Snow ✓

Cuts

In the days that followed, Mat gave up his questioning when the girl continued to serve him only silence. Then, Gran gave it a go, from threatening to pleading with her to say something, anything.

On the fifth day, Gran broke a vase, vowing to send her out into the cold. The girl tore into the bedroom and hid under the bed, not coming out until Mat had given the old woman a tongue lashing on the finer points of compassion and threatening to leave if she refused to adopt them. What was almost certainly a bluff worked. From then on, Gran gave the girl space, throwing only stern glares and complaints her way. But the girl couldn't shake her fear and continued to crouch low to the ground and hide behind furniture every time the old woman came into a room.

"She acts like a wild animal! She could at least brush that untamed head of hers--dragging it about and dirtying it on the floor, like she does. It's all knots."

To avoid the unpleasant tension at meals, Mat had been bringing food to the girl's room. Until he didn't.

"Come to the table or you don't get to eat," the old woman called from the kitchenette.

Stomach grumbling, by the time the girl did as she was told, there was nothing left but a hunk of crusty bread.

As Mat cleared the table, Gran towered over her, hands on her hips.

"It's time for a few ground rules. You wanna eat, you eat with us at the table. You wanna stay here, you help out with the chores: sweeping, cleaning clothes, drying dishes. You wanna act like a wild animal, fine, but you don't get to look like one."

The girl was already backing toward the bedroom, ready to bolt, as Mat approached, brush in hand.

"Come," he said, waving her to him. "I'll help."

The girl startled herself by backing into a dining chair.

"Please." Mat brought his hands together in a show of invocation as the girl crouched behind the chair and peered over the seat at them.

"Aren't you tired of that tumbleweed—that bird's nest?" Gran shouted, gesturing wildly. "Who knows what's trapped in there!"

Mat slumped onto the floor with a sigh and rested his head in his hand.

Gran bristled and rushed the girl.

"Don't," Mat said.

The girl darted away, snatched up the brush from Mat's lap, then took a wide step back. He and Gran froze, as if expecting her to lob it at one of them. Instead, she stalked off to the bedroom and up to the cottage's only mirror that hung on the wall, dingy and broken at the edges.

What an ugly little girl, you are, her mother used to coo at her with a candy-coated smile right before taking a razor to her head. Mother couldn't be bothered to be precise; cuts oozed like fat leeches.

Better to see your enemies, Eliwood would say once they were alone, always eliciting a smile.

Since it'd been only them, she'd grown it long. Eliwood brushed it; she always seemed to miss the tangles in the back. The old foes were back as she tried to drag the bristles through her locks, grimacing in pain and frustration. It stuck, quick. She pulled and yanked until the handle broke off in her hand, and a lick of rage swirled in her gut. She punched the wall, sending the mirror to the floor, causing it to shatter over her toes. Mat rushed in to find her fists balled up, hoisted her up by the armpits, carried her to the dining room and plopped her in a chair.