Prologue

You may have heard this story before. And, like all stories, it tends to shift slightly in the retelling, until the original story is lost beneath layers of fiction. The essentials are the same: a beauty, and a beast. I’ve never considered myself a great beauty, but there definitely was a beast. Some stories make him out to be a great white bear of the north. In some he’s half lion, half man. At least one claims he was a hedgehog. And who knows? Like most stories of this kind, they are relived countless times in countless places around the world. I don’t know which of them are true. And I can’t tell you his story—most of it he can’t remember, and is glad of it. I can only tell you my story, and how it became tangled up in his. And it starts out something like this.

I

"Wormy, wormy!" The circle of village children chanted, pointing and jeering.

I crouched on the ground, tears streaking the dust on my face. My book, the source of the hated nickname, I clutched to my chest, arms wrapped around it to protect it from the mud and stones that I knew would be flying my way shortly. The last book I’d had, they’d torn to shreds.

Wormy little bookworm, one of them shouted, a big lad already at seven years, but not possessed of a great deal of originality in his thinking. Brains weren’t necessary to torment me, however; my small size and predilection for the written word made me a prime target for all the nastiness of the children my age.

Another boy whispered in the first boy’s ear. This was Ben, almost nine but not much bigger than Marek, the seven-year-old. I watched him warily. He generally deferred to Marek in areas of bullying, but his higher intelligence made him a source of diabolical ideas. I was about to find out what his most recent stroke of genius was.

Don’t let her go, Marek said to the circle of children, then dashed off with Ben. With the ringleaders gone, the taunting subsided to occasional handfuls of gravel and laughter when I rubbed my face and smeared the mud my tears had made. I glanced around, hoping for an opening to slip through, but to my frightened eyes the children had grown until they completely encircled and towered over me, blocking the sunlight.

Let us through! A voice called, and my stomach curled in on itself in fear. Marek was back.

The children looked to him and started laughing almost as one. Wormy, wormy! the shouting started again, and the circle opened to admit Marek and Ben, both with fistfuls of earthworms, freshly pulled from someone’s garden patch.

They advanced on me. I shrieked and scrambled backwards, dropping my book into the dirt as I retreated. I hesitated, then grabbed for it at the same time Marek opened his fist over my head.

While they were softer than the rocks thrown earlier, the sensation of the cool stickiness on my face and hands and hair was more than I could bear. I was screaming and crying, trying to get them off, and the children were laughing hysterically.

Down her shirt! Ben shouted gleefully, advancing on me with his own handful of worms. I waited, sobbing.

Suddenly, Ben inexplicably stopped then went flying backwards through the air. The jeering children immediately fell silent. Through the gap in the circle, like an avenging angel sent from heaven, stepped a tall, lean figure. He towered over the children, almost as tall as an adult though only thirteen. I rubbed my eyes, trying to see my savior; unfortunately, between the dirt on my hands and face I only succeeded in making my eyes water. But then he spoke.

I think, he said, quietly but in a voice that had already started to deepen, you kids all have chores to do. Edward, I thought, recognizing his voice. I blinked furiously, and managed to clear my vision. The children had scattered almost instantly, all except for Marek who was collared by Edward before he could escape.

You, Edward said, nearly lifting him from the ground and giving him a firm shake. If I ever catch you bothering my sister again, I’ll throw you in the Bleddynwood and leave you to the Beast.

The color drained out of Marek’s face and he gave a brief, jerky nod.

Go, Edward said, pushing him none too gently in the direction of his home.

Meanwhile, I’d found a clean corner of my shirt and was using it to scrub my face, banishing the sensation of tears and earthworms alike.

Here, Ammy, Edward said, offering me a handkerchief. This worked slightly better than my shirt. Reaching past my ear, he tugged at my hair briefly, then dropped the earthworm he’d removed in the dust. I shuddered.

Are there any more? I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

Edward made a show of turning my head this way and that, then tousled my hair. Nope, all clean.

I managed a tiny smile.

With one smooth motion, he pulled me to my feet then swung me onto his back. I fastened my legs and arms around him as he stooped and picked up my book. Using his much-abused handkerchief, he dusted it off as he started walking towards home.

What were you reading? he asked, turning it to read the spine. ‘Tales of Magic and Romance’?

I blushed and buried my face in Edward’s back. They’re fairy tales. The trader that came through last week gave it to me in exchange for a basket of blueberries.

