Page 79 of Apples Dipped in Gold

I rolled onto my back. Though the witch still had her claws in my leg, my other was free, and I used it to kick her. I wasn’t sure where my foot landed, maybe her hands or her arms, but she screamed and screeched and finally let me go. I scrambled to my feet, but my leg gave out as I tried to run, shredded by the witch’s claws. I rose again and stumbled into the hallway, hitting the wall.

“Lore! Lore, please, help me!”

My scream broke into a sob.

“He cannot hear you, pretty thing,” the witch sang in a shrill voice. “He is dead, dead asleep!”

But I knew otherwise. He had not taken her food or drink.

“Lore!”

My hand had just brushed the door when the witch’s claws cut into my arms. I screamed as she threw me to the ground but was quickly silenced as my head struck the edge of the wall. My vision swam with explosions of black, and my stomach turned violently. I rolled onto my side and vomited.

“That is what you get for not listening, pretty thing. You are a fighter, and you are a liar,” said the witch.

Her claws sunk into my wounded leg, and all Imanaged was a short wail. I did not fight her as she dragged me closer and closer to the hearth where a fire still raged.

When she dropped my leg, she turned her back to me, and it was then I caught sight of something glimmering on the floor.

It was the golden thread.

It must have slipped from my pocket.

I don’t know what came over me, but something dark took hold, and all I felt was rage—rage toward everyone who had ever hurt me. It was like all the anger my mother had locked away inside me had suddenly been unleashed, and I felt…violent.

I reached for the thread and rose to my feet, stumbling toward the witch, whose back was still turned to me. With each step, I wound the thread around my hands and pulled it taut. As I came up behind her, I looped it around her neck and pulled it tight. I had meant to strangle her and was prepared for the struggle that would ensue, but the thread cut right through her, and her head slid completely off, falling into the empty sink. A second later, her body fell heavily to the floor.

My breathing was ragged and my ribs hurt, but I stood there numbly with the bloody thread dangling from my hands until I caught movement in the distance. Fox popped out from between the darkness of the trees, the glass ax clasped between his teeth, and Lore opened the stable door just as the sun peeked over the horizon.

Together they made their way across the freshly trimmed field toward the cottage.

I left the sink and went outside, making my way down the steps and to the edge of the garden. Lore racedto my side. He touched my face and then backed away to look at me from head to toe. I think he expected me to burst into tears, but right now, I was beyond that.

“Where is that fucking witch?” he hissed, reaching for his blade.

“She’s dead,” I said. “I killed her.”

Lore’s anger melted into shock. The only one who did not seem surprised was the fox, who turned his head to the side as he maneuvered the glass ax to the ground and propped it up against the fence.

“You did not listen, wild one,” he said.

“No…I didn’t,” I said, and then I looked at Lore. “I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted to find the wishing tree.”

Lore’s brows slammed down over his eyes, and his jaw ticked. He didn’t like what I’d said, but I assumed it was because he had not yet realized the witch could not tell us where the wishing tree would appear.

“Do not be so quick to presume,” said the fox. “The witch can still show us the way to the tree, but first we must harvest her eyes and her claws.”

I looked at Lore and handed him the thread.

Chapter Eleven

The Final Night

Lore

“Sit, wild one, and let me lick your wounds,” said the fox as I made my way up the dilapidated steps.

I ground my teeth, needlessly jealous. I should be grateful that the fox could heal Samara, but all I felt was anger. As much as I wanted to be the one to nurse her back to health, I was the reason she needed it. I had promised to keep her safe, and I had failed miserably.

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