PROLOGUE

Two Promises 
 

The little girl huddled in the corner, weeping silently. Her hair covered her face, strewn with straw. Lice crawled in her kerchief. Her stockings were torn, and her toes peeked out of holes in her shoes, blue with cold. She was hugging a doll--a frayed, tattered thing that only her love made more than rags. Her teardrops soaked the toy as she rocked it, and her lips mumbled into its ears. “It'll be all right, Stuffings, don't be scared. I won't let the monster hurt you… ”

Joren, her older brother, sat watching her helplessly. He was only eleven years old, and already his heart ached. Like many boys his age, he had heard poems about wounded hearts and thought those only words. And yet now his heart actually hurt, a physical pain in his chest, as if all his tears had gathered there and lay swollen, pulsing. Hesitantly he reached forward and touched his sister's hair.

“Aeolia,” he said.

She drew away, huddling deeper into the corner, under the slanting roofbeams. She began to tremble, which made the straw on the floor crackle. The walls also shivered, jostled by the wind. The roof also shed tears, leaking raindrops through its thatch. The entire attic was weeping, Joren thought. All but him. He could not weep, though he wanted to, also.

“Aeoly,” he tried again, softer this time, using her favorite diminutive. “I brought you something. A gift.”

She said nothing, but her mumbling stopped. It was nighttime, and only a small lantern lit the attic. Shadows cloaked the girl. Joren could see only the whites of her eyes, glistening in the lamplight, watching him, peeking from her sodden hair.

“Here,” he said, handing her a cloth bundle. He held it extended for a long time, while she only watched him. Then, finally, the straw crackled closer, and the girl's hand protruded from the shadows. She snatched the bundle and retreated back into the corner. Joren could see her moving, unfolding the cloth. The tangy, earthy smell of goat cheese filled the attic, mingling with the smells of mold and wet wood.

“I got it from Old Monny, down at Chalk Corner,” Joren said, trying to hide that aching heart. “So you and Stuffings will have something to eat on the way.”

Still she did not answer. The only sounds were the dripping raindrops, the rattling walls, and the crackling straw. Finally, when Joren was about to speak again, came a shaky whisper from the shadows.

“But I can't go now. It's raining.”

That ache again, stronger. Gingerly, Joren crept into the corner, under the rafters and onto the straw pile. He knelt beside his sister. She cowered like a wounded animal, hugging her doll, shivering. Joren plucked the straw from her hair and parted the almond-brown strands, revealing her round, white face. Tears blurred her honey eyes and spiked her lashes. Her lips quivered. So little, Joren thought. She was so little. Better one child with food than two without, their father had said, but how could something so little possibly understand?

“Daddy says you must,” he said.

“Stuffings is scared. She doesn't want the monster to take us.” Tears rolled down her cheeks and fell into her lap. Joren felt her shivering beneath his palm.

“Then you must be brave,” he said. “Let Stuffings see how brave you can be.”

“She can't see, Joren, remember? You never brought me buttons for her eyes.”

He smiled sadly. He had been saving copperdrops for buttons, but bought the cheese instead. Perhaps that had been wrong. The ache returned, sharp and twisting, erasing his smile. If it were only her being sold, he thought, only goodbye. But it was more. Joren would make her lose more than just freedom. He touched her cheek. Her tears wet his hand.

“Don't cry, Aeoly,” he whispered. “You're six years old. You're a big girl now.” He knew how she loved to hear that.

“Really?” she asked, raising her red-rimmed eyes with hope.

Joren nodded with all the solemnity of his older years. “You must be like King Sinther now--strong as stone.”

A soft smile touched her lips. She loved to hear stories of the stone king, who felt no pain. “Strong as stone,” she mumbled.

Joren forced himself to smile back. He had never done anything more difficult. “You're a big girl, and I want you to make a big girl's promise. Can you do that, Aeoly? Can you make me a promise?”

She gave a small shrug, with only one shoulder, like she always did. A “rug”, he would call it, which always made her laugh. He wondered if he would ever see her do it again.

“What promise?” Her voice was small, trying not to tremble.

Joren took her hand, struggling to keep his face from showing his pain. But when he opened his mouth to speak, it was suddenly all too much. The words caught in his throat. He had to look away for fear he'd cry. How could he do this? To ask her to give up her talent, the only power she might have where she went …

But if anyone ever knew …

Joren managed to recompose his face. He held her little hand tight.

“Promise to keep your magic secret, Aeoly. Promise never to link again.”

Her voice was confused. “But I like linking.”

Her words tweaked Joren's heart, so hard he winced. If King Sinther ever discovered her magic, ever discovered that Aeolia, by linking, could hurt him past his impenetrable skin …

Sinther, his heart stony like his skin, would do anything to kill the one who could defeat him.

