Her Wolf King

{la forêt}

Just as she wielded the branch like a sword, from between two great oaks came a pale figure. She blinked, and as it came thundering over, she realized what it was.

It was a white mare, a horse with bridle and saddle. It looked slightly scrawny, but otherwise well-groomed and maintained. It was far larger than the few horses she had ridden before, but something in its large, pale gray eyes, looked friendly and almost... intelligent. Knowing. As though it recognized her and wanted to be her friend.

She stretched out a cautious hand, and it whinnied, bending its head low for her to pet it. The horse's mane was silky, a silvery-white colour that stood out against the golden fur that rippled against its body and flanks. Neighing, the horse nudged her hand with his nose, as though asking for food.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything for you." Still, the horse kept nudging her hand, as though a carrot or sugar cube would magically appear in her palm;.

In spite of everything that had happened, the weight of all that she'd been through... she laughed. This horse felt like a gift, sent by some higher power, as though someone had been watching over her. As though they'd known what she needed, and provided just that.

"You must have an owner," she murmured, trailing her hand over the horse's mane. "And a name, no doubt. Are you lost?"

Even as she said the words, she knew they were absurd. This was a horse, not a lost puppy. And weren't they smart enough to find their way back to their owners? Clearly, with the saddle, bridle, and other accoutrements that spoke of having a stablehand take care of it.

So what was it doing in the woods all alone? On the ride here, to this palace that was now her home, she hadn't seen any other signs of civilization. But then again, she'd been too tired to keep her eyes open, let alone notice a plume of smoke from a chimney or hear the clopping of another set of hooves.

No, if someone did live here, they would be grateful to have their horse safely returned. Perhaps she could make a friend.

Coiling the horse's reins between her fingers, she set off to look for the horse's owner.

***

The horse, it seemed, had a mind of its own. Tossing its glossy mane in defiance when Lenore tried to lead it to go down a different path, they wound up walking a barely-trodden trail, leaving her knee-deep in tall, tawny grasses. The susurrations of the grasses felt eerie, and as she looked up, the trees had abandoned their autumn foliage and orange-red leaves for springtime flowers. The air itself seemed warmer, wrapping her in a warm cloak of floral-scented, sweet-smelling breezes. Pink and white blossoms dotted the green leaves of the surrounding bushes and a carpet of blush-coloured petals blanketed the forest floor.

"How many seasons are in this forest?" she muttered to herself as she stroked the horse's mane. It led her down a slight hill and to...

A hut. A dilapidated, decrepit, rickety hut.

The roof was thatched in some places and open to the clear blue sky in others; both windows were shattered and the one remaining shutter was hanging off of its hinges. If there had been a door at some point, it was now smashed. When she neared it, she shuddered at the sight of it. The inside of the door was raked with claw marks, as were the walls within.

Who had lived here? She had an inkling suspicion, yet she was afraid to name it.

If she formed the thought, it would have to be real. And she would have to face the fact that she had married a dangerous man, one whom she knew absolutely nothing about. Other than his hatred of his former wife, and her determination to haunt him and ruin his life.

Despite all her prudence, she stepped into the hut, tying the horse to a post just outside it. Inside, the hut was dark, but when she pushed past the damaged door, a light illuminated itself, as though her clothing were suffused with some magical glow. What she saw wasn't pretty. Overturned furniture. The remnants of a black, pot-bellied stove in the middle, the chimney above it. Through the broken window, she saw a laundry line, a few sun-bleached rags still hanging on it. Finally, she stumbled--quite literally--into something. A box sat on the floor, a cedar chest covered in thick layers of dust.

It opened with a creak.

Lenore held her breath, staring at the chest. It was filled with stacks of letters. Parchment that yellowed at the edges, other pieces crumbling into dust. They must have been centuries old, yet still in near-perfect condition. She took a deep breath, smelling that now-familiar scent on the air: magic. It was a scent she recognized from her dreams... that too-sweet, bitter-tinged aroma, the smell of too much pleasure turned to darkness, of too much power turned to ruin.

That scent had always disturbed her, yet it had beckoned to her all the same. A lure, a promise... a trap? She went to close the chest bending over it when she heard a howl. The noise startled her, and she clutched onto the lid of the chest for support, gripping the solid wood beneath the gritty layers of dust.

Was it Everett? Had he come to find her?

She let her fingers trail down to the letters, tracing over the surface of the paper. She took an envelope, folded it, and tucked it into the bodice of her gown before slamming the chest down and clasping the latch shut.

It was time to face her husband.