They slipped out of the ruined cottage during the "wolf's hour"—that suffocating, pitch-black stretch of time just before the dawn, when the cold was sharpest and the village was dead to the world.
The streets were an eerie, silent graveyard of fog. Not a single lantern burned. Every creak of a weather vane, every rustle of dry leaves, sent a violent spike of adrenaline straight into Madeline's veins. She walked a half-step behind Charlene, keeping to the deepest shadows of the alleyways. She still wore her veil, pulling her tattered cloak tight around her shoulders, terrified that at any moment, Woodsman's hulking thugs would step out from the mist and drag her back to the limestone manor.
They left the cobblestones behind, the ground softening into freezing, frosted mud as they veered away from the village square and toward the dense treeline.
As they pushed further into the woods, the twisting path began to feel achingly familiar beneath Madeline's bruised feet. The specific curve of the ancient oak trees, the smell of crushed pine needles... a strange, bittersweet knot tightened in her chest.
"We're here," Charlene finally whispered, her breath pluming in the icy air as she stopped in a small clearing.
Madeline stared through the fog. She was right. The path was familiar because they were standing at the doorstep of Miguel's secluded cabin.
Charlene stepped up to the heavy oak door and tapped out a rapid, rhythmic knock—a secret code. For a terrifying, breathless moment, there was no answer. Just the wind howling through the barren branches.
Then, the scrape of an iron deadbolt echoed through the clearing. The door cracked open, spilling a sliver of warm, golden candlelight onto the frost. An elderly woman with white hair braided tightly to her scalp peered out. Her eyes, sharp and alert as a hawk's, softened the moment she saw Charlene.
"Quickly, girls. Get inside," she ushered them in, her voice a hushed, raspy whisper.
Charlene quickly bolted the door behind them and turned to Madeline. "Maddy, this is Madam Willow. She's the apothecary from the neighboring parish. She's the one who's been taking care of her."
"Where is she?" Madeline asked, her voice trembling so violently she could barely form the words. The warmth of the cabin was a stark contrast to the ice in her veins.
Madam Willow offered a sad, deeply empathetic smile and stepped aside, gesturing toward Miguel's small, partitioned bedroom.
Madeline practically ran.
She pushed through the hanging canvas curtain and froze. There, swallowed by the heavy woolen blankets of Miguel's bed, lay Maria. She looked impossibly small, her skin as pale and fragile as ancient parchment. Her eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling in shallow, agonizingly slow intervals.
"Grandma," Madeline choked out. She collapsed to her knees beside the bed, desperately grabbing her grandmother's cold, frail hand. Tears spilled hot and fast beneath her veil, soaking the fabric as she pressed Maria's knuckles to her forehead. "Please. Please wake up. I'm here."
Maria didn't stir.
Panic seized Madeline's throat. She whipped her head around as Charlene and Madam Willow entered the room. "What happened? Why isn't she waking up? Is she..."
"She is alive, child. Breathe," Madam Willow said softly, placing a warm, grounding hand on Madeline's shaking shoulder. "But your grandmother has always had a fragile constitution. The physical trauma of being forcefully thrown to the frozen dirt yesterday and everything that happened... it was a profound shock to her heart. Combined with the biting cold and the fact that she missed her afternoon tincture, her body simply shut down to protect itself."
"What does this mean?" Madeline looked frantically between the herbalist and Charlene, the crushing weight of Woodsman's deadline pressing down on her. "Does this mean she's slipping away?"
"If Charlene hadn't found her in the dirt and sent for me immediately, I am afraid that would have been the grim reality," Willow said, her tone completely candid but comforting. "But I have been administering a concentrated hawthorn drop beneath her tongue all night. Her pulse is steadying. She is stable, Madeline. She will wake up. Her body just needs the time to mend the shock."
A massive, shuddering breath tore its way out of Madeline's lungs. Stable. The word was a lifeline.
"See, Maddy?" Charlene knelt beside her, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. "I told you she was alright. She's safe here. Woodsman will never think to look for her in the home of the man who broke his jaw."
"Thank you," Madeline wept, throwing her arms around Charlene's neck. "Thank you for saving her."
Eventually, Madeline found the strength to stand. She left her grandmother to rest and walked slowly out into the main living area of the small cabin.
This was the first time she had truly looked around since arriving. Even though the house was remarkably small, everything was meticulously arranged. The firewood was stacked in perfect symmetry; the iron pots were scrubbed clean and hung by size; the hunting knives were oiled and resting on the mantle. It was so perfectly, unmistakably Miguel.
She walked over to the small, hand-carved dining table. Sitting dead center was a small, framed tintype photograph. Madeline picked it up with trembling fingers. It was the three of them—Miguel, Charlene, and herself—taken during a harvest festival years ago, before the debts, before the sickness, before the world turned into a nightmare. Miguel was grinning, his arm thrown protectively over Madeline's shoulder.
Suddenly, her heart physically ached. A profound, hollow grief swallowed her. A day hadn't gone by in the last years where she hadn't seen his face. Now, he had been missing for days.
This was the exact moment she needed him most. She needed her protector to stand between her and Woodsman's wrath. She needed him to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be alright.
Fresh tears blurred her vision.
Charlene stepped up quietly behind her, looking over Madeline's shoulder at the photograph. The firelight caught the wet gleam of tears on Charlene's own cheeks. "I miss him too, Maddy."
"Do you think he forgot about us?" Madeline asked, her voice cracking under the weight of the betrayal she feared. "Do you think Woodsman threatened him... and he just ran?"
"No," Charlene said fiercely, her voice hardening with absolute certainty. "I don't know where he is, and I don't know what happened to make him leave. But I know Miguel. He would burn this entire forest to the ground before he ever left us behind without saying goodbye."
Madeline clutched the photograph to her chest, praying to whatever gods were listening that Miguel was still alive out there in the dark.
Seeking some small comfort, some piece of him to make her feel brave, she walked over to his heavy wooden wardrobe in the corner of the room. She pulled the doors open.
His clothes were still hanging neatly in place. Heavy canvas trousers, thick woolen hunting shirts, wide-brimmed caps, and leather suspenders. The scent of him—crushed pine needles, old leather, and lye soap—washed over her, so strong it almost felt like he was standing right behind her.
Madeline reached out, running her fingers over the rough, durable wool of his largest hunting shirt.
How are you going to walk through the village? Charlene's panicked voice from hours ago echoed in her mind. Your veil and that cloak... they aren't a disguise anymore. They're a target.
Madeline stared at the clothes. She looked down at the dress Charlene had given her. She looked at the delicate, identifying veil she had worn her entire life to protect her.
Woodsman's men were tearing the village apart looking for a terrified, weeping peasant girl in a veil. They were looking for a victim.
Suddenly, the grief and terror in Madeline's chest cooled, hardening into a sharp, brilliant diamond of rebellion. The tears stopped.
If they were hunting for a girl... then Madeline would simply cease to be one.
She gripped the rough wool of Miguel's shirt, pulling it off the hanger. An idea, dangerous and wild, took root in her mind.