Joren shut his eyes. Tears swam behind his lids. His voice shook. “I know, Aeoly, I know, Dewdrop, I know … But some people don't, Aeoly, some people would hurt you if they knew. You must keep it secret. Never link to anyone again. Never ever. Promise me, Aeoly.”

She opened her mouth, but before words could leave her throat, a tinkling sound came from downstairs. Coins bouncing against a table. Aeolia huddled deeper into the corner, hugging her doll tight. Her fingers dug into the frayed cloth so hard her knuckles whitened. She was shivering again.

“I'll promise,” she whispered. “But only if you promise something, too.”

The stairs began to creak with a slow, heavy pace, heavier than a man's. The walls moaned and bent, and thatch fell from the roofbeams. The lantern swung on its chain, swirling shadows like bad dreams. Joren found himself clutching straw in his fists.

“What is it? What do you want me to promise?”

Aeolia flung herself forward, out of the shadows, and wrapped her arms around him. Her grip was so tight he could hardly breathe.

“That you'll save me, Joren!” she sobbed. “Promise you'll save me from the monster.”

From the stairway came ragged wheezing, loud as bellows and coarse as sand. A stench like sweat and rot and bad breath filtered into the loft, so sickening it churned Joren's stomach. Aeolia's fingers dug into his back. She panted into his shirt.

“How can I save you?” he whispered. “I'm only a child.”

“I'll wait till you're bigger!”

The footsteps paused outside. Joren could see, in the crack beneath the door, the shadows of huge feet. Keys rattled in the lock, struggling against the rust. An impossibly deep voice grumbled foreign, guttural curses.

“Aeoly, I won't come of age for ten years.”

“I'll wait for you! Promise me, Joren, promise you'll do it!”

Lightning flashed, bright and blinding. Thunder shook the floor. The wind slammed open the window, and the lantern guttered out. Darkness and storm filled the room. The straw flurried. The thatch flew from the roofbeams. Rain and hail buffeted Joren's face, sharp and stinging. Wind flapped his shirt, bit his eyes, roared in his ears. He could hardly see or hear. He tried to rise, to go close the shutters, but Aeolia's hand held him fast. He turned his head and glimpsed her in the flickering lightning. Her skin was flushed, her hair billowed, her doll had been blown from her grasp. As the storm raged around her she sat unmoving, holding his arm, staring at him steadily even as the door creaked open.

Joren nodded, sorrow swelling in his throat.

“I promise, Aeoly. I promise.”

CHAPTER ONE

The well was deep and the bucket heavy. Aeolia grimaced as she heaved. The rope chafed her palms and her muscles ached. Her heels dug into the soil. The smell of moss filled her nostrils, and the dripping water laughed like pixies in her ears. When the bucket finally reached the top, she wrapped her arms around it. It was so wide her fingers did not meet. She pulled, tilting the wet wood, and spilled the water into the second bucket at her feet.

When her bucket was full, she straightened, knuckled her back and loosened her limbs. Splashing water had dampened her skirt, and she shivered. It was a cold morning, one for dozing by a fire or snuggling under down. For a moment Aeolia let her mind drift and remember mugs of hot milk, dog-eared picture books, clay tops, and a shabby rag doll. Those comforts were far away now, and her current companions were the broom and the duster, the shackles and the cane.

A sudden gust flurried dry leaves round her bare feet. Her hair blew over her eyes. She tucked the almond strands back into her kerchief and glanced at the sky. The clouds were as dark as the bruises on her back. It would soon rain. A skein of geese glided across the livid canopy, and Aeolia followed them with her eyes, fingering the tattoo on her hand. Perhaps this year I will fly away too, she thought. It was her tenth year from home. She was sixteen.

She gazed over the surrounding land, trying to imagine how it would feel seeing it for the last time. Hills rolled into the distance, patched with copses of birch and maple with leaves turning orange and gold. Boulders jutted like teeth from valleys of bindweed and thyme. Woodsmoke plumed in the distance, but the town that held its hearths was hidden in the folds of the land. Aeolia sighed. The landscape had become as familiar as her own round face. She wondered if she would ever see a different horizon.

She turned away and lifted her bucket with a wince. The weight tugged at her arms, and the iron handle dug into her palms. Fetters jingling, she began hobbling up the cobbled path. With every step the bucket tilted, and water splashed to feed the weeds pushing from under the cobblestones. The old oak's branches creaked in the breeze. Dry leaves landed in Aeolia's hair or hit the ground to scuttle along like beetles. A raven fluttered off a swaying branch and perched on a cobwebbed plow. A lizard, startled by the bird, crossed the path and disappeared under a bramble.

