RED | A dark retelling of Red Riding Hood | WATTYS 2021 SHORTLIST

Chapter Thirteen: The Veil

AN: 

I'm not sure how you guys will feel about this chapter, but I hope that you like it! Happy Labor Day to all of my American friends! I am nearly finished writing this book! You have just crossed the half way part!

I'm getting nervous for the Watty's! Either way, I am happy I had the chance to tell this story!  

Marjorie wrapped her fingers around Sicily's whittling knife until the tightness of her grasp forced the antler grip to dig uncomfortably in her palm. She didn't care. Her Grandmother's words settled in the air as if the storm had pushed into the confines of the bedroom, filling up every inch the four walls offered with angry energy.

"What do you mean?" Marjorie asked, a tightness in her voice.

There was little her Grandmother cared to tell her about her birth—and the details of the day were clouded in even more mystery. Sicily had never willingly spoke of it, especially not in the company of a stranger.

No, that wasn't the right word.

Fenris was not a stranger. If anything, he was an old friend to her Grandmother.

"Put that blade down," Sicily said, a laugh at the end of her words. Something was off about the way she spoke, as if she cared little for Marjorie's reaction.

"No, not until you—" she thrusted in the direction of Fenris, who rose his hands up in total surrender, "—tell me what in Mother's Hell she means."

"Marjorie, please put down the blade," Fenris said.

At his words, she jabbed the knife forward, aiming at Fenris's arm. He slid easily out of its path and allowed her to find nothing but empty air. She fell forward in a muddled rush of fabric and hair, only to be caught by the wrist.

His hand settled underneath her thumb, placing enough pressure against her skin to make her body turn abruptly stiff.

"I fear you have already made up your mind," he confessed. Fenris wrapped his free hand over the thin blade and delicately pulled it out of her grasp. It crashed against the blanket with no noise. "No matter what I tell you, you won't understand. Is this what you want? To spill my blood above your Grandmother's body?"

Marjorie shifted her gaze to Sicily, where she lay swaddled in heavy fabrics, tired eyes half-lidded and a small, weak smile playing on chapped lips. She didn't return the intensity of Marjorie's stare, instead she peered sightlessly at the wall, fixated on nothing.

"We both know it," Fenris whispered. "Even you can tell, Marjorie. She is fading." He slid his hand from Marjorie's wrist to catch her fingers. He laced his own through hers, forcing an unexpected warmth to travel through her palms all the way up to her chest.

"No—" Marjorie shouted, unable to face the truth.

"The Wolf is not lying, dearie," Sicily assented. "Look at me, truly look at me."

Marjorie forced herself to study her Grandmother, this time, taking in what she looked like with no false pretense of glowing health to cast a rose-colored hue over Sicily. Like this, studying the old woman, it was undeniable. Within the few hours she left Sicily, she seemed to shrink in half. New wrinkles appeared on her face, causing her skin to hang off of her high cheekbones like a body on its first steps to decay. Ugly dark bruises climbed up her collarbone like strangling hands, the path of purple continued to the bottom of her chin. Red, angry skin rose around Sicily's eyes, a testament to how tired she must be, forcing herself to stay awake when all her body wanted to do was shut down.