Chapter One

Wynter

I live in the shed out back.

Have ever since Daddy died. He was sick a long time, and I took care of him, but I was very young, only eleven, and I didn’t know a lot about how to nurse a sick person. Stepmama said I did a very good job, and that no doctor or healer could have done anything more for him. So she didn’t call one.

Since then, I’ve often thought it was a mistake…

But I did my best, and, to her minimal credit, she did not toss me out when he was gone. Well…not far out. She called me into her master suite, which was already being redecorated, a week after the funeral. “What do you think?”

“It looks different,” I muttered.

“Of course.” She dabbed at her eyes and waved at the workers carrying out all the furniture. “I miss your father so much; I can’t look at everything that reminds me of him.”

Would have carried more weight if she’d managed to squeeze out a tear. And maybe, if I’d been a little older, I’d have recognized what was going on before she finished her remodeling and removing, and included me in the process.

But the shed isn’t all that bad, really. On a night like tonight, when it wasn’t raining, and the wind had dropped to a reasonable level, I could appreciate having my own space. Out here, Stepmama and her darling daughters could not call on me for their every whim. I even had a blanket I’d crocheted for myself from yarn Annabella had thrown out in a hissy when she kept making mistakes.

I cuddled on the mattress I’d managed to keep when my bedroom furniture went to the secondhand store, appreciating the warm softness of the blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Oh, it wasn’t perfect. I had a basket of mending with me and had been foolish enough to mention that I had no lights out here to do tasks like that.

Now my leaky-roofed shed boasted a solar panel on a stake right next to it with a small battery bank ready to provide light for any tasks she or my stepsisters might choose to send home with me.

My chest burned, pressure building as it did more and more often lately. As if claws were digging in, trying to get out. I tried not to think too much about what that might mean…it was too painful to remember who lived in there. Who was trapped. And why.

The broken windows admitted so much wind even my blanket wasn’t enough as the evening wore on, and I curled up, shivering, ignoring the mending. Like they’d even wear anything old enough to be repaired. That was how I got my clothes. Rejects.

In the morning, I’d swipe a roll of tape from the kitchen drawer and try to seal the windows, again. I didn’t mind not living in the house anymore. A little chill was a small enough price for my haven, my sanctuary, my privacy.

Perhaps, tomorrow, I could sneak off to the woods to be among the animals. But it was too cold for that tonight. And I was too hungry. The rumbling in my tummy combined with the clawing in my chest to make sleep impossible. Instead, I lost myself in the world inside my head where Daddy was still alive and we would shift together and run, two silver-white wolves in the forest. He always made me feel like such a special person, his little cub.

We ran together just the two of us. And it was sweet.

I miss you, Daddy. I’ll be something someday. I don’t know how, and usually I feel like I’m just hanging on, but you didn’t teach me to be a quitter.

You taught me to persevere.

And so I shall.

If only my stomach would shut up.

***

Hearing the worst noise ever, at least to me, I flew out of bed and opened the door. My stepsisters took the poker from one of the fireplaces and banged on my door anytime they farted crooked or were in a demanding mode, which was all the time. When they were not too lazy to even come outside for me—one of their few lazinesses I welcomed.

Sometimes I heard the noise in my sleep, even when no one was at my door.

They haunted me while they were still alive.

“Good morning, darling sisters,” I said, clutching the doorknob for dear life. If I didn’t say something endearing, they said I had an attitude.

“We have been awake for twenty minutes. Where is our breakfast? I can’t believe you slept in so late. I told you she was lazy.”

My stepsisters, Calla and Violet, were still in their matching floral pajamas, tapping their slippered toes, arms crossed over their chests. “It’s not even dawn,” I protested through a yawn.

Calla scoffed. They brushed their hair for hours at night but still looked like electrocuted foxes in the morning. “Who cares what time it is? You should be up and already making our breakfast. It’s French toast day, and don’t skimp on the butter and syrup like you did last time. There’s nothing worse than dry French toast.”

The last things these two needed were more syrup and butter, but I would comply. This was my place in life, but trying to make peace with it proved difficult.

“Of course. I’ll get dressed and head right over.” What else could I say?

They chattered horrible things about me while they walked away from my leaky shed and back to their comfy, cozy, fireplace-heated bedrooms.

I made my way to the hooks on the wall. No reason to have a closet with only three outfits at my disposal. Changing from my tattered nightgown to my yellowish dress with the white apron, I tried to ignore the aches in my bones and muscles. There wasn’t an inch of my body that wasn’t in pain from day to day.

After getting dressed and tidying up my room—a few more minutes delay would not make them treat me any worse than they would already—I put my hair up in a messy bun and covered it with a green scarf. My stepmama claimed once that she found my hair in her food. It wasn’t true but, ever since, I wore that scarf.

I hadn’t heard a word about hair in the food since.

I made my way across the yard, my too-big shoes sliding against my calloused ankles all the way. I brought in enough wood for their fires and set the logs outside their rooms.

Quickly, I stirred up fresh eggs with milk and cinnamon and sliced the bread from the town baker for the French toast. While the cast-iron pan heated, I also started the kettle for their hot morning drinks. One stepsister demanded a tea for healthy skin and nails, the other green with milk and sugar. My stepmama always had strong black tea: no sugar, no creamer, no nothing but bitterness and a tangy aftertaste.

Kind of like her.

Why did my father like her?

The French toast was golden in no time, and I put square slabs of butter on each slice. I covered them all with more cinnamon and powdered sugar and added three tiny pitchers full of syrup to the tray.

This was the part I hated most—getting a tray full of three breakfasts plus three cups of tea up the stairs. Cumbersome and awkward. I was always afraid I would fall and ruin my hard work.

My stomach rumbled and growled as I made my way up the stairs. The smell of the eggs and sweet cinnamon wafting into my nose was enough to make my mouth water.

Too bad I didn’t get a meal until suppertime.

I didn’t deserve three meals a day.