The tall, brooding cottage sat at the end of the path like a neglected tombstone. Its unpainted walls were decaying, and its roof lacked half its tiles. The chimney looked ready to collapse. Beanstalks climbed the walls and ruptured the windows, like a great, green fist clutching the house. As the ogre aged and his sight dimmed he cared less about such matters, and railed about the broken shutters only if his joints ached that day. Secretly, Aeolia suspected he liked his house rotting and old, for he himself was so.

The front steps were as tall as Aeolia's knees. She sat down on the first, holding the bucket so it dangled between her legs. She pushed herself up step by step--the only way to climb in her shackles--and stood up on the porch. Spiders fled from her feet to disappear between the floor planks. Two crows fluttered off the old spinning wheel into the air. With a sigh of relief, Aeolia dropped her bucket beside the front door. After wiping her sore hands on her apron, she stood on tiptoe, reached overhead, and grabbed the doorknob. The door creaked open, and Aeolia dragged her bucket inside.

The living room smelled of decay--a faint, constant odor Aeolia attributed to the rotting wood. Objects crowded every corner: animal heads hung on the walls, rare stones perched on the mantel, a bearskin lay on the floor. Dried roses, a tobacco box, and a pipe sat on a cherry table. Beside the table stood an old sofa, fleece pushing out of tatters in its green upholstery. Everything in the room was twice too large for Aeolia. The tabletop reached her shoulder. The sofa towered over her head. She could have stood in the fireplace. She always felt dwarfed and insignificant beside this giant furniture, like a fluff of dust.

She could hear the ogre snoring upstairs, a sound like chains dragging over stone. Creaks accompanied the snores--the ogre's daughter pacing her room. A shiver ran down Aeolia's spine. The attic was a strange place. It always chilled her to think of it. She went upstairs only to change the linens and empty the chamber pots, and always worked quickly and rushed back down, glad to escape the soupy air and sickly ogress.

The house had a basement, too. Aeolia had never been in it, and the ogres never spoke of it, but she had seen the trapdoor hidden beneath the sofa. When she had once asked where the trapdoor led, the ogre caned her so hard he broke her arm. She never asked again, but once, when the ogre and his daughter slept, she had crawled under the sofa and tried the trapdoor. It had been locked, and so Aeolia was left to guess what lay below.

Embers still glowed in the hearth from last night. Aeolia stirred them with the poker. An earthenware mug hung over the embers from a wire, and she filled it from her bucket; the ogre liked hot water with his breakfast. For a moment she stood gazing into the fire, warming her hands and remembering their own small hearth in Stonemark where she and her brother would play. She thought how they would never be young again, and a lump filled her throat. But he would come this year, she told herself. He had promised.

She left the water to boil and dragged her shackles into the pantry. Shelves lined the small room, bulging with sacks and jars and bundles and kegs. Strings of garlic, ham sausages, and sheaves of oats hung from the roofbeams. Sundry smells of spices tickled the nose: paprika, cumin, curry, and sage. Aeolia took a plate from a cupboard and filled it with the ogre's favorite foods: a chunk of licorice, some figs stuffed with peanuts, a stick of rhubarb, and a clump of honeyed seaweed. She stepped back into the living room and placed the food and boiling water on the table.

It was not long before the snoring upstairs died. Aeolia heard the springs in his bed creak, a thump as his feet hit the floor, the dim trickle of him filling his chamber pot. Soon the stairs began to moan, his cane tapped, his breath wheezed loud and coarse. Aeolia clutched a handful of her skirt and took a step back as the sounds grew closer. The staircase first revealed large, bare feet and the hard, wooden butt of a cane. Then, as the ogre continued descending, came bandy legs, a potbelly, and finally a hunchback and a fleshy, yellow face.

Aeolia curtsied. “Good morning, Master.”

The ogre bunched his tufted eyebrows and brushed past her wordlessly. Even with his stoop he stood twice her height, and his cane was wide as her arm. The floor creaked mournfully under his weight; he had fattened with age, and his woolen vest looked ready to pop its buttons. A stench like congealed blood clung to him, and his beard rustled with lice. He reached his chair, sat down with a groan, and laid his cane across his lap.

Aeolia frowned. Something was wrong with the ogre today. He did not run his finger along the armrest, checking for dust as always, only twiddled his thumbs and stared into his lap. He did not wolf down his food as was his wont, but seemed scarcely to notice the plate. Usually grumpy, this morning he seemed positively pensive.

“Is something wrong, Master?” Aeolia asked.

The ogre's beady, close-set eyes flicked up in surprise, as if he had just noticed Aeolia. He wiped his bulbous nose with his sleeve and spoke in his deep, guttural voice. “I am worried about my daughter.”

