Algora

“Fetch me a dress?” I repeat, more to myself.

This coat is warm for now, but I’m not naive to think it will be sufficient come nightfall. Examining his eyes, I see that they’re only filled with sincerity, even if his tone is curt.

“And what would I do while you go, wait here?” I ask.

“I suppose.” He drags out the word as he shrugs slightly. I can tell he’s struggling to keep his composure.

“Did you not just speak of danger?” I ask. “Would it be safe?”

“It should be, at least around here,” he replies. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“Safer than following a strange man back to his house alone?”

“Strange—” His tongue clicks, cutting off his own sentence before he starts again. “What’s more strange to you, a farmer walking on his lands or an unknown naked woman in the fields?”

With that sentence, I become absolutely certain that this is not an elaborate ruse.

Maybe this is some sort of mirror world? Or perhaps fae magic?

He rubs a finger between his eyes, as if trying to massage away his perplexity.

“Just accept that you need my help.” He might have thought his voice would be carried away by the wind, but I hear him clearly anyway.

And I hate to admit it, but he’s right. I don’t have many options. At least if I follow him, I’ll have the chance to regroup and figure out what exactly happened to me.

“Fine. I’m not enough of a fool to think I can survive here alone in these conditions. Take me to your cottage. Is it that one over there?” I point towards the thatched house I saw earlier.

“Yes. It’s best if we go down this path, since you have no shoes.” He turns and leads the way.

Bjorn starts at a slow pace for me to follow him down the hill. Walking behind him, my muscles ache with each step as if I haven’t moved in ages.

Partially to distract myself from the soreness, I pry for answers.

Somehow Bjorn survived that battle when he shouldn’t have. My attack was fatal.

Unless, this isn’t the man I know.

“And what should I call you?” I ask. A small part of me hopes for a different name, wanting to believe that this is a look-a-like and not the man I killed.

“Bjorn Fielder. Just call me Bjorn.”

The confirmation makes me lose my footing. I let out a gasp as my ankle turns slightly; not enough to sprain it, but in an odd direction that I can’t right myself before I make contact with the ground.

Bjorn turns quickly and grabs my arms, managing to save me. His grip is firm and sure. For the first time, as his eyes glance over me, I feel small.

Only inches away, his body heat radiates through my chilled skin. I take in his natural scent, earthy and warm.

This close to him, I notice his face is different from my last memory. Fewer wrinkles are around his eyes, and his hair is several inches shorter.

Could he be younger?

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I am.” I feel the flush flooding my cheeks as I stare into his eyes for a beat too long.

“How old are you?” I blurt out, stepping away from him. He lets go of me, making sure I’m back on my feet before turning around to walk.

“Twenty-nine. Why do you ask?” I can tell he’s becoming frustrated with my questions.“I was thinking we might be of similar ages,” I say blandly.

I have my answer, though. If he’s twenty-nine, that means I have gone back five years. But why?

The rest of the walk is silent.

The cottage is larger than it looks from the outside, though still small in comparison to any building I’ve ever lived in. Impressive for a mere farmer. The thatched roof shows that multiple repairs have been done over the years. It is a well-loved home.

And the smell of fresh bread coming from inside makes me ravenous. Even though I ate those snow apples earlier, I’m extremely hungry.

Bjorn goes inside first, leaving the door open for me to follow.

“Brother! Where are my apples?” A young girl runs up and hugs Bjorn as soon as he walks in. Despite her petite figure, I assume she’s around fifteen. Her eyes are dark blue, and her long wavy hair has the same tint of blonde as her brother’s.

I walk further into the house and see a large living space. An older man is sitting in the back, turning over the pages of a thick book. He is too absorbed in its contents to even notice that there’s a stranger in his house. As he turns the page, I notice the rough edges of paper made by hand.

I’m surprised a commoner is able to afford something as refined as a hardbound novel. Glancing at the fabric cover, I can make out the title in a slanting script. It’s an almanac.

Through one of the open doors opposite the table, I see a kitchen with an array of food laid out. My stomach immediately growls, but Bjorn’s little sister is still intent on finding out what happened to her apples.

“Ah, something happened, and I couldn’t get them. . .”

I’m observing the interaction between the siblings as Bjorn trails off, jerking his head in my direction. The girl’s eyes snap to me curiously.

“Who is this?” she says, pointing at me. The man sets down his book to look at me.

“Oh, that’s, well. . .” Bjorn sputters.“What’s all the noise? Oh, and who’s this?” A plump older woman walks in through the kitchen door. Her brown hair is up in a bun and there is something in her eyes that makes me feel like all my worries mean nothing.

“I found her in the field. I’m hoping to get her into some real clothes. She can’t remember anything.”

“Oh dear,” the woman says. “Well, they may be a little small, but I’m sure Linnet’s clothes will do for now. Such a pretty thing, we can’t leave you freezing. Sit down here and warm up a bit before anything else.”

While the young girl runs to get me a dress, her mother ushers me to a seat and places a plate of freshly baked bread in front of me along with some hot fragrant tea. I didn’t expect anything like culinary excellence from these people, but the scent of warm butter alone has me swallowing my drool.

The dress is warm enough, but the food is what impresses me. The bread is fluffy, warm and satisfying. Taking a sip of the tea, I taste the freshness of the milk. The leaves are of higher quality than the color of the liquid would indicate. Tangs of bergamot coat my mouth.

When was the last time I had such a delicious meal?

Long ago, I think, after my first public show of power. I’d decided I needed to prove a point to the people of Caerwyn and demonstrate the strength of House Mournhollow.

It was a bright summer’s day. The people had been openly defiant and throwing curses at the Mournhollow name. Taking matters into my own hands, I went to the town square with loyal guards in tow.

On my orders, the guards entered each business, taking all the inventory and coin they could carry. Once we finished ransacking each store, we set it ablaze.

If the merchants and shopkeepers did not comply, they were killed. The first to refuse was dragged out by my men and died at my hands. His body bled out beside me as I watched the upheaval from the center of the Town Square.

I did it because the townsfolk were circulating rumors about our family being tyrants. I lived up to their expectations, that was all.

I saved the bakery for last. The spoils of my raid were gathered together for me to admire. Swinging Evencrest had stirred up a hunger. Only their finest goods were brought out for my consumption.

Their best wasn’t anywhere near the standards that suited my noble rank. Pitiful dry scones, tasting like lemon and thyme, and a small cup of black tea. No milk or sugar.

They claimed our taxes made it difficult to afford expensive goods. Useless excuses, and even more of an affront to blame my Papa for their shortcomings.

Once served, another problem arose. There was no adequate seating for a noblewoman such as myself. As the wooden furniture was being used to fuel the growing fires, I did the next logical thing.

The baker was commanded to kneel on all fours, his back covered in a blanket, and I sat upon my makeshift throne.

A guard held the saucer for my cup while I enjoyed the tea. From my perch on the baker’s back, I watched the fires howl as I thought of how I could tell Papa of my glory today.

But my grand gesture was met with a question as to why I didn’t kill more.

All that destruction, all so I could make him proud; to prove I was worthy of our name, and would strengthen it at any cost.

What was that death for?

I stare at Linnet, unsure if in my past she was one of those I’d slain. I have taken the lives of many children like her.

The bread and tea, delicious moments ago, turns sour in my mouth.

I have a second chance. I don’t have to be a ruthless killer again. I can just enjoy these simple pleasures, like bread and tea, and not worry about this kingdom’s power struggles anymore.

That’s naive of me to think, and I know it.

Papa never loved me. He killed me for a reason.

As long as I’m alive, he’ll stop at nothing. If he finds me, he will kill me again without an ounce of remorse.