Page 11 of Little Red Riding Hood
“This sounds… dangerous for me,” Red pointed out, because he really didn’t want to get eaten. “What if you try and eat me again?”
“First hint I’m slipping, I’ll put distance between us. Come find you when I’m myself.”
This plan didn’t sound particularly foolproof to Red. He eyed the wolf warily. “And how often does this… sickness of yours strike?”
“It’s unpredictable,” Wim admitted, his brow furrowing. “But I can usually feel it coming on.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Red muttered, kicking at a pebble on the path.
Wim’s vivid eyes flashed. “Rather I walk away and leave you to the forest’s mercies?”
The word ‘yes’ was on the tip of Red’s tongue, but didn’t quite make it out of his mouth. This short time with Wim had been far more pleasant than the start of his journey, despite the man’s infuriating nature.
“Hmmph,” he eventually replied. “If you turn into your beast form again, I will simply construct another cunning plan. Or I shall shoot you with my bow.”
Wim’s laugh was so loud it startled a small flock of birds, sending them scattering.
“You seem to find everything I say awfully amusing,” Red remarked.
The wolf shot him a bright smile that made his stomach do that strange, fluttery thing again. “Can’t deny it. You’re the best fun I’ve had in these dreary woods.”
The foliage on the path grew thicker, and Wim brushed up against Red as they walked. The man was a full head taller and often had to duck. Red’s riding hood snagged on a low-hanging branch, and he was momentarily jerked backwards. Wim freed the garment before running the velvety, deep-crimson fabric through his large, callused fingers. “What’s the story of this, anyway? This cloak you say you’re named after.”
Red tugged the material out of Wim’s grip. He sighed, exhaling a long breath. “I was found wrapped in it as a babe, abandoned by my mother on the staircase to the palace’s grand entrance. It is all I have of her. Not a name, only a cloak.” Before Red could stop himself, he clucked his tongue.
“You’re an orphan? An orphan, allowed to live in the palace?”
“I was raised by one of the Queen’s maids. Auntie Anne. She’s the one who found me on the staircase.” A pang of homesickness, his first since he’d left the palace, shot through Red at the mention of the kindly old woman’s name. “When the Queen saw my irregular eyes, she raised her sceptre. Auntie Anne risked the Queen’s wrath by begging her not to kill me. She insisted the servants would keepme out of her way, and that I’d grow up to make myself useful. And so, I went to live in the attic.”
Red’s gaze drifted to the forest canopy, his very first memories flooding back like pages in a book. The attic. Cramped, musty. Slanted ceilings pressing down. Dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight that slipped through cracks in the roof. He’d spend hours perched by the tiny window, watching the comings and goings of the palace below. The clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Shouts of guards. Laughter of noble children at play.
At night, he’d curl up on his threadbare mattress, listening to the scurrying of mice in the walls. The creaks and groans of the old building would lull him to sleep. Sometimes, Auntie Anne would sneak up after her duties, bringing scraps from the kitchen. Warm bread. Bits of cheese. Very occasionally, even a slice of cake from a royal banquet.
But mostly, it was loneliness. Isolation. The ache of not belonging. Of being different. Hidden away like a shameful secret. Red’s fingers tightened on his cloak: the only connection to a mother he’d never known.
A twig snapped underfoot. Red blinked, dragged back to the present. Wim’s eyes were on him, curious, almost… sympathetic?
“I don’t need your pity.” Red glowered at Wim, pulling his face into a scowl. “It wasn’t a bad childhood. Once I was seven, I started training with the Queen’s huntsman.” For as long as Red could remember, rumours had flown around, alleging that the huntsman was, in fact, Red’s father, and this was why his mother left him on the palace staircase. Though Red and the huntsman had never openly discussed this hearsay.
“So tell me, what—”
“You ask a lot of questions, wolf.”
Wim snorted. “What, you prefer to walk in silence? Sounds dull.”
“Some people are perfectly happy in their own company.”
“Right, so you’ve got no one to talk to.”
Red stumbled, tripping over a gnarly root. He twisted to glare at the dog. “That’s rich, coming from a lone wolf.”
Wim’s orange eyes flashed, a predatory glint catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the forest canopy. Red flinched involuntarily, his heart skipping a beat as he instinctively took a small step backwards.
Red resumed walking with a brisk stride. “We’re going too slowly. Let’s pick up the pace. I want to reach the Dark Forest before I turn twenty-five winters, if that pleases you.”
Wim snorted before staring at Red’s face. “Twenty-four winters? I thought you more like nineteen!”
“And why is that?” Red retorted, indignant. He was not an infantile youth, and nor did he act like one.