“Is she melancholy again?”

The ogre nodded. “Worse than ever, yes indeed. She sleeps all day and night.”

“I can hear her pacing upstairs, Master.”

The ogre gripped his cane, and Aeolia winced, cursing herself for contradicting him. But the ogre soon loosened his grasp, his ire gone so quickly only Aeolia's pounding heart testified it had existed.

“Her eyes are open,” the ogre said, “but they see only dreams. Her mouth speaks, but reports only the sight of her eyes.”

“Truly, Master? I've not noticed.”

The ogre scratched himself. “She appears lucid, yes indeed. But listen to her talk and it is all fantasy. She is delusional with glumness, I fear. You must remember never to believe her words. Whatever fiddlesticks she speaks, know it is her madness speaking.”

“I will remember, Master.”

The ogre grunted and lifted his plate. His red nose--large and round like a human head--twitched over the food. He thrust out his jaw and tilted the plate over his rotting fangs, letting the food slide into his mouth. He chewed the lot slowly, gazing into the fire as if lost in thought. Aeolia helped push back what food dripped down his chin.

After swallowing his breakfast he began sipping his water. Aeolia stepped into the pantry and packed him a fresh leg of goat for his lunch. She filled his wineskin with cider. When she returned to the living room the ogre had drained his mug, and she helped him rise from his chair. He limped toward the wall, where his coat and hat hung on pegs, and Aeolia climbed her ladder and helped him dress. She opened the door and bid him goodbye. The ogre grunted and limped outside, where the wind flapped his coat and drowned the tapping of his hard, hard cane.

Aeolia shut the door behind him. He would be gone shepherding all day, she knew, and meanwhile she had plenty to do: dust the house, tend to the ogress, change the linens, wash the dishes, wash the laundry, sweep the chimney, wax the floors, feed the livestock, milk the goat, collect the eggs, weed the vegetable patch, clean the sheep pen, chop firewood, butcher a pig, kindle a fire, cook dinner, and finally dust again. Dusting was the most important chore, for the ogre's nose was sensitive to dust, and one of his favorite sayings was: “The cane flies with the sneeze.”

I wish I were like my King Sinther, Aeolia thought, with skin made of stone, skin a cane cannot break. Nobody could hurt the terrible Sinther, Aeolia knew. Not one person in the world.

Well, except that one person from the legends, Aeolia remembered. The tales whispered of one who could reach past Sinther's stone skin, could hurt the wicked king. But then, surely those are only legends, Aeolia thought. Surely if such a one truly lived, Sinther would have ordered him killed long ago.

“Enough fairytales for now!” Aeolia scolded herself. She was always telling herself stories when she should be working. With a sigh, she took her feather-duster from its shelf and ran it over the animal heads, the dry flowers, the decaying windowsills.

As usual, when she dusted beneath the sofa she wondered what lay below the trapdoor. She had imagined many possibilities: a chest of glinting golddrops, a deformed son fed secretly whenever she slept, a suit of armor and a rusty sword, the ghosts of the house's dead builders, a dusty grimoire with golden binding, a passageway that led to an underground land of fairies … Aeolia delighted in imagining these wonderful or horrible secrets, and she often lay awake at night, inventing their stories.

She would also imagine her rescue. These dreams were not pleasurable but wistful, and they did not ease her loneliness but made it swell. And yet she thought of Joren every day, of the promises they had exchanged so long ago. She had kept hers, though she did not understand it, and prayed that this year, as Joren came of age, he would keep his. She shut her eyes as she dusted and tried to imagine how he would look now. Would his hair still be spiky, his gray eyes still brave? He would be handsome, she knew, and he would love her like only a brother loves his younger sister. They would live together, away from their callous father, and forget their past lives and simply be happy.

Aeolia sighed. Suddenly she felt a need to escape the cluttered living room, with its towering furniture and ever-present stench. She laid down the duster, lifted her wicker basket, and hobbled outside to collect the ogress's breakfast. She stood on the porch and breathed the crisp air, banishing her brother from her mind; his memory was so sweet it hurt, and she was better off without it. The clouds had darkened and it was drizzling. When Aeolia stepped off the porch her feet sank into the mud. The raindrops matted her hair down over her face, and the wind whipped at her skirt.

She walked toward the sheep pen, careful to avoid the fairy rings in the grass. Behind the pen, she followed the old picket fence, her feet pressing into the soft, wet clover that carpeted the ground. At the end of the yard, where the land swept down into a valley of mist, grew the enchanted cherry tree, its bark glistening with raindrops.

