While the men made their way up to her, Marguerite obliterated the few tell-tale tracks the wolf left behind, and hid the evidence of her encounter under her cloak. She ended up telling everyone that she hadn’t seen anything, that the cave had been empty. This had been an impulsive decision, but she had plenty of time to think about it as she was marched home in disgrace.
Before now, she could tell herself that the wolf’s death would solve her problems. Even if the wolf was most likely lying, there was something odd about what she had been told about that day, and now she knew she had to get answers first. She could not condemn him to death if there was even a slight chance that he was innocent. Beyond this, he had spared her life when he had no reason to do so. It didn’t seem fair to send the hunters after him when he hadn’t even harmed her.
Her cousin was absolutely furious. Fleurine hadn’t even known she was even going, and was not pleased with even the lesser danger Marguerite had admitted to. She quickly found herself confined to her cousin’s home. Normally she would protest being sent to her room like a child, but this time she agreed that she’d gone too far. Besides, she had a lot of thinking to do.
By the time she was allowed out again, Cheyne was well on the mend. When she finally went to visit him, he was sitting up in bed surrounded by girls. She didn’t know why he claimed to be so devoted to her, or why he was so insistent that they should be together. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty of other options. Yet when he saw her, he smiled widely and shooed his other visitors away.
“Marguerite!” he exclaimed, motioning for her to come sit by his side. “I didn’t think you would come.”
“Of course I came. I would have been here sooner, but I got into a bit of trouble.”
She tried to seem cheerful, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her expression didn’t reach her eyes. She even let him place his good hand on her knee.
“Cheyne, do you remember this?” she asked, pulling out what she came to show him.
He frowned. “This rag? Wait, isn’t this your old cloak?”
“Yes. I used to wear it all the time.”
“No kidding. We used to call you Little Red Cloak.”
“It must have seemed strange that I wasn’t wearing it the day you saved me,” she said, looking closely at his face.
“Um, yes, it was kind of odd. Why weren’t you?”
Marguerite looked at her hands so he wouldn’t see her false smile turn into a smirk. She fingered the tears on the hood where there used to be ribbons to fasten it around her neck. She was right, Cheyne hadn’t been telling the truth all this time. She knew for a fact that she had been wearing the cloak when she was attacked. It was one of the few things she was certain of. If Cheyne had truly arrived in time to rescue her he would have seen it.
“It doesn’t matter. Goodbye, Cheyne.”
“Leaving so soon? You're coming back, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
She never did visit him again. The very thought made her feel ill. Cheyne made a swift recovery anyway, and seemed to make it his mission to find and destroy the creature that had injured him. He spent hours every day searching the woods and setting traps.
Marguerite listened to rumours of his exploits with a sense of anxiety. She felt her chance at learning the truth slipping away. Her confusion kept circling around the same question. How did the wolf get her cloak in the first place?
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