Page 7 of Hellebore

I left her, no longer able to stomach the way she ignored me. I ache with her, my bones trembling and blood frozen as I try to decide what I should say. But words won’t come. They cling to my throat like rose vines. Thorns dug into my flesh, unable to be loosened.

In the kitchen, mother stands behind the now clean bench, trays of gingerbread cookies surrounding a large metal pressed tin lined with brown paper. She has lit the array of devotion candles scattered through the room, flamelight dancing across her bony fingers as she works. She hums as she scrapes the cookies and places them inside the tin, the melody making my skin crawl as I watch her.

I cough gently, but her focus remains steady on the repetition of scraping and placing the cookies within the paper lined tin.

Scents of ginger and nutmeg weave through the stifling air, the smell making my nose itch and my eyes water. What was once a fragrance that made excitement brew, now makes nausea roll in my stomach. Christmas isn’t the occasion it was as a child, now the sadness of the world has infiltrated my nostalgia. Gone are the joyful mornings counting the days until we sing carols in the chapel and unwrap handmade gifts with the children of the community.

Instead a deep-rooted sadness has taken hold as I watch my mother tie ribbon to a tin of cookies instead. Cookies for my dead best friends family – a feeble gesture of condolences, even for my mother.

“Isabel!” She screams, still having not acknowledged my presence. “Come here.”

Moments pass as my mother sighs repeatedly, frustrated with Isa’s dallying.

“Yes mother?” Isa says quietly as she steps from the shadowed doorway, the sobs still clinging to her throat. She looks to me, eyes bleary, before glancing away with a sharp blink and wet sniffle.

I approach her, arms readying for embrace, to comfort her. But as I draw near, mother thrusts the tin into her hands with such force that Isabel winces, a tear slipping free from her lashes.

“Deliver this to the Gallows’. Inform them of our sorrow for their news,” she says before turning and leaving the room.

“Isa,” I whisper, reaching for the tin. “I can do it. I should do it.”

“I guess mother wants me to take these,” she mutters spitefully beneath her voice, her eyes glassy and shoulders slumped.

“At least let me come with you,” I urge, sadness beginning to catch in my chest.

But she’s already pulling on her boots, stepping through the screen door and marching across the yard toward the forest.

I tear after her, my lungs burning with dry summer air, sweat prickling my brow. She’s quick on her heels, dodging branches, stepping over rocks and roots like it’s second nature until she slows suddenly, eyes cast ahead.

“Isa?” I ask as she stops, wiping her eyes, straightening her pinafore. “What’s wrong?”

She turns to me for the briefest moment, before cursing beneath her breath. It startles me, the strength of the word slipping from her lips with such ease.

Footsteps sound ahead of us, drawing my attention away from my sister. On the rubble path beyond a fallen gum tree, he approaches. Bow thrown over his broad shoulder, arrow tails whispering into his ear.

His swagger effortless as the sun illuminates his face, smile enigmatic when he sees us. My heart kicks beneath my ribs, his stride making something unwanted smoulder deep within my stomach.

“Isabel Rhodes,” he says warmly, stopping when he reaches earshot. “What brings you out to the woods?”

Isabel shifts on her feet, a nervous energy beginning to overcome her. She twists the ribbon from the tin between her fingers, watching it intently.

“Cole,” I say, awkwardly bowing in greeting. But his eyes are fixed on her, my younger sister, not yet a woman.

“Good afternoon, Cole,” Isabel says, her cheeks flushing pink.

“And a fine afternoon it is, is it not?” he coos, oily and slick.

Rot and damp earth cloud my senses, the smell so thick in my nose that my breath becomes shallow. The ground beneath me feels unsteady, shifting and moving with each pulse of my blood.

“The finest. However, we have somewhere to be,” I say, nausea beginning to rise through me again. I grip Isabel’s elbow, my fingers pressing against the soft fibre of her blouse sleeves. She flinches, glancing toward my hand before returning her sights to Cole’s steady gaze.

“A beautiful afternoon,” she agrees, an unfamiliar lilt in her voice. “I’m just taking these cookies to Francesca’s parents. Our condolences, you see,” she says softly, eyes fixed on the weapon strapped to his back.

“Ah yes. Young Francesca’s body was found in the forest, correct?”

Isa nods solemnly, her shoulders slumping again. Quietly, I stand aside, observing this peculiar interaction, breathing through the tightness in my chest.

“Such a shame,” he tsks, turning to the expanse of trees beside them, as though talking to the wind. He sighs, a heavy sound that echoes for a moment before he turns back to us. “Young women should never be in the forest alone; you never know who could be lurking in the shadows.”