Page 2 of Scarlett's Wicked Wolf
The path to Wendy’s is well-worn and quick underfoot, the soles of my boots brushing past mushrooms and moss as birdsong gives way to wind through the trees. The trees are thin and tall, their leaves already turning gold and crimson with early fall. Squirrels dart between roots, and birds call above, careless and wild. Somewhere, a woodpecker taps a measured tattoo.
Fable Forest always feels like it’s waiting for something. Most days, I don’t think about it, but today, that waiting feels like a heartbeat in the ground.
By the time I crest the hill and see the familiar shape of the giant shoe, I’ve managed to calm the looming sense of premonition to a distant flicker in the back of my mind. Wendy’s home is exactly what it sounds like—an old magic shoe, worn and leathered, patched and stitched into livability. Children pour out like marbles from a jar in a jumble of shrieks, mismatched buttons, and questionable haircuts.
Wendy is outside when I arrive, wrangling two toddlers into coats and shouting at a third who’s climbing onto the roof like a feral goat.
“Scarlett!” she calls, eyes wide and grateful as I approach. “Oh, stars above, is thatbread?”
“And jam,” I say, holding up the basket.
Tears prick her eyes, and I barely have time to set it down before she throws her arms around me, murmuring thanks into my shoulder. Her hair smells like lavender and smoke.
“Come inside,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Please. Just for a minute.”
The inside of the boot smells like apples, sweat, and overcooked carrots. Children tumble across the worn floorboards, and toys are scattered like a battlefield. A smear of red paint streaks one wall—and not just any paint. A crude, anatomically correct but optimistically sized penis adorns the kitchen wall like some kind of abstract warning.
Wendy sees me glance at it and blushes furiously. “Oh, that’s… It’s art. Milo found the paint. We’re, uh, working on boundaries.”
I stifle a laugh and nod solemnly. “Of course. Very avant-garde.”
Wendy talks while she bustles, telling me stories of the kids’ week—ghost chickens, exploding pie crusts, a mysterious howling from the well. I smile and listen, offering advice where I can, but my thoughts are already drifting.
The herb. The forest.
The amber-eyed beast in my dreams that doesn’t feel like a stranger.
I leave after less than fifteen minutes, overwhelmed by noise, pulled by something more primal than duty. I wave to the children as they swarm the basket and hurry back into the trees, grateful for the silence.
At the line where the friendlier trees give way to the deeper ones, the air shifts—cooler, denser, laced with loam and the sweet-metal smell of rain that hasn’t fallen yet. Birds fall silent. Even the leaves hush themselves.
Now I’m truly in it.
I’ve been in these woods my entire life, but this part feels like an unfamiliar heartbeat.
And yet, I belong here. Somehow, I know Ineedto be here. Pulled by something more than the wild ginger.
I draw my hood and follow the faint trail of a path only I can see. My old sigils painted in invisible ink hum faintly when my fingers trail them. Shadows lengthen; trunks thicken; roots knot like dragon spines under the soil. The forest smells older here—fermented leaves, wet stone, a breath of something green and bitter. Shadows stretch across the leaf-littered ground.
The deeper I go, the less the forest feels like home and more like something watching me. Living, breathing, and ancient. Everything quietens until I can hear nothing but my own breath and the whisper of leaves brushing against each other like they’re sharing secrets I don’t understand.
I find the ancient oak by its scarred bark and the way its roots clutch the earth like a gnarled hand. I kneel, the ground coolon my knees, and brush aside velvet moss. My pulse climbs, attuned to every sound. There, hiding in shadow, the dark heart-shaped leaves barely visible against the rich rot isasarum canadense. Wild ginger.
A twig cracks sharply behind me.
I freeze. Every hair on my body stands on end. My pulse hammers, every sense on edge.
Slowly, I lift my head, eyes sweeping the underbrush behind me. Nothing. No movement. No wind. The air feels suspended in time.
Another crunch. Closer this time.
Slowly, I rise, knife clenched in my hand. I scan the woods, but I see nothing.
“Who's there?”
No answer.
“Fine,” I mutter, eyes on the trees as I crouch again. “Find the rhizome, Scarlett,” I mutter to myself, “snip the portion you need, and leave the mother plant intact like a good little apothecary.”
