Chapter 4: The Sister's Secret
The warmth of Vanilla’s cottage felt like a lie after the moor’s biting chill. The air was thick with the scent of yeast and dried lavender, a desperate kind of comfort. Scarlett sat on a stool by the sink, Mério’s flannel jacket pooled around her waist, leaving her torso bare. Her skin was a map of scratches and old silvery scars.
Vanilla’s hands, usually so steady as she measured herbs or kneaded dough, trembled as she dipped a cloth into a bowl of rosemary water. The astringent smell bit through the cozy kitchen smells.
“This is worse than last moon, little wolf,” Vanilla murmured, her voice tight. She scrubbed at a dark, crusted line of blood that ran from Scarlett’s elbow to her wrist. The water in the bowl was steadily turning pink.
Scarlett winced but didn’t pull away. She watched her sister’s face, the worry lines etched deep around her eyes. “It was a rough one. I felt… hungrier.”
“I can see that.” Vanilla’s gaze flickered to the deep, parallel scratches on Scarlett’s ribs. “Did you fight something?”
“A bramble thicket,” Mério said from his post by the window. He hadn’t moved since they’d arrived, his broad back to them, his entire attention fixed on the path leading to the village. His axe leaned against the doorframe within easy reach. “She chased the rabbit through it. I saw the thorns.”
He said it with such flat certainty that it left no room for argument. Vanilla gave him a grateful, weary look and returned to her work.
“Silas was there,” Scarlett said, the words tasting foul. “At the tower. Just after dawn.”
Vanilla’s hand stilled. The cloth dripped pink onto the floorboards. “What did he say?”
“The usual. Moon-touched whore. Corruption. Banishment.” Scarlett recited the words like a poison recipe. “He threatened Mayo, too. Said the village would think he was touched.”
Mério shifted his weight, the floorboard creaking under him. “He talks too much.”
“He talks with the authority of the elders,” Vanilla corrected gently, her fear making her sharp. “They listen to him. If he’s decided to make his move…” She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t need to.
The silence that fell was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the soft, wet sound of the cloth on skin. Scarlett felt the shame heat her cheeks. This was her burden, her mess, splattering onto everyone she loved.
“I should go,” she whispered. “Before he turns them all against you. I could head north, find the ranges where no one goes—”
“No.” Mério’s voice was low, but it cut through the room like a cleaver. He didn’t turn from the window.
“Mayo, be realistic.”
“No,” he repeated, simple and absolute. “We fix the door. We get a bigger rabbit. We don’t run.”
Vanilla finished with her arms and moved to a cut on Scarlett’s temple, her touch softening. “He’s not entirely wrong, Scar. Running just proves his point. That you’re a wild thing that can’t be trusted.” She tilted Scarlett’s face to the light. “But we’re running out of time. The next moon isn’t far. And if Silas is stirring the village…”
“Let him stir,” Mério said. His stillness was unnerving, a predator’s patience. “My brothers are in the village.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned them. Three older brothers, all built like him, all working the same woods. It wasn’t a threat, just a statement of fact. A new variable in the old man’s calculation.
Vanilla seemed to consider this, a flicker of hope in her eyes. She rinsed the cloth, the water now a murky red. “We need more than muscle, Mério. We need a reason. Something to undermine his words.” She looked at Scarlett, her expression shifting into something determined, clinical. “The blood. Is it all from the rabbit?”
Scarlett closed her eyes, trying to grasp the fading fragments of the night. The coppery taste. The frantic heartbeat. The crunch of bone. “Yes. I think so. It has to be.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“I’m never sure!” The words burst out of her, raw and painful. “That’s the hell of it, Vanilla! I wake up naked and bloody and I have to take your word for it, his word for it, that I didn’t do something… unspeakable.” She hugged herself, Mério’s jacket rough against her skin. “How can you live with me? How can he?” Her silver eyes glistened as she looked toward the window.
Mério finally turned from the glass. His blue eyes found hers, and there was no pity in them, no fear. Just a deep, unshakable certainty.
“Because it’s you,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
The simplicity of it stole her breath. Vanilla looked between them, her worry momentarily eclipsed by a profound sadness and understanding. She finished cleaning the last of the blood and handed Scarlett a soft, worn tunic and a pair of trousers.
“Get dressed,” Vanilla said, her voice regaining some of its practical warmth. “I’ll make tea. Then we talk. No more talk of running.” She busied herself with the kettle, placing it over the fire with a firm clang.