The trader had laughed when I appeared at his wagon, its sides rolled up to expose his wares and the small assortment of books. I’d asked, seriously enough, how much he wanted for one of them.

Well, now, I don’t know that I have anything you’d be interested in, he’d said, smiling at me through the bushiest beard I’d ever seen in my seven years. Then again, he continued, scratching his chin (I assumed there was a chin somewhere under there), maybe I do. He pulled down the tailgate and rummaged around for a moment. Here we are. It’s a book of fairy tales, complete with illustrations. He opened to a page at random, and my eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the red dragon that appeared ready to leap off the page. The scales were edged in gold, and its fiery breath looked hot enough to scorch the page. Decorative scrollwork surrounded the image, nearly hiding the valiant knight at the bottom of the page who stood with sword raised. He was picked out in silver, and his blade shimmered on the paper.

I wanted that book.

The thing is, the trader said, snapping the book shut and nearly catching my nose in the process, this is an expensive book. I couldn’t possibly let it go for less than, say, a basket of those delicious looking berries I passed on the way in.

I had grinned, knowing even then that he was practically giving me the book, and took his proffered basket and set off for the berry bushes.

Hmm, Edward said, recalling me to the present. This is a beautiful book. He found my dragon picture and gazed at it for a moment too long, walking us off the path and nearly into a split-rail fence. I freed a leg and pushed off a post, sending us back onto the path. Edward didn’t seem to notice but stopped and lifted the book so I could see it easily. It’s our forest!

And so it was. The final story in the book (I hadn’t gotten that far, yet) was about the Bleddyn Beast who supposedly haunted our own Bleddynwood, a dense forest to the west of our village. It was complete with illustrations. The fabled Bleddyn Beast was said to be half man, half animal—though which animal, the stories never agreed. This book showed him as half lion, a strange creature with a shaggy mane and claws but wearing trousers and boots on his generally human-shaped lower half. The artist had taken great pains to show his brutality, littering the ground with body parts and bones and splashing the trees with bright red blood that seemed to drip down the page. I shivered. Fairy tale or not, those of us who lived in the shadow of Bleddynwood knew that something lived in the woods. No one from my village dared to venture in, at least in recent history; some of the old gaffers liked to tell about a girl they’d known who stumbled into the woods after being jilted. They’d found what was left of her the next morning—bloody scraps of cloth scattered near the forest’s edge.

Well, said Edward, closing the book and slipping it back into my hands, time enough for that later. Mother was looking for you, which is why I happened upon you when I did. We’d best get home. He hitched me further up his back, and we set off again.

Fast-forward a few years. The eleven-year-old me is a little older, a little wiser, and a bit more adept at avoiding the village children. Observe me, up a tree: skinny, undersized, hair in two braids and wearing cast-off trousers from my next-older brothers, the twins Oliver and Sean.

Wormy, what are you doing up a tree? You should be playing in the mud. A poorly aimed projectile splatted against the trunk somewhere below me.

What do you want, Marek? I said, trying—and failing—to stifle the surge of fear his appearance never failed to produce.

Come down and play with us, he said, grinning. The people in our village seemed to find that grin endearing, set off as it was by a dimple and a light scattering of freckles. I was pretty sure the devil’d had a dimple and freckles as a child, as well. Besides, I had ‘played’ with those children before, and had no wish to repeat the experience.

I’m busy, I said, which wasn’t a total lie. I had borrowed my current book from a trader who was spending the day in town and wanted it returned before he left tomorrow morning. He’d refused my offers to buy, being a much savvier salesman than my bearded friend of old. (I’d offered blueberries in jest; in truth it was still too early for them. He merely laughed and said it was for loan but not for sale.)

A well-aimed rock struck my hand, then, and in pain and surprise, I dropped the book. Bran had apparently joined Marek beneath my tree; his aim was much truer. I verified this peripherally as I swung my leg over and dropped out of the tree, crouching over the book before either of them could grab it.

What do you want? I asked again, tucking the book against my stomach and wrapping my arms around it protectively.

Come play with us. It was Bran that spoke, and I felt myself relaxing just the tiniest bit. Bran was thirteen, and starting to change, and I was not completely immune to his smile—though I hadn’t completely forgotten the earthworm incident.

