Witch, Wolf, Woods

CHAPTER 8: SIX YEARS LATER

Katja opened her eyes and winced at the pain that greeted her, the pain that had woken her in the first place.

Climbing out of bed, she made her way to the window. Pulling aside the heavy brocade curtain, she unlatched the single pane of glass and pushed the wooden shutters outwards, inhaling deeply as the crisp winter air stung her nose. The world outside was still, snow covering the ground as a thick, grey mist rolled through the trees on the other side of the river.

Katja hugged herself, more for comfort than warmth, her hands unconsciously seeking out the white scars hidden beneath the long sleeves of her grey flannel sleeping gown. Her scars always hurt when the mist arrived, having been born somewhere deep inside the Schwarzwald.

She knew from living with the older women in the Hexen that injuries were often worsened by certain weather, so her aching scars weren't unheard of. She only wished, as she always had, that she had any knowledge of what had caused the injuries in the first place.

A branch cracked outside, snapping beneath the weight of the snow and ice covering it, bringing Katja's attention back to the world around her. It was fitting everything outside your own body was referred to as the outside world, because she'd felt outside of things her entire life, separated from everything by a pane of glass that allowed her to come only so close to what everyone else seemed to have.

She watched and she dreamed and she participated in her own way, but she was always aware of going through the motions of life without feeling as if she was living it. The best she could tell, none of the other girls her age felt that way.

And why would they? Other sixteen-year-olds always seemed to know just what to say, the right time to laugh, when to hold their tongues, and how to gain the good favor of those around them.

Katja had no idea how to do any of those things, and felt like, at best, she stumbled through her days; at worst, she failed at social interactions completely and hid in her workroom, keeping only her own company.

Sighing at the direction of her thoughts, Katja pulled the shutters closed and latched the glass. At least she finally had her own room; she'd been thrilled to discover spots of blood on her undergarment shortly after her twelfth birthday, and she'd moved out of the dormitory and into a chamber of her own the very same day.

Turning around, she surveyed the space.

There was a single bed up against the stone wall, and a sturdy wardrobe made of buttery pine that glowed when she polished it with a waxed cloth. Near the window was a drop-front desk that could be opened when in use or folded up to make more space when needed, as well as a straight-backed wooden chair. A woven rug of brown, green, and black fabric scraps covered a significant portion of the flagstone floor, a fourteenth birthday present from Tante Gerta and Tante Maedra.

There was a small nightstand near the bed that held a few of her personal books, and she smiled as her gaze fell on the one at the top of the stack.

She'd asked her teacher a few years ago if the groBe böse Wolf in A History of Witches in the Schwarzwald was real, and Tante Lisette had assured her it was simply a legend told to ensure young witches didn't try to sneak into the Schwarzwald behind their elders' backs.

Dissatisfied with the answer, Katja had asked her favorite librarian, Tante Winola, the same question when she'd gone to the library to return the book. Tante Winola had smiled enigmatically and replied, "Every legend begins with a truth."

She'd also said since no one but Katja ever borrowed the book, it deserved a home where it was appreciated, and she'd instructed Katja to keep it, making Katja feel quite special, and to this day, she continued to reread the parts she loved best.