Page 8 of Little Red Riding Hood
Something very peculiar twinged through Red’s stomach. Likely it was the broth settling in.
But thankfully, the wolf conceded, laying out his own—remarkably thicker—bedroll on the opposite side.
Red turned over so that his back was being warmed by the fire, and so that he wasn’t faced with Wim’s burning eyes for a second longer. He curled into a tight ball, rubbing his freezing feet. It was the coldest night yet. He hated to admit it, but he might have been in trouble if the wolf hadn’t found him again.
Though, evenwiththe fire, he was still bitterly cold. He clamped his teeth together so Wim wouldn’t hear them chatter.
“Hey,” Wim said, after an age of silence.
“What?” Red snapped. “I’m sleeping.”
“I just realised I never got your name.”
Why was that simple statement making Red’s heart pound? And should he tell the stranger his name, or invent one? But there was no harm in it, he supposed. After all, he’d need someone to recount the brave tales of his adventures when this was all over. Spread the word from inn to inn.
Without turning to face Wim, Red replied, “My name’s Red. You know… because of my riding hood.”
“Red. Right, then. Sweet dreams, Little Red. Mind the wolves don’t bite.”
There was a long stretch of silence, and then Red’s mouth betrayed him by saying, “Thank you,” through gritted teeth. “For the fire. And… the broth.”
A low chuckle reverberated through the camp.
“My pleasure, Red.”
Three
Acool wisp of wind brushed against Red’s cheek, dragging him from the depths of his dreams.
Stretching out his aching limbs, Red’s eyes peeled open, ready to be greeted by the rafters of the palace attic.
Instead, his eyes met rough bark, branches creaking overhead. The usual dusty smell of his bedroom had been replaced by woodsmoke and damp earth.
Red sat up, disoriented, still bleary-eyed. A clattering sound pierced the morning stillness. Then, metal on stone. Footsteps. Heavy breathing.
His hand flew to his side, searching for his bow. Gone. Panic clawed at his throat.
A low growl rumbled nearby. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
Reality crashed over him like a cold wave, seeping into his bones and chilling him to his very core. The familiar comfort of the palace attic seemed a distant memory now, replaced by the wild, untamed forest that surrounded him. He blinked rapidly, willing the scene before him to dissolve, to reveal itself as nothing more than a vivid nightmare. But the stony ground beneath his fingers and the damp earth’s scent lingering in his nostrils refused to fade away.
Red’s eyes snapped to the source of the noise. Wim crouched by a small fire, fiddling with something in his hands. Steam rose from his cooking pot, balanced precariously over the flames.
“Good morrow to you too, dog.”
“I’ve found three goose eggs. Iwasgoing to share. Careful I don’t change my mind.”
Red rubbed at his eyes before staring over at his pot, presumably boiling Wim’s impressive find. Red had been scouring the landscape high and low since he’d left the palace, and hadn’t found even a common goldfinch egg.
“Well,” Red said slowly, then yawned. He hadn’t had nearly enough sleep the previous night, with the biting cold refusing to let him rest deeply. “As you’re usingmycooking pot, it seems as if you owe me an egg. That would only be fair.” His stomach rumbled in agreement.
Wim chuckled, then nodded to the log next to the fire. “Come here, then.”
Red joined the wolf, perching on the log opposite him. Wim fished out the three eggs with a stick, leaving them to cool on a slab of stone. How Red longed to devour his there and then; his stomach was eating itself from the inside out. A small moan escaped him—the hunger pains getting the better of him—and Wim’s gaze shot to his.
An uncomfortable prickle coursed through Red.
If Wim hadn’t noticed Red’s mismatched eyes in the darkness of the night before, he’d surely detect them now.“One iris of beautiful ocean blue and the other a dirty mud puddle.”The Queen had said it often enough, in those rare moments she’d acknowledged him.