I sighed. They weren’t going to leave me alone, and sometimes all they wanted was a new idea for a game. Since I’d read more books than most of the village put together, I usually had the best ideas. Fine. Let’s go play.

The two boys fell into step beside me, and I suddenly wondered if, to an outside observer, it looked like I was being courted rather than escorted to an unknown doom. Being eleven, I didn’t think too deeply about it, besides which the notion of my two most persistent persecutors courting me was almost too absurd to entertain for even a moment.

The boys led me to the pond, a marshy patch of land against a backdrop of trees that occasionally had standing water but was usually an expanse of soft mud. The village cows would wander into it once in a while, and have to be pulled out by the combined efforts of four or five men. The other children, the four closest in age to us and therefore Marek’s usual cadre, were already waiting. At the expressions on their faces, my heart sank a little further in my chest. This would not end well.

We found her, Marek announced, and I wondered why he bothered stating the obvious until one of the other children spoke.

Bring forward the accused.

It was said solemnly and formally, and I suspected they already had an idea for the day’s game. I searched their faces, looking for an ally, but found none. I knew these children, could have told their names and ages and who their parents were, but I also knew from long experience that they followed Marek’s lead. None would dare gainsay him, even if they wanted to, and none of these wanted to. I cast a look at Marek, who grinned his devil’s grin, then looked to Bran with something like despair.

I met his eyes, and surprised a hint of something in his expression. It wasn’t much, just the slightest hint of discomfort, but I clutched at it like a drowning man clings to his lifeline. I stared at him, willing him to stop this before it ended in tears—most likely mine.

He looked away.

I looked back at the line of children. One of them had found a long branch, and pounded it against the ground like a judge’s staff.

State the accusation, he pronounced.

My lord, Marek said, sweeping a bow, we have found a woman accused of witchcraft.

Who brings the accusation?

One of the other children stepped forward. She wasn’t as deep into her role and giggled behind her hand. In a solemn tone that was at odds with her giggling, she said, I do. I saw her performing hexes at midnight. She went into the Bleddynwood and brought out a squirrel and killed it. She used the blood to curse my family.

A couple of the others giggled as well as she finished this speech. The judge tapped his staff again. Who speaks for the accused?

I wanted to open my mouth, to say that it was all nonsense, especially the part about finding a squirrel in the Bleddynwood, but fear sealed my lips. Truth be told, it would have made little difference.

After a lengthy moment of silence, the judge spoke again. What is the sentence?

I glanced at the pond, and decided to be grateful that it was one of the rare times it contained actual water. At least I would not be mired to my death, since none of these children was likely to try to save me.

Marek spoke up. My lord, the law says that witches shall be drowned, in order to also drown the effects of their wicked acts.

Very well, the judge said, and he, too, was grinning. Then he lost his decorum completely and shouted, Into the pond with her! He advanced on me, and I tried to squirm out of Marek’s grasp. It was like a vise, and I couldn’t use my other arm effectively because I still held the book.

The book! A ducking would ruin it, and then what would I tell the trader? I squirmed all the harder, bucking and kicking with my puny strength, to no avail. I cast a last look at Bran, willing him to stop this, to help me. He looked at the ground and then grabbed my feet, effectively ending my struggles. Lacking anything else to do, I started screaming at them, describing them and their heritage colorfully and at length. We lurched a step towards the pond, and then another. Marek slipped my book from my arm, and held it over his head, grinning down at me. With a count of three, my captors flung me into the center of the pond.

I descended with a surge of muddy water, sending several frogs leaping for cover and startling a snake. I rose to the surface with a splutter of water that smelled like cow manure and tasted worse. The water was shallow enough that I could sit on the bottom and have my head above the surface, which was fortunate because I’d never learned how to swim. Brushing the water and tears from my face, I looked to the shore in time to see the laughter of my tormentors stilled by four avenging angels.

Edward appeared behind Marek and boxed his ears, which sent him to the ground howling in pain. As he went down, the book flew from his hands towards Bran who managed to snag it out of the air. He clutched it to his chest like a shield as my brother Carl, nearly as tall as Edward and only a year behind him in age, advanced on him. Grabbing the book, Carl slammed it into Bran, sending him flying to join me in the pond. Oliver and Sean, as alike as two peas in a pod, cornered the other children. Grabbing a collar in each hand, they sent them to join the rest of us.

