Page 1 of Apples Dipped in Gold

Chapter One

Three Wicked Brothers

Samara

I stood at the center of Daft Moor staring into the endless night, made darker by the thick tree line of the Enchanted Forest. It grew so tall, it blocked out the moon and stars. The ground beneath my feet was soggy and cold as ice, the frosty air smelled rich and sweet, and blood stained my hands. It felt thick and seeped between my fingers to the ground, splashing my bare toes like raindrops. I refused to look at the pool of crimson gathering at my feet. I did not want to face what I had done. Knowing was enough.

The blood was not my own.

It belonged to a fae I had once almost loved but had betrayed on this very moor.

My heart ruptured with guilt, carving a painful path from my chest to my throat.

The ache woke me, and when I opened my eyes to the dark, a fresh wave of grief roared to life. I was used to the feeling. I had dreamed the same dream for the last seven years, coaxed into slumber by a haunting voice whispering my name.

Samara, it sang.Samara, my love, come to me. Flee with me. I can set you free.

But those words were nothing more than a broken promise, and each morning when I woke to the same heavy darkness, I was left alone to face my punishment for the wrong I had committed before the Enchanted Forest.

I sat up slowly, my lower back aching as I threw my legs over the side of my bed, though calling the pallet I had built up in the corner of the kitchen “a bed” was quite an exaggeration. Still, it was better than sleeping on the floor where the rats could reach me.

I shivered at the thought and looked down at my hands, which were also sore. I spent yesterday bent at the waist for hours, cutting into packed layers of peat. I had been working little by little each day, hoping to harvest enough for the coming winter, though it promised to be long and harsh. I might have harvested more had my three burly brothers helped, but it was not a task that fell to them. No task fell to them.

That thought brought a wave of guilt. I knew I was being unfair. My brothers—Jackal, Michal, and Hans—might not help with the house or the animals or harvest peat, but they did hunt, and they were the greatest hunters in all of Gnat. Only they managed to enter the Enchanted Forest and return with spoils—spoils that kept the entire village fed.

They were heroes, and I was nothing more than whattheymade me, because I could be nothing else with the blood of the fae on my hands.

“Your fingers look as if they have been dipped in blood,” my brothers had said upon first seeing my hand. “You will be marked for shame by the villagers and death by the fae, but if you will listen to us always, we will keep you safe.”

I believed them at first and had been scared enough to listen, but as the days passed, one after the other harder than the last, death did not seem so dreadful.

In fact, I had begun to think favorably of it. There was something beautiful about ceasing to exist—something that sounded a lot like…rest.

Shame burned my cheeks. I should not think of resting while so many suffered around me, and now, as winter drew near, it was imperative everyone pulled their weight, especially me, who had the responsibility of ensuring the three greatest hunters of Gnat were well rested and well fed.

It was that obligation that drew me from bed.

There was a chill in the air that made my flesh prickle. Still, I crossed to a table in the corner and poured icy water into a bowl and splashed my face. The cold shock roused me, and I dressed in warm layers before kneeling before the fireplace where embers glowed beneath white ash. I raked everything into a pile and reached for the bucket I kept near the fire that was supposed to be full of kindling, except it was empty.

Strange.

I knew I had gathered branches and bits of bark before dusk to keep from having to do it this morning.

Anger twisted in my gut. One of my brothers must have taken it.

“Ladies do not get angry,” I heard my mother say. “It is unbecoming.”

My teeth ached as I fought to quell what felt like violence in my veins and rationalized their behavior.

Perhaps one of them had grown too cold in the night, used all their kindling—which I had also refilled—and came for more. After all, if they did not sleep, they could not hunt, and if they did not hunt, we would not eat, and if we did not eat, we would all die.

I sighed and tossed the rake aside. It clattered to the ground as I swiped the bucket from the floor and ventured into the semidarkness. The cold felt like a fist pushing on my chest. It hurt to breathe, but it was a familiar feeling.

As I stepped out onto the frozen ground, I thought I could smell snow coming. There was a sharpness to the cold—like knives poised against my skin.

I made my way across the yard to the wood I kept piled near the barn. As I gathered juniper, pine, and a few large pieces of oak, a slim black cat hopped onto the heap, stretching and purring, eager for attention.

“Good morning, Mouse,” I said, scratching behind her ear. “Have you roused Rooster?”

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