Threads of Emerald

Threads of Treachery: Chapter 3

I knew Father had not returned as I made my way downstairs before the first rays of sunlight spilled through the windows. The tatty, brown boots that lived on the mat in front of the door were a notable absence and his black overcoat wasn't hung next to my cloak.

I also knew that my Mother had not slept either. The mess from last night had been completely cleared from the table. No used cutlery or crockery were piled near the hearth of the fire. The books that were usually lay across the sofa and the tables were now placed in a neat pile and the smell of citrus soap permeated the air as I reached for my boots and cloak.

I felt the cool hilt of my dagger pressing against my thigh as I leaned to tie my boots. The beautifully crafted dagger was barely a noticeable shape under the dark breeches that I wore. I gently placed one of Mother's smaller kitchen knives between my breasts, wrapping the sharp blade up with one of the cloths that smelled of soap and hiding it with the thick, light blue sweater that I stole from Aphina last winter.

I found a small piece of paper and a pen, letting Aphina and Mother know that I had gone to town to get food.

The road to town was a relatively simple path to take. The grey stones of the path were visible from the porch of the cottage, and led directly through the woods, eventually coming out in the centre of town. The path was almost impossible to travel in Winter. It was either too icy to be able to walk on or completely covered in snow.

The buttery glow of the sun was yet to settle on the grey stones, I'd opted to leave before Aphina awoke, for fear that she would convince me not to go. I don't know why that seemed to be such a bad idea. But I'd awoken with the same feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. The uncomfortable, twisting sensation seemingly much stronger and stroking the fears that crept into my throat.

Something was wrong.

I'd known that when I'd found Father's chair empty and especially when Mother and Aphina's silence seemed to radiate from them like invisible plumes of smoke, coating the walls of the cottage and suffocating me.

I pushed the thought to the back of my mind as my boots crunched against the grey, cobbled path that led deep into the woods.

The Forest near Bluebell Cottage was breathtakingly beautiful.

The cobbled stones were replaced by large, wooden steps after I'd passed the small, running stream that Mother collected water from. The steps were sunk into the ground from years of being walked over and a dusting of grass unevenly coated each step. Tall, redwood trees lined the path, shooting high into the rosy-hued sky as the sun broke from behind the horizon. Several different types of trees filled the forest floor, some much smaller than the redwoods that lined the path. I recognised the trunk of an oak tree and the wide branches of a sycamore tree in the distance, both shining brightly in the rays of the ascending sun.

I continued on the path, my eyes wandering to the truly enchanting sights of the forest. A patch of roses had grown ahead, the petals a cherry red with vibrant green stems, they looked supple and fine under the sunlight that had filtered through the canopy. The roses were incongruous to the lush green of the forest, but their stark contrast to the soft tones of the forest and the gentle sounds of running water did not detract from their sheer beauty.

I veered to the left, keeping a steady pace as the steps began a steady incline and the wooden planks became thinner under my heavy boots. Concentrating harder, I climbed the steps to the weak and rickety bridge that passed over a deep swamp of mud. The bridge had narrowed significantly and the plants nearby had begun to enclose on the path as they overgrew. I trailed fingers over the fragile, scarlet flowers that had formed an elegant wall on the two sides of the bridge.