After the Forest by Kell Woods EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Kell Woods
- Language: English
- Genre: Fairy Tales
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Forest Fair
Lindenfeld, the Black Forest
April 1650
Once upon a time, in a land where the winter snows fall thick and
deep, a young viscountess sat sewing by her window. She was content.
She carried a child, her first, and her husband was home again after
long years away at war. As she sewed, the lady pricked her finger
with her needle. Three bright drops of blood, a deep and startling
crimson, fell upon the snow lining the ebony window ledge. The three
together—black, white, red—were such a pretty sight that the
viscountess smiled and whispered a little spell to herself. A daughter,
she charmed. With hair as black as the ebony frame, lips as red as
blood, and skin as fair as winter snow.
It is a delicate thing, the smoking of a wild-bee hive. There is a rhythm to it
that cannot be rushed, a knowing: of the bees themselves, of flame and air,
of the seasons. Greta Rosenthal had done it so often she had ceased to think
upon it. She merely pressed a hand to the old beech tree in greeting—it was
always wise to respect the elders of the forest—knotted her skirts, checked
the satchel hanging at her shoulder and began to climb, her bare toes
slipping easily into the notches cut into the smooth, silver-grey bark.
The hive nestled high in the tree’s heart. Greta propped herself between
two branches and listened. The murmur of moving leaves, the ceaseless
hum that signaled the bees’ contentedness. Satisfied, she drew a handful of
green pine needles and an ember encased in river-damp moss from the
satchel, breathed gentle life back into the latter, and lit the needles. The tang
of burning pine filled her nose as she tucked the ember away and carefully,
carefully, slid aside the board covering the hive’s entrance.
Within,
hundreds of bees coated swaths of golden comb in a warm, moving mass.
Greta held the burning needles close. The spring air was warm and gentle
and it was not long before the bees succumbed to the smoke’s sleepy spell.
She drew her knife from her belt and cut away a slab of comb, tucking it
into her satchel. She raised the knife to cut more, then faltered as a wave of
sudden faintness washed over her. Greta fumbled for the tree, balance lost,
breath hissing as the blade sliced her hand.
Three bright drops of blood, a deep and startling crimson, fell onto her
apron.
She stared at it, removed from the pain, fascinated by the sight of the
blood mingling with honey and the remnants of the morning’s baking—
ginger and cinnamon, rose water and cloves—upon the pale linen. A bitter
taste rose in her mouth. Her throat burned and her gaze blurred, until it was
not an apron she was seeing, but a spreading of winter snow. Not her blood,
but someone else’s. Three drops, and more.
Much, much more.
She removed the coif from her hair and used it to bind her hand, then
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