Scarlett pulled the tunic over her head, the clean, familiar fabric a small armor. She walked over to Mério, standing beside him at the window. Together, they looked out at the quiet, mist-shrouded village. The danger was still out there, a poison seeping toward their door. But here, in this warm, fragrant kitchen, they were a triangle of defiance.
Mério’s hand found hers, his calloused fingers lacing through hers. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The axe by the door and the warmth of his hand were his entire argument.
Vanilla placed three steaming mugs on the table. “Okay,” she said, sitting down and folding her hands. “Silas has the tradition and the fear of the village. We have the truth, and we have each other. It’s not a fair fight.” A grim smile touched her lips. “So we’ll have to be clever.”
Scarlett squeezed Mério’s hand, feeling the first, faint stir of something other than dread. It felt like a plan.
The rich, greasy smell of frying potatoes finally cut through the rosemary and blood. Vanilla worked at the stove, her movements sharp and efficient. "Clever starts with a full stomach," she declared, sliding a heaping plate onto the table.
Mério finally left his post, drawn by the food. He sat heavily, his blue eyes scanning the window every few seconds. "Silas is just one man."
"He's an old man with a grudge and the ears of the council," Vanilla countered, pointing a spatula at him. "That's more dangerous than a pack of wolves." She looked at Scarlett, who was pushing potatoes around her plate. "Eat. You need your strength."
Scarlett forced a bite, the food like ash in her mouth. "What if clever isn't enough? What if he brings the whole village to the tower next moon?"
"Then we'll be there first," Mério said around a mouthful of food. "Me and my brothers. We'll camp out. Make it a... a gathering."
Vanilla almost smiled. "A gathering. I suppose that's one word for it." Her expression sobered. "But that's a last resort. It would be a confrontation. People would get hurt."
The wooden frame of Mério’s chair groaned under his grip. "He hurt you," he said to Scarlett, his voice low and rough. "With his words. That's enough."
A complex warmth bloomed in Scarlett’s chest, tangled with fear and a fierce, protective love. She reached out, covering his massive fist with her hand. The tension in his knuckles eased slightly under her touch.
"We need to know what he's planning," Vanilla said, leaning forward. "I can go into the village. Listen. People talk around me; they always have. I'm just the harmless baker."
"You're not harmless," Scarlett and Mério said in near unison.
A genuine smile, sharp and proud, finally broke through Vanilla's anxiety. "Good. But he doesn't know that." She stood, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'll go now, while the market is busy. You two stay here. Out of sight."
She moved to the door, pulling on a worn cloak. The room felt suddenly larger and more vulnerable without her bustling presence. The door clicked shut, leaving them in the ticking quiet of the cottage.
Scarlett’s appetite vanished. She stood and walked back to the window, the world outside now looking sinister. Every shifting shadow beneath the pines could be a watching eye.
Mério came up behind her, his presence a solid wall of heat. He didn't touch her, just stood close, sharing the vigil. "Your hair's still got a leaf in it," he murmured.
She reached up, self-conscious, but his hand was already there, his fingers gently plucking the tiny, browned oak leaf from her black hair. He held it for a moment, then let it fall to the floorboards.
"It's starting, isn't it?" she whispered, leaning back against him. "The end of all this." She meant the fragile peace, the secrecy, the tenuous hold on a normal life.
His arms circled her waist, pulling her firmly against his chest. His chin rested on top of her head. "No," he rumbled, his voice a vibration through her whole body. "It's just a different kind of door."
The simple metaphor, so perfectly him, unraveled her. She turned in his embrace, burying her face in the soft wool of his sweater. She didn't cry. She just held on, breathing him in, trying to memorize the scent of safety.
A sudden, sharp crack made her jump.
Mério had reached out one arm, his hand slamming against the window frame. The old wood splintered under his grip. He was staring out, his body rigid, his gaze fixed on a point deep within the tree line.
"What?" Scarlett asked, her heart hammering. "What is it?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. His jaw worked. "Nothing," he finally said, his voice dangerously quiet. "A flicker. Maybe a deer."
But he didn't relax. He kept staring, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, every muscle in his body coiled and ready. The axe by the door seemed to hum with potential.
Then they both heard it, a sound that froze the air in their lungs. It wasn't from the woods. It came from the front of the cottage, clear and deliberate on the quiet path.
Click. Click. Click.