Aeolia loved this tree, a magical tree that bore fruit all year. It was her favorite place on the farm, the only place where she felt solace. She climbed onto a mossy rock, stood on tiptoe to reach the high branches, and began collecting cherries. She smiled as she picked, imagining the scent of rain, sedge, and cherries a perfume she wore, and when she shut her eyes she could almost imagine her woolen dress a gown.

A bell, ringing in the wind, disrupted her reverie. Aeolia turned her head and looked back at the cottage, and in the attic window she saw a shadow stir. She shivered, placed a last cherry in her basket, and hopped off the rock. Basket in hand, she squelched through the moss and mud back to the house. She wiped her feet on the doormat and stepped inside.

The bell rang loudly upstairs, a flat sound like wood on flesh. Aeolia bit her lip, approached the staircase but paused before climbing. She looked up into the shadows and shivered again. The attic always frightened her. The bell continued ringing, however, and so Aeolia swallowed, sat down, and began climbing. With every stair the air became sultrier, smelling of sweat and decay, so thick Aeolia felt it stroke her skin. She reached the top stair and stood up in the shadowy hallway. Burrows honeycombed the floor, and Aeolia heard beetles chirping inside. The bell's ringing came from behind a tall, peeling door. Aeolia turned the clammy knob, and the door slowly creaked open.

The room inside was dark and stuffy. Its hot air filled Aeolia's lungs like smoke. The window was ajar, casting dusty sheets of light, and Aeolia could see ants marching along the walls. The ogress lay in her bed like one of the shadows, her face cloaked in darkness. Her long feet, yellow toenails cracked, hung between the posts. She was so thin, her bones showed beneath the sheets, making her look like a shrouded skeleton.

Aeolia twisted her fingers behind her back and said, “Good morning, Mistress.”

The ogress's frail hand passed through a shaft of light to place her bell on a nightstand.

“I shall have my cherries now,” came a grainy whisper from the shadows. The ogress never spoke above a whisper.

“Of course, Mistress.”

Aeolia shuffled toward the head of the bed. The ogress's eyes glinted in the shadows as they watched her. Her shriveled lips parted to reveal a gaping, toothless cavern. Aeolia took a cherry from her basket and placed it on her mistress's white tongue. The ogress chewed slowly with hard gums, then spat the pit into Aeolia's hand. The process repeated itself three more times, and then the ogress turned her head away.

“Is that all you want today?” Aeolia asked.

The ogress nodded. “Chewing tires me. Toss the rest out the window.”

Aeolia bit her lip and gazed at the remaining cherries in the basket.

The ogress laughed--a hollow, sickly sound, more a cough than a laugh. “You want to eat them yourself, hmmm?”

Aeolia shrugged one shoulder. “No one will eat them outside.”

“The worms and beetles will eat.”

Aeolia lowered her head and nodded. She shuffled to the window and opened the shutters, thankful for the fresh air and light. For a moment she gazed longingly at the northern horizon, thinking of her brother. Then she tightened her lips and tossed the cherries. They hit the mud and sank. Aeolia turned from the window, her throat tight.

Her mistress was watching her, a wry smile on her lips. In the new light Aeolia now saw her yellow, papery skin, the sacks beneath her sunken eyes, the white wisps on her balding scalp.

“Was it cruel of me, girl, hmmm?” the ogress asked.

“It was cruel,” Aeolia replied quietly.

“Do you imagine freedom any kinder?”

The question surprised Aeolia. One never talked of such matters. It was as taboo as mentioning the basement. She stood silently, lost for words.

“Don't be embarrassed,” the ogress said. “My papa's cane beats only sheep now. He cannot hear you.”

“If I were free I would have eaten the cherries.”

“But cherries are not enough, are they? A woman needs more than cherries, does she not?” The ogress propped herself up on her elbows. Her eyes flared and blood rushed into her cheeks. “What about love, hmmm? You forgot about love, didn't you?”

Aeolia took a step back. She remembered the ogre's words about his daughter's madness, but decided it safest to play along.

“I have no love here,” she said.

The ogress cackled. “Be glad! Love is cruel and whimsical. It calls you beautiful but laughs behind your back, taunts and leaves you with nothing but a ring and broken heart. Look at you! Look what your family did to you. They sold you for three golddrops!”

The ogress was mad, there was no doubt of that. Her words still hurt, however, and Aeolia could not let them stand.

“My father sold me,” she said, not without anger. “My brother loves me still.”

The ogress leaned forward, reached out, and grabbed Aeolia's shoulders. Aeolia squirmed but the ogress held her tight. Her bony fingers dug like claws. Her yellow face--long as a horse's--was thrust so close Aeolia could smell her breath, stench of morning mingled with the scent of cherries. She wanted to turn her head away, but something in her mistress's eyes held her, and she stared back.

