Marguerite stared into the flames of the hearth. She was glad to finally be warm, and thrilled to be free of blood, but the flickering fire reminded her too much of the creature’s gleaming eyes and teeth.
“I’ve keep telling you, Fleurine, it wasn’t a wolf. It was the wolf.”
“That’s impossible,” said her cousin. “Cheyne killed that one himself, years ago.”
“He says he did. But I know that was this is the beast that killed grandma. It’s been out there ever since. Waiting for me.”
Fleurine began to stroke her hair. Normally Marguerite wouldn’t have submitted herself to such fussing, but right then she needed the comfort.
“Sweetheart, I can see how tonight would have upset you. It would have been traumatic for anyone, even without what you’ve already been through. I know you had a special relationship with grandmother, and you were only a little girl when it happened.”
“I was thirteen,” protested the younger girl, defensibly.
Fleurine wasn’t going to let the interruption keep her from making a point.
“And yet you came home with stories about talking wolves. Obviously you were confused.”
Marguerite wanted to argue more, but she really couldn’t recall the details of her rescue. She could remember everything vividly, right up until the moment she was attacked. The next thing she could picture clearly was Cheyne carrying her back home.
“Besides,” her Fleurine continued. “If you are so sure you’re being stalked, why would you be trysting in the woods?”
“Why does everyone assume that Cheyne and I are a couple?” Marguerite countered, breaking away from her cousin in exasperation.
“Well, he saved your life! It seems like destiny.”
It looked like it was going to be impossible to convince anyone that something was wrong with that story. It was surprising, really. Marguerite’s version of events meant people couldn’t consider themselves safe even if they stayed in their homes.
Instead of pressuring Fleurine, Marguerite changed tactics. She pointed out what she considered the major flaw in her cousin's reasoning.
“He better not have fallen for me back then. I don’t mind that he’s three years older than me, but there’s a big difference between sixteen and thirteen.”
Fleurine sniffed, obviously unimpressed with this logic. “They say he’s going to be fine, by the way. If you care at all.”
“If he hadn’t been pawing at me, he wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place,”
“So now the wolf was protecting your virtue?”
“Of course not!” exclaimed Marguerite.
She didn’t add that she could have done that herself, if it came to it. Knives worked against more than one kind of animal. She hadn’t wanted to resort to that, though.
“That boy has rescued you at least twice now. It wouldn’t hurt for you to show a little gratitude.”
“I’m sick of being grateful,” said Marguerite, abruptly pulling on her shawl and getting up to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“Home!”
Indeed, she rushed through the cold and into the little house she used to share with her mother. Her home was barren and chilled now, since no one had been staying there. She really was thankful to her last living relative for taking her in, but she was also heartily tired of being pressured into loving Cheyne.
Exhausted and frustrated she fell into her old bed without bothering to make the room presentable. She fought to be able to sleep instead of cry.
She was running through the forest. She knew she was being pursued, she could hear the great beast crashing through the trees behind her. Her cloak kept getting caught and torn, but she couldn’t stop. It didn’t matter anyway. Grandma would fix it for her. Grandma would make everything better.
She pounded on the door of the little cottage, sure that the wolf was right behind her.
“Grandma, it’s me! Open the door!”
‘Come on in, my dear,” said a voice within. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She woke with a start. Shivering, she watched the rosy light seep across the floor. The nightmares had to stop. More than anything, she didn’t want to be afraid anymore.
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