Page 14 of Hellebore

“That’s probably best,” I agree, standing to join her. She smelled of eucalyptus and berries, the scent weaving through me, making my heart race. I followed the fragrance, feet blindingly leading me closer to her.

“I’m so excited, Raven. We’re going to be free. Just you, me, and Isa.”

I gripped her hands, clenching her fingers in mine with excitement, hopeful plans swimming through my mind. They settled in my brain matter, those daydreams. Francesca and I, Isabel by our sides.

“Me, you, and Isabel… perfect,” she agreed, loosening her fingers from mine and stepping towards a tree. She drew a carving knife from her breast, twisting the blade, pressing a fingertip to the edge with inquisitiveness.

“Have you spoken to her lately?” I ask, a nervous tingle alighting in the nape of my neck, goose flesh beginning to spread down my arms as I watched her play with the blade.

“Who, Isa?” she asked, stilling, cocking her head.

“Yes, Isa,” I laughed. “I thought maybe you’d seen her in the woods when she’s coming from her lessons, you must have crossed paths on occasion.”

“Oh yes, we cross paths often, actually. She’s so grown up now, walking out here by herself. She’s filling out her dresses well, too.” She winked, turning to a nearby tree, pressing the blade to its rough bark and slicing with savage insistence.

“Ew, don’t talk about her like that!” I chided, laughing.

“I just mean,” Francesca said, turning to me with her eyes rolling. “She might want to be careful now she’s a woman. There’s hungry men who roam these woods, Heather.”

“I know. I’ll be sure to tell her to be careful,” I replied softly, drawing a breath and holding it as I pressed memories back into the depth of my mind. Yet the feelings lingered, that unbidden heat that swarmed my torso when I thought of it.

“Maybe I should talk to her, given my experience.”

She continued pressing the blade into the tree, carving away slice after slice.

“What experience?” I questioned, though I knew. I’d seen it. Watched it.

“Just,” she sighed darkly, and I wasn’t sure if it were a wistful response, or something sad and regretful. “Fending off those eyes, you know. I can just teach her what to do if someone approaches her, the way I did for you.”

She smiled as I moved closer, a softness gleaming in the apples of her cheeks. I pressed my hand to her back, her heartbeat thudding beneath my palm as her scent filled my senses again. The rush of it made me dizzy and hungry, my hand mindlessly trailing her spine with a wanting I’d not meant to express.

My hand dropped with haste as she raised a brow at me, my mouth drying, my ears heating.

“No, you’re right.” I admitted, stepping to her side, eyeing what she was carving into the tree. “You should talk to her, thank you Frannie. I can always count on you to protect Isa and I.”

Then I saw it, the carved edges seeping tree sap as though bleeding – the pentagram.

“I will always protect the ones I love, little Rabbit.”

My father was a hard man, a man of faith, of structure and absolution. He believed that we each had a role to play in our small society, and that resisting those roles was a sin that demanded atonement. That woman was made for man, for his comfort, for his pleasure. And women who rebelled against those structures were doomed for the devil himself.

One summer evening, as Christmas quickly approached, we tarried through the market with haste. Collecting tallow candles for our alters and trinkets for our offerings.

Often, strangers would brush our shoulders at the community events, and those fleeting interactions would become precious to small me – a moment of newness that I would hold onto and cherish in the days following as our lives returned to routine.

But this day, as the market filled with strangers, I bore witness to the depth of my fathers fervor, the awareness of that stern belief slicing through my innocence in a way that fractured me right down the middle.

Ahead of us, baskets clasped beneath their arms, two women with flowing hair and velvet ribbons laced through their braids, walked hand in hand. Their laughter filtered back to us, like birdsong on the summer breeze. The mirth of it made me giggle, made small me feel lighter on my toes as I absorbed the echo of their adoration for each other. They smiled as they walked, plucking bunches of carrots and slipping them into their baskets, kissing each other’s knuckles, holding candles to one another’s noses to share their own small joys.

I wish it had ended there – happy and full of joy. Instead, the memory is something that has burrowed into the very core of me, cementing itself as something that tears my thoughts between understanding and revulsion.

Father gripped mine and Isa’s hands in his, pressing, squeezing, our fragile bones aching beneath the pressure as fury heated his palms. I glanced at Isa, confused. She blinked in return, tears welling across her lashes, the apples of her small cheeks flushing vibrant red as she withheld those tears.

“Father?” I asked warily, scared to uncork the anger he was barely withholding.

“Disgusting,” he growled, pushing through the market in search of mother.

“What is?” I questioned, confused.