Series: Willow Winters
Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24325 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24325 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
I raise my eyebrows at him. You heard your father.
He glares harder. I don’t care.
But then his father coughs again, and Hansel gives an annoyed huff and opens the door a little farther. I have to squeeze through, my arm scraping the door, but I make it. Hansel shuts the door behind me with a loud thud, dampening the howl of the wind.
The kitchen, the table, the chairs by the fire—all of it is the same as the last time I was here, years ago, before we left for the forest. Before the witch. Only it’s weathered and worn now. The rug near the hearth is frayed at the edges. Hansel’s father coughs into a cloth in his hand, gripping the armrest of his chair.
At least they have a fire. It crackles in the grate, throwing heat into the rest of the house. I’m grateful for it. The winter is unkind and bitter.
My cloak traps the cold close to my body, so I take it off with shaking hands and turn to hang it on a hook by the door.
Hansel glares at me.
I stare back until he moves out of the way.
Once my cloak is hung up, I swing my bag off my shoulder and hang that up, too. Freed of my few possessions, I make my way across the sparsely furnished room to where Hansel’s father is getting out of his chair. I put my hand under his arm and help him to his feet.
“What can I get for you? Water?”
He waves me off, which sends him into another coughing fit.
“Tea,” he barks finally, and takes a threadbare cloth from the mantel and lifts the kettle off its hook over the fire. I help him to the table, where he prepares a pot of tea, which he lifts up and shows to us both. “Warm up,” he orders. “I have to rest.”
“Let me help you.” I step forward instantly.
“I’ll be all right.” Hansel’s father puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. His eyes are sympathetic, though he’s the one who doesn’t seem well at all. “Good to see you, Gretel.”
His breathing is labored on his way to the bedroom, and once he closes the door, the coughing starts up again.
I turn around to pour the the tea, and Hansel blocks me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking up to find his eyes black with hatred. “I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t—”
“You shouldn’t have come.” He lets go of my wrist like I burned him. “But here you are. What do you want?” I can’t deny that it pains me, to see him struggle so. To know what became of the village. I was able to flee, but Hansel couldn’t.
I drop my hand to my side. I’d wanted to talk. To tell him how sorry I am, and how I know it’s been difficult. I’d wanted to sit together the way we used to.
That’s not going to happen now.
“I need you to come with me. You—you remember what she said before we did what we did. Before we did what had to be done.” A chill runs through my body. It’s like a confession. One only he would understand the weight of.
Hansel crosses his arms over his chest. His face is so unfamiliar to me like this. It’s like looking at a stranger. “Before we killed her. The witch is dead.”
“Hansel. She’s come back. I know she has. I can feel it.” My heart pounds. The witch isn’t here—I can see that with my own two eyes—but I’m still terrified. “Something’s happened, and I’m scared.”
Years ago, he would have taken my hand. He would have asked me what he could do to help me feel less afraid, and then Hansel would have done it.
His expression doesn’t change. The hardness that stares back at me is unbearable.
“She can’t come back,” he says flatly. “If she could, we’d be dead by now. We’d hear her. The screeching.” His eyes go dull and faraway. Hollow.
I would give anything to go back to when his eyes were bright. Anything. But there’s no magic that will take me there. I curl my hands into loose fists to keep myself from reaching for Hansel.
“She cast a spell when they killed her.”
He looks away, his shoulders tensing, then looks back at me. “That was long ago. Why do you think she’s back now?”
I pace in the small kitchen and whisper, “I had a nightmare.” It makes my stomach hurt to think about it. The dark path. The black branches covering the sky. The sounds in the forest all around us. “I thought it was real. I thought I was back there.”
“A dream doesn’t mean—”
“And when I woke up,” I interrupt, too loud, the dream back in my head. It’s not easy to shake it off and keep going. “There were rocks leading to my door.”