2 - Shame

“It’s your mother’s blood,” Griselda spat, the pretense of sympathy gone. “That witch’s filth. It poisoned you. Made you this.... pale, weak, useless thing. My brother, may he rest in peace, was a fool to lie with her. A complete and utter fool.”

Winter squeezed her eyes shut. She barely remembered her mother, a vague impression of a soft voice and a scent like night blooming flowers. And she didn’t remember her father at all. Both gone, leaving her to the mercy of his sister.

“Now get that fire lit and the porridge on,” Griselda commanded, giving Winter a sharp kick to the ribs with her boot. It wasn’t hard enough to break anything, never that, but it was hard enough to send a starburst of pain through her side and steal her breath. “The Alpha’s tithe collectors will be in the village square today. I need bread and some salt. You’ll go.”

Winter gasped, curling in on herself for a moment before forcing her limbs to obey. “Yes, Aunt.”

Going into the village was worse than any chore. It was a gauntlet of hostile stares, of mothers pulling their children away, of men looking at her with a mixture of pity and fear.

An hour later, the porridge had been made and eaten...Griselda getting the thick, creamy portion from the top, Winter getting the watery, burnt scrapings from the bottom.

With a small, nearly empty coin purse clutched in her hand, Winter pulled her thin cloak tighter around her shoulders and stepped out into the strengthening daylight.

The village of Blackwood was nestled in a valley, a collection of sturdy, timber and stone buildings huddled together against the encroaching wilderness. The air smelled of woodsmoke, damp earth, and roasting meat from the hunter’s hall. On a normal day, the sounds were almost cheerful, the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer, the chatter of villagers, the laughter of children.

But as Winter walked down the main path, a bubble of silence seemed to form around her. The chatter died.

The laughter faded.

People turned away, busying themselves with mending nets or sharpening tools. She saw Margery, Thomas’s mother, standing outside the weaver’s shop.

The woman’s eyes met hers for a second, wide with fear and accusation, before she hurried inside, slamming the door shut.

Winter’s shoulders hunched. She felt a familiar, hot shame prickle behind her eyes, but she refused to cry.

Crying only ever made her aunt angrier. She kept her gaze fixed on the muddy ground in front of her, her white hair hidden as much as possible by the hood of her cloak.

“Look, it’s the Omen!” a voice jeered.

She knew that voice. Marcus.

A boy her age, broad shouldered and arrogant, who had always taken a special pleasure in tormenting her. He was standing with two of his friends near the public well.

“Don’t get too close Jenna” he said to the girl beside him, who giggled. “She might curse you to grow a beard.”

“Or worse,” the third boy chimed in, “make your next mate fall off a cliff.”

The laughter was loud and cruel. Winter’s face burned. She tried to walk faster, to simply get past them, to the baker’s stall at the far end of the square.

“Hey snow top!” Marcus called out, his voice taking on a more aggressive edge. He jogged to step directly in her path, forcing her to stop. He was much taller than her, and he loomed, casting her in his shadow. “Where are you scurrying off to?”

“Please Marcus” she said, her voice barely audible. “I just need to get to the baker.”

“The baker, huh?” He smirked, his eyes, the color of muddy water, raking over her. “Did Griselda finally decide to fatten you up?? There’s not much meat on those bones. Not like a proper she wolf.”

He reached out and shoved her shoulder.