“Are you certain?” the ogress whispered. “Are you certain he, too, would not betray you?”

Aeolia thought of her home, of her father who was so churlish, she often thought she must be a changeling. But her brother had always comforted her. Joren had always made her laugh, even when her father made her cry.

Aeolia nodded. “I am certain. Joren loves me. He would never betray me.”

The ogress's eyes glinted a moment longer, and then they dimmed. Her grip relaxed and she fell back into her bed. She looked tired and spent, and her breath was shallow. She looked defeated. With a long sigh she pulled the covers to her neck, shut her eyes, and mumbled sleepy words.

“There is a Stoneson in town looking for you.”

Aeolia's heart stopped in her breast. Her hands fell limp to her sides. Slow as sunrise, she uttered, “What did you say?”

The ogress began to snore. Heedlessly, Aeolia grabbed her shoulders and shook. “Mistress, please, don't sleep now!”

The ogress's head slumped sideways. She would not wake. The madness, Aeolia thought, it was only the madness speaking! And yet … he had promised, it might be true, he might be here, in town, but a day away, looking for her …

“Is my brother here?” she asked, shaking the ogress and shaking herself. “Have you talked to him? Oh, please wake up!”

She would not, and Aeolia wrung her hands, trembling. Is my mistress only taunting me? she wondered. Is she simply speaking dreams? This was the year of Joren's promise; surely the ogress couldn't know that. Perhaps she wasn't delusional. Perhaps the ogre had claimed so simply to discredit words he knew she'd speak. Joy bubbled in Aeolia's belly as she convinced herself that Joren was truly near.

A smile trembling on her lips, she shuffled out the room and downstairs.

She spent the day waiting.

For the next few hours, she worked at her chores in a daze. She kept thinking of Joren, imagining how she would hug him, planning their future. Today might be my last day here, she kept thinking. I might never see the ogres again.

By noon she began worrying. As she stood outside, brushing cinder out of her hair, she kept glancing at the hills, waiting for Joren to appear. He never did. Aeolia's excitement slowly curdled. She told herself she must be patient, that Joren was slow because he was thorough, that he would arrive in time. She gazed at the tattoo on her hand and told herself that soon it would be meaningless, that soon she'd be able to forget its words. Joren would not betray her like the ogress had said. He had promised and he would come.

But where was he?

Afternoon's shadows began unfurling, and still Joren did not appear. The butchered pig sat in a pot of paprika, bubbling in the hearth, filling the living room with the smell of spices and bones and blood. Aeolia nibbled her lip as she stirred the broth, and her fingers tapped against the ladle. Her worry gnawed on her like a dog on a bone. A thought sneaked into her mind that Joren might miss the lonesome farm, that he would never find her. The thought was too horrible to bear. She twisted her toes and continued waiting.

With twilight's frogs trilling outside, Aeolia decided she could wait no longer. Though she trembled at the thought, she knew what she must do. She would do the impossible, what she had never dared. She would leave the cottage. She would go to town. If Joren would not come, she would seek him herself.

But how could she? The ogre shepherded outside, blocking her way, and his dogs were trained to scent strangers in the hills. Even if Aeolia did slip past him, he would discover her escape when he returned, and Aeolia could not expect to outrun his dogs, not while hobbled. If she went to town, she knew, it had to be with the ogre's permission.

She forced herself to wait till he returned. It was not long. The sun had hardly touched the horizon when she heard the tapping of his cane outside, the baaing of sheep as he goaded them into their pen. Aeolia quickly filled his bowl--big as a watermelon half--with the goulash and set it on the table. She lit the candles in their iron sconces. Knowing her face must be spelling guilt, she covered it with her hair. She heard the cane tap up the stairs and onto the porch, and she opened the door.

“Good evening, Master.”

 The ogre grunted and limped inside, bringing the smells of sheep and grass and sweat. Aeolia climbed her ladder and helped him remove his coat and hat. The ogre limped toward his sofa and sat down heavily, sniffing his food and salivating into his beard. He licked his chops and brought the bowl to his lips. As he chewed, bones crunched and juice trickled down his chin. Aeolia watched him eat, twisting her fingers behind her back, till he lowered the empty bowl with a satisfied belch.

“Now,” he said, as she knew he would, “fetch me my jug of wine to wash this fine food down, yes indeed.”

Aeolia nodded and stepped into the pantry. A hanging lantern lit the cluttered room. With every gale outside, the shutters rattled, the lantern swung, and shadows danced like demons. From one shelf Aeolia fetched the clay jug that held the ogre's weekly supply of crabapple wine. It was half-full and heavy. Aeolia carried it with both arms back into the living room.