Marek was still howling, his hands over his ears, when Edward dragged him to his feet. I warned you, you repellent little toad, to leave my sister alone. He grabbed Marek’s hair and tilted his head back to look in his eyes. Do you hear me?

Marek was staring wide-eyed in the face of my brother’s fury, and nodded quickly.

Say it! Edward roared.

I hear you, Marek whispered.

Good, said Edward, and then chucked him into the pond, too.

I had managed to stand up by this point, and used my hands to sweep some of the muddy water from my clothes.

Ammy, Carl called, the pond is a little full for swimming right now. Why don’t you come out and head home with us?

Looking around at the others’ faces, white and fearful under their layer of slime, I suddenly found myself giggling. I stumbled out of the pond, falling once and sending a wave of muddy water onto Oliver and Sean who waited with outstretched hands. They only grinned the wider, then pulled me out and draped their arms over my shoulders (they were quickly catching up with my older brothers in height—only I remained undersized, the runt).

As a group, we headed for home. Carl started to hand me my book, then thought better of it and settled for patting me on the head. He stuck out his tongue at the resultant mud, and wiped it on Oliver’s sleeve, who protested and threw playful punch in Carl’s direction. This precipitated a mock battle that lasted until we reached home, weak with laughter.

Later that evening, free of mud and in clean clothes (more cast-offs, though this time ridiculously too big for me), I sat in front of the fire and asked my mother why they did it.

Why do who do what, dear? she said, looking up from the sock she was darning.

Why do they torment me? All my life, they’ve been picking on me. What did I ever do to them?

Mother sighed. It’s hard to know, dearest. People have always bullied people who are smaller or weaker than them. Sometimes it’s because they want to feel powerful; sometimes it’s because they’re jealous. Sometimes, especially with young boys, it’s because they like the girl and don’t know any other way to express it.

I considered that for a moment, and dismissed the latter as totally unlikely. People are stupid.

Da, who had stepped in and caught the last part of this conversation, laughed. Frequently, Ammy. Very frequently.

Edward had followed Da in. Da’s right. But I don’t think Marek will be stupid enough to bother you again.

I hope you’re right, I sighed, turning back to my book. But he’s about the stupidest person I know.

The laughter of my family warmed my heart, and I finished the book with a smile on my face.

II

Skip a few more years, and arrive at Edward’s wedding feast. Four years have wrought their changes. My long-awaited growth spurt arrived, and stayed for a while. I was nearly as tall as my brother Carl, the shortest, but not by much, of an extremely tall family. I towered over the girls in my village, and was as tall as and taller than most of the boys. They had mostly left me alone after that incident at the pond; my brothers were intimidating enough and my father respected enough to keep their shenanigans to a minimum. In public, I could expect whispers and snickers from behind hands. If I was unwise enough to be caught alone, I could expect to be tripped or ‘accidentally’ bumped or knocked down. Before, my small size had made me a target. Now, my large size made me the butt of their jokes. I did my best to ignore them, and instead tried to be grateful that I’d grown into my oversized features. My hands and feet were no longer too big, and my eyes no longer dominated my face. I don’t think I was beautiful, but I was certainly a lot less awkward. At fifteen, I was happy enough with that.

Ammy, bring that tray of lemonade. For goodness’ sake, what are you doing daydreaming at a time like this? My mother’s frazzled voice pulled me from my reverie, and I looked down at the tray in my arms. Right, lemonade.

Taking a deep breath, I followed my mother out of the house and into the bustle of the courtyard, turned, for this occasion, from a dusty front yard into a flower-studded lawn reminiscent of a fancy house in the city. The flowers had been sent by a distant relative, some distant cousin of my Da’s, with a note of congratulations. This was the first I’d heard of Cousin Emma, but as events transpired, it wasn’t to be the last.

The entire village, more or less, had turned out for the celebration and I’m pretty sure every one of them mobbed me—or, more accurately, my tray of lemonade—before I’d taken two steps out the door. I turned around and went back for another round, and thus passed most of the afternoon. Supper was served early, a potluck with contributions from most of the women in the village, who shooed me away when I tried to help. Bereft of purpose, I drifted through the crowd and found myself next to the dancing floor.

