiona Eira once, but the loss tore into her, opened her up. Confused, weak, she climbed atop her covers, and curling up, she wept.
The funeral should have been the next day. It ought to have been. The village ought to have gathered in Fiona Eira’s home, and the elders ought to have performed the rites. She should have been covered in the funerary shroud, hiding the sight of human flesh so as not to offend the Goddess. Her body laid up on Cairn Hill at the Mouth of the Goddess, stones carefully arranged atop her resting spot. These were the things that ought to have been done. But sometimes things don’t go as planned.
Tom hadn’t spoken much since the night before. Nor had he eaten, and Jude, worried, brought a bowl of oatmeal up to him in bed.
“I sprinkled sugar on top,” Jude said as he set it before his brother, who didn’t meet his eyes, who barely moved. Jude laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“The rites,” Tom managed, his voice cracking with pain. “What time are the rites?”
Jude sat opposite him. “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? They’re not being said tonight.”
Tom sat up, his eyes suddenly clear. “What? What do you mean they’re not saying them tonight? If twenty-three hours pass, she can’t be laid to rest.”
Jude shrugged. “Goi Flint is refusing to let them in.”
“But the rites must be said.”
“He’s pickled in ale and extremely violent. He says he’ll do what he pleases with her body, and that no one will stop him. No one’s been able to reason with him. He gave Goi Tate a nasty black eye, and when Mama Lune tried to speak with him, he took a swing at her too.”
“This is sacrilege we’re talking about.” Tom rose, his eyes dull as day-old bread. His brother put a hand to his chest to stay him.
“Listen to me, Tom. Goi Flint is a dangerous man. And he’s gone completely mad with drink. He’ll kill you. Someone should stop him. I agree, but it shouldn’t be my only brother.”
“Surely he can be reasoned with.”
“They say you don’t understand unless you’ve seen him. There’s a rabid animal behind his eyes. He’s practically murdered his wife.”
“What?” Tom asked, surprised. “Is she okay?”
“I think so. She’s inside with him now, apparently refusing to come out as well.”
“This is lunacy. Surely the village elders can talk sense into him.”
“They’re shocked. They say there’s nothing we can do—that we just have to hope he sobers up and listens to reason before twenty-three hours have come and gone.”
“He must be stopped. He can’t do such a thing. He can’t.” Tom moved to leave, but Jude held his brother at arm’s length, his black eyes dangerous in their insistence.
“Sit,” Jude said. “Eat your food. Rest some more, and this evening we will go and speak with him together. I cannot let you go alone.”
Tom stared at his brother, uncertain what to say or do. He was frustrated by his own impotence and overwhelmed by his brother’s loyalty. So he sat down and did as Jude asked.
“I’ll be back for you in two hours,” Jude said.
Rowan sat on the edge of her bed, her cold feet dangling as she stared out her casement window at the ceaseless snow. She had spent the afternoon in bed—had not even risen to eat, she who was usually so hungry, she who could never seem to get enough nourishment to sustain her small body. Her father had left her alone up there, and his guests had gone out. Only Emily had knocked, checking on her, a nervous quaver to her voice, but Rowan had been able to persuade her that she was ill and needed to be left alone.
She ran a finger over the battalion of goose bumps that had risen along her arms. She ought to dress, ought to warm herself, but the cold felt good. She had no explanation for her reaction to her cousin’s death. She hadn’t known her aside from the conversation on the forest path. But now that she was gone, it felt as if someone very important had disappeared, and she had to keep her hands at her side lest they search blindly out in front of her for the warmth of a mother she knew she couldn’t remember.
Bringing her palms to her spent eyes, she leaned into them, willing the grief to stop, willing herself to act in a recognizable manner. With great effort, she would put on her dress and her stockings and her heavy black boots, and she would wade through the snow to the center of the village to Fiona’s cottage. She needed to pay her respects. She needed to see if she could be of service.
At the tavern, the men were fuming, caught up in the preparations, the thrill of the hunt infecting them all. Jude slunk in, trying to remain unnoticed. The last thing he wanted was to be given a weapon and dragged out into the wilds to fight a bloodthirsty beast, but he needed to know what was being planned.
“We’ll do what has to be done,” said Goi Tate, clearly relishing the chance to release some of his well-honed aggression. “We’ll band together and hunt the thing down. Then we’ll drag it through the center of the village and hang it up for all to see.”
The rest of the men grunted in assent.
“Safety must be a consideration, of course,” Wilhelm spoke up, his voice soft in comparison to the younger man’s. “We’ll need to go in pairs. We’ll need to stay on our guard.”
“We move tonight,” Goi Tate said, pulling the focus back to himself.
Jude cleared his throat and got the other men’s attention. “I don’t think it wise that we should hunt this creature at night,” he said.
“Don’t be silly, boy,” rasped Goi Tate. “It struck at night.”
“That’s my point exactly,” Jude answered. “It hunts and kills at night, and if we send ourselves out into the darkness when it is at its most potent, we put too much at risk. It would be wiser to move at dawn, to catch the creature unaware, perhaps even while it sleeps.”
“What does the boy know?” Goi Tate scowled. “He speaks from fear.”
Paer Jorgen nodded. “He is right to be afraid. The creature we hunt, whether it be a common wolf or something … more, no man here is a match for it. Our best chance to kill it is to use our wits. We go at dawn.”
Goi Tate raised his thumb. “Respectfully, I disagree. We need to slay the wolf before it can kill again.”
“It was no wolf,” a raspy voice said from the stairs, and Jude looked up to find his brother looking even worse than when he’d left him. The room fell silent, and the men waited for Tom to continue. “I was not twenty yards from it, and though I didn’t see it with my eyes, I am certain it was no wolf. It was larger, I am sure of it—larger than any man, larger than any animal known to these woods.”
“What are you saying, Tom?” his father asked.
He shrugged and leaned against the wall, a new kind of hollowness to his eyes. “I’m saying that anyone who goes out to find this thing is going to die.”
The men laughed, rolling their eyes at Tom’s dramatics, but Jude stared at his brother with utter seriousness, and when he stood, the men fell silent again. Their father cleared his throat and looked out the window as if to fully disassociate from his boys. Jude went to his brother, and taking him by the arm, he motioned to the door.