“Ah, excellent!” The ogre rubbed his hands together. “Bring it here.”

“Yes, Master.”

Aeolia took a step forward, her knees shaking. She took another step, swallowed hard. With the third step, heart in mouth, she feigned to stumble. She tossed the jug as she pitched forward.

A shattering sound beat her eardrums. Droplets of wine bespattered her. The ogre rose from his chair with a howl.

“Look what you've done!”

Aeolia scurried to her feet as the ogre swung his cane. It missed her head by an inch.

“I'm sorry, Master! I'm sorry, I tripped.”

The ogre began chasing her around the table. He limped and she hobbled in her shackles, and both sloshed through the wine.

“I'll get more!” she said. “I'll get more wine!”

The ogre swung his cane. Aeolia ducked and it whistled over her head.

“The peddler comes once a week,” he thundered. “How will you get wine before that?”

The cane came down and Aeolia jumped aside. The vase of dry roses shattered.

“I'll go to town, Master! I'll get wine there.”

The ogre paused. Slowly he lowered his cane. Aeolia stood panting and watching him expectantly. The ogre rubbed his jaw and stared back through narrowed lids.

“You want to go to town … ” he said.

“Unlock my shackles and I'll go now. I'll be back by noon tomorrow with your wine, and work into the night to finish my chores.”

“How do I know you'll return?”

“My tattoo, Master. Anyone who sees it will return me.”

The ogre stared at her a moment, but then snorted. “Bah! I cannot trust you carrying wine so far. You are too clumsy. No, you will stay here and spend the night licking the wine from the floor.”

Aeolia lowered her head and fought down despair. So he would not let her go. She could still try sneaking away.

The ogre, however, had not finished speaking.

“You are so clumsy,” he continued, tapping his chin, “you might fall into the fireplace or well, yes indeed. Safest if after you've cleaned the wine, I chain you to the cherry tree, at least for the next few days.”

Aeolia's mouth fell open. For a moment she could not breathe and stood gaping, shaking her head. Then she spun around and fled into the pantry, where she fell to the floor, scraping her knees. The rows of shelves, hanging bent under their burdens, seemed to close in on her, ready to overflow and drown her. She could hear the ogre's wheezing in the other room, and she had to cover her ears, so jarring the sound suddenly seemed. He knew, she realized, he knew, he knew, he had seen Joren and he was hiding her. Why hadn't she just run? Now she couldn't even sneak away.

“Girl!” came a grunt from the living room. “Cease this foolishness and come back here. I want my foot rub.”

Aeolia wanted nothing more than to stay in the pantry, hidden in the swirling shadows, but fear of the ogre's cane had long been pounded into her, and she could not fight it. She rose to her feet and shuffled toward the door, barely able to drag her irons, barely able to stand upright at all.

“I must be strong as stone, like Joren said,” she mumbled, but the sweet thought of her brother made her eyes moisten, and her mouth curved bitterly in preparation for weeping. No! she scolded herself. The ogre mustn't see me cry. She shut her mouth determinedly, knuckled her tears away, and banished Joren from her thoughts.

In the living room the candles had burned to stubs, and wax hung over their holders. The fire still crackled, and leftover goulash bubbled in the pot. From outside came the sounds of whistling wind and rapping rain. The ogre sat with a checkered blanket pulled over his knees, puffing on his pipe and filling the room with green, fragrant smoke. His bare feet rested on the table, warming in the fire.

He clucked his tongue, and Aeolia nodded briskly, climbed onto the tabletop and sat beside his feet. Each foot was long as her leg, with toes as big as her feet. Sweat glued dirt, grass, and crushed insects to the soles. Aeolia reluctantly laid her hands on a rough, clammy foot. Breathing through her mouth, she began to rub. The ogre shut his eyes, let out a long moan, and leaned back in his seat.

While Aeolia's fingers worked, so did her mind. If she'd soon be chained outside, she could still wait for Joren to arrive. But what if Joren never found the farm? There was too much at stake to leave for chance and hope. Surely there was something else she could do, Aeolia told herself, but she could think of nothing. She stubbornly quelled a cloud of despair. I can't give in to despair now, she told herself. I must think rationally, rationally …

Aeolia furrowed her brow. What if she spoke rationally to the ogre? What if she made a deal? She tossed the idea back and forth as she kneaded. She had been sold for money; perhaps she could be bought back. Would the ogre be willing? Surely he would, Aeolia told herself. Besides she had nothing more to lose by asking.

“Master … ” she began.

One beady eye cracked open. “Yes, girl? Speak up.”

Aeolia licked her dry lips, suddenly hesitant. I'll simply say what I have to say, she told herself. The rest is up to him. She took a long, deep breath.

