The rough ropes of the buckets had rubbed her palms raw â as if the morning hadn't punished her enough. Ninka's hands throbbed with each step. It had been one of the most frustrating mornings in recent memory, but at least she had made it back in one piece. With some luck, her mother's usual bitterness would be in a more bearable mood, and their arguments wouldn't drag on for too long.
As she neared the cabin, a muffled conversation reached her ears. She stopped, hesitating, and set the buckets down to listen more closely.
"The next card is... The Old World. Completion, fulfillment... something coming to a satisfying end, marking the start of a new life."
The voice was unmistakably Valeria's.
"Very good, very good. That's all someone my age could wish for."
A second voice answered, followed by a brief chuckle, thick with the weight of years. Ninka recognized that laugh.
"Valeria, dear, there's something I need to tell you."
The second voice lost its warmth, now tinged with a rare gravity.
"The dreams... they've returned. We've already lost people to the forest. Many have come to me in confidence. Everyone is afraid."
"They should be."
Valeria's response was sharp.
"You need to do something. The Thaumaturge trusted you."
"It's not my place to act."
Her voice was steady.
"You're the only ones who can do something. The girl is the one responsible."
"Valeria, my dear, do you still hold on to all that hatred? Even after all these years?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
Valeria's voice rose slightly, irritation creeping in.
"Oh, I know more than you think. You can fool the village, but I know what drives you."
"That's enough. Take your fish and leave."
"The fish will stay. Winter is coming, and at my age, I don't need much to fill my stomach. But you, dear, could use a bit more meat on your bones."
Ninka ran into the visitor as she left the cabin.
"How have you been, old Miroslava?"
Ninka asked.
"Oh, little Ninka, as well as someone my age can be. Which isn't much, but it's still better than the alternative."
The old woman grinned, revealing the few teeth she had left.
"What happened to you, my dear?"
She squinted, studying Ninka.
"Did you fight a devil from the lake?"
"Yes, a devil, and it was by the lake â but that devil didn't crawl out of the water. It crawled out of the blacksmith's wife's belly."
The old woman let out a laugh â weak but full of rhythm, punctuated by short breaths.
"You've got your father's sharp tongue. And I suppose you're talking about young Ivan, aren't you?"
"Yes. That's the name the devil goes by around here."
She let out another chuckle â brief this time, but just as knowing.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
"If I were you, I wouldn't be so harsh on the boy. Plenty of girls in the village have their eyes on him. And why wouldn't they? He's learning his father's craft, and soon enough, he'll take old Bram's place at the castle as the Ivanoves' blacksmith. Besides, they say the Hellanians have a certain... exotic charm. Don't you think?"
"No. I would never use the word charm to describe that idiot."
Ninka's response was laced with disdain, her gaze hard.
"You know,"
Miroslava mused, her smile turning sly,
"you're the only girl he ever spends time with."
"Miroslava, I think you've talked enough nonsense for one day."
Ninka cut in, suddenly feeling the urge to end the conversation.
"You'd best get home, warm up, and rest those old bones."
"Ah, so you did take after your mother in the end."
The old woman smiled before continuing on her way, leaning on the branch she used as a walking stick.
Ninka stepped into the cabin. Of course Valeria was there, simmering like an old pot left too long on the fire. As always, she ignored her mother, avoiding her gaze. Instead, she busied herself changing out of her soaked dress. She didn't have much choice â she owned only three, and the second one hadn't been washed yet. Without a word, she began preparing soup with the water she had fetched, the fish Miroslava had left behind, and a cabbage from her garden plot.
The scent of food started to fill the cabin, but Valeria seemed unwilling to let the silence linger much longer.
"What's this talk about you and the blacksmith's son?"
It was the first thing Valeria had said after quietly watching her daughter for some time.
"You heard the conversation, didn't you?"
Ninka replied in her usual indifferent tone.
"What else do you need to know?"
"Hellanians can't be trusted. Do you like that boy?"
Ninka nearly burst out laughing but held it back, trying instead to understand people's strange inability to tell antagonism from affection.
"No."
"If I find out you're making a fool of yourself, trying to get some boy's attention..."
Her mother stepped closer, her tone turning sharp, almost threatening.
"I think you're confusing me with yourself,"
Ninka shot back.
"As far as I know, there's no Hellanian Ivanove."
She braced herself, instinctively, for the slap she knew was coming. And it came. Just as hard and just as painful as expected, sending her sprawling onto the packed dirt floor. Ninka had heard the story a dozen times â how Valeria, once a servant at the castle, had been Lord Ivanove's mistress before being humiliated, whipped, and cast out when he married properly.
A song of social disgrace, told with pride.
"How dare you slander your own mother like that?"
Her voice was low, but every word carried the weight of barely contained fury. Her narrowed eyes bore into her daughter.
"After everything I've done, after everything I've endured in this forsaken place. All I got in return was this wretched cabin and you. And now I have to suffer your disrespect â your arrogance, his arrogance."
"Everything you've done? You must mean the folk tale of Princess Valeria,"
Ninka scoffed as she pushed herself up from the floor.
"Come on, Mother. It's just us. Do you actually believe I buy the whole 'witch' act?"
"You don't know what you're talking about, you insolent brat!"
"Oh, don't I? Let's see... How does the story go again? A forest spirit was terrorizing the Ivanove lands, wasn't it? Attacking travelers, making peasants disappear into the woods, the chickens panicked and the milk turned sour straight from the cow's udder.
Then, from distant Elisia, comes the great Thaumaturge, summoned to save the day. But of course, he couldn't do it alone. No! He needed help. And who steps forward? None other than young Valeria, willing to face the darkness.
Together, they ventured into the forest, drove out the wicked spirit, but... only one of them returned. And wouldn't you know it, Valeria now claimed to have inherited the mystical powers of the wise man who had died a heroic death. Twenty years later, here you are, using those powers to tell peasants' fortunes in exchange for scraps of bread and fish.
Did I miss anything, Mother? Or is there some other detail you keep all to yourself?"
Valeria's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes burning with restrained fury. When she finally spoke, her words were sharp, deliberate.
"Sometimes, I regret teaching you to read. I only gave you more ways to be insolent. I should've left you illiterate like the other village girls. At least then, you wouldn't be as arrogant as that deserter you call a father."
"Stop lying to yourself!"
Ninka shot back, her voice trembling with anger.
"You know he would never do something like that!"
"Then where is he? Tell me! Is he at the bottom of the lake, hunting rusalkas and veelas?"
"Sarcasm? Well, that's a kind of humor, isn't it? That's something."
Ninka stepped away, pulled out a wooden stool, and sat down. With her fingers, she pressed against her cheek, feeling the swelling from the slap. After a moment, she added,
"Either he's being kept from coming back, or he's dead. And the only reason I haven't walked out of this bitter little cabin to go looking for him is because he made me promise to take care of you."
Valeria faltered. For the briefest moment, something like sorrow flickered in her gaze â but she quickly smothered it beneath a bitter smile.
"You? Taking care of me?"
She let out a sharp, mocking laugh.
"Don't be ridiculous."
Without another word, she stepped toward a shelf, took down a small clay jar, and scooped a bit of mustard flour paste onto her fingers. With surprisingly gentle movements, she began applying the poultice to Ninka's cheek, easing the swelling where her slap had landed. For the moment, at least, the resentment between them seemed to fade.
No other words were spoken that day in the pinewood cabin.