“Have you seen my brother?”

The ogre pulled away his feet and placed them on the floor. He laid down his pipe, put his hands on his knees, and spoke slowly. “My daughter told you, didn't she?”

Aeolia nodded hesitantly.

“And have I not told you she is mad?”

Aeolia stared at her toes. “Master, my brother will pay everything he has for me.”

The sofa creaked as the ogre leaned forward. “Have I not told you she is mad?”

Aeolia's voice was barely a whisper. “I know my brother is here.”

“Some things are best left unknown, yes indeed. Some things are best pounded out of memory.”

Aeolia knew that if she failed, her every word meant another cane's blow, but still she spoke again. “Master, my brother will pay to buy me back. He will pay you twice what you had paid.”

The ogre regarded her for several moments. Finally he leaned back, scratched his chin, and said, “Six golddrops?”

Aeolia nodded. Surely Joren had been saving for that very purpose.

“But you are not worth six golddrops,” the ogre said.

“I am to my brother.”

The ogre pursed his lips. “I would be able to buy two servants,” he mumbled into his beard.

Aeolia felt excitement wiggle in her belly. “Then will you do it?” she asked. “Will you tell him where I am?”

The ogre slowly nodded.

Aeolia gasped. “You will? You truly will?”

The ogre bent forward, causing the firelight to paint his face a sinister red. He narrowed his eyes, slammed the butt of his cane against the floor, and when he spoke his voice was hard as iron.

“I will tell the Stoneson where you are,” he said. “I will tell him I had sold you to my cousin, who took you a hundred leagues south, beat you to death, and buried you at sea.”

The ogre cackled, leaned back in his chair, and banged his feet back onto the table.

“Now rub!”

Aeolia looked away from the feet, her eyes blurry. She had lost her chance to escape. She had lost her chance for rescue. She could not have raised her arms had she wanted to, so crestfallen she was. From swaddling clothes to shroud, would her life be only sorrow?

“Rub!”

Aeolia looked down into her lap, at the tattoo on her hand, at the overworked and dirty fingers. She could no longer think, she felt so numb, and as she stared her hands became small and soft, a child's hands, clutching a rag doll. She heard her brother's laugh. She tasted warm milk on her lips. She barely saw the giant hand swing through the air.

Pain exploded on her temple. She slid across the table and crashed onto the floor by the hearth, in the heat of the burning logs and bubbling broth. From the corner of her eye she saw the ogre pointing his cane at her, shouting words she could not hear. She saw him as she first had, a vacuous beast, a monster with no thoughts or pity, a terror from her deepest nightmares.

She stood up, eyes unfocused, and gazed into the pot. Bones and blood are not food, she thought. I'm tired of bones and blood. She heard the ogre rise from his chair behind her, she heard him tapping toward her. There was only one thing left to do. Her trembling fingers danced over the pot's handles, hesitating. She had to think of Joren's smile to make them close.

“I'm coming to you, Joren,” she whispered.

The cane tapped, the floor creaked, the fire crackled and the broth bubbled--a deafening air that clouded all her thoughts. She took a shaky breath, tightened her lips, spun around and tossed the pot at the ogre.

The pot clanged against him. Goulash spilled with a hiss. Aeolia grabbed a stick from the fire and held it before her as the ogre howled and sizzled. She could not outrun him in her shackles, she knew. She had to face him. She lashed her torch forward, but the ogre grabbed her arm and wrenched it free. He yanked her into the air, and Aeolia screamed and slashed her nails across his face. With a roar he tucked her under his arm, pinning her arms to her sides. She screamed and struggled wildly, but could not free herself.

Through wincing lids she saw him push his sofa aside, and horror surged inside her till it spilled from her eyes. He pulled a round of keys from his pocket, containing the key to the barn, the key to her fetters, and the green, old key she had never seen him use until now. He leaned down and began unlocking the trapdoor, and Aeolia found herself shaking her head, crying her brother's name.

The ogre swung the trapdoor open. The stench of rot was unbearable. It overwhelmed Aeolia, making her sick. She wanted to throw up. She trembled violently. In the second before the ogre tossed her in, sealing her in darkness, she saw it all, saw the secret in the basement, saw why she could never hope to escape.

Down in the darkness, shrouded in cobwebs, skeletons littered the floor, all in fetters like her own.

The ogre's arm opened. The ground rushed up to meet her. Pain exploded and dust rose in a cloud, filling her eyes and mouth. The trapdoor boomed shut above her, rats screeched, bones rattled, and darkness, complete darkness such as she had never known or imagined, fell over Aeolia. She covered her head with her arms, crushed by its weight, and wept onto the floor until she had wept all thought away.