This was actually the foundation for Edward’s new home, bare of anything but floorboards and a few scuffed chalk marks where walls would eventually be. Right now it was full of gaily-dressed villagers, dancing and stomping to the tune provided by a trio of fiddlers and a pan flautist with perhaps more energy than skill. None of the dancers seemed to mind, however, and I decided I was being too harsh. Feeling even sorrier for myself, I drifted to one side where I could watch the dancers but not be in the way.

As I watched Edward happily twirling his blushing bride, I felt depression settle on me even more strongly. What was wrong with me? This was a happy day. Edward was happy, his new bride was happy, everyone was happy. Happy, happy, happy. I felt my brow pull down in a scowl and looked at my feet in the hopes that no one else would see. My new boots peeked out from beneath my new skirt, two more reasons I should have been happy. I couldn’t help feeling, however, that I’d be a lot happier in my old cast-off trousers and bare feet.

I stared at my shiny new boots and tried to analyze my feelings. Yes, wishing for my trousers made sense. It was okay to be uncomfortable in my skirt and new boots because I wasn’t used to them. But what about Edward? I didn’t dislike his wife; truthfully, the two or three times I’d spoken to her she’d gone out of her way to be friendly and open. It wasn’t even that Edward was moving into a place of his own. I mean, really, he was going to be living about a hundred yards from our house. Things wouldn’t be that different, would they? I didn’t know. I just knew that things were changing too quickly and that I wasn’t ready for them. I felt tears burning my eyes and forced them back with a sniff. I refused to cry.

A cleared throat brought my head up quickly, and I looked into a familiar yet unfamiliar face. It took me a moment, in which he gave a weak smile and it clicked.

Bran, I said, connecting this rather grown up person with the much younger boy who’d left the village three years ago. He’d gone out for training of some sort, carpentering or smithing or something else that was difficult to come by in a town of our size.

Hey, Ammy, he said, and seemed to run out of words. I looked him over, comparing him to the boy I remembered. He’d grown; he was tall enough to look me in the eye, which made for a refreshing change. He was also well dressed and, I was forced to admit, rather handsome. But apparently there wasn’t much else to him. I stood, gazing at him, waiting for him to say something else, and wondering what my younger self had ever seen in him to admire (which, I was honest enough to admit, I had).

He took a deep breath and blurted, Would you care to dance?

I cocked my head, considering, and said, Not particularly. I waited, enjoying the look of consternation on his face.

I could almost see his brain grasping at ideas. Would you like to take a walk with me? he finally managed.

I was going to shoot him down again, but realized that I actually did want to escape the party for a while, and decided it would make little difference whether I left in Bran’s company or wandered off alone. Alright, I shrugged, and set off. He balked for a moment, then followed.

Not wanting to be too kind, I set a brisk pace as I headed up the path. I could hear him panting a little as he tried to keep up. Apparently, whatever he’d been doing, it didn’t involve a lot of walking. I smirked to myself, and sped up a fraction, not slowing until I reached the pond. My feet had brought me here of their own accord, but I decided it was fitting.

It had been a rainy spring, and the pond was fuller than usual, so it strained at its banks but actually looked like a normal body of water. I stooped and picked up a few stones as Bran came huffing up to join me. He paused, looking over the pond, then looked at me briefly before dropping his eyes.

I ignored him, instead sending a stone skipping across the surface of the pond. It hit twice before disappearing. I sent another, and managed three. Holding another stone, I twisted my wrist back and forth a few times, warming it up, then shot another stone across the pond. This one managed to make it all the way across, landing in the reeds on the far side. I grinned.

That’s amazing! Bran said, and I shot him a look to see if he was serious. He seemed to be.

Not really. It just takes practice, and a lot of alone time. You and Marek made sure I had plenty of that.

Bran had the grace to flush. Ammy—

Amaranth, I corrected him. Only my friends call me Ammy.

His flush deepened. And we can’t be friends?

Surprised, I turned to look at him. He forced himself to meet my eyes, though I could see the effort cost him. My flippant answer died on my lips, and after another moment of silence, I said, I don’t know. Can we? I was doing some soul searching, asking myself that very question, and realized I knew the answer.

I’d like to be, Bran said, but despair was in his eyes. I felt a sudden surge of pity for him.

Bran, I said, placing my hand on his arm, four years ago I needed a friend, and you were standing in this very spot, this close to me. Do you remember your answer?

His shoulders slumped. I’m sorry. So sorry.

I sighed. So am I.

He left, but I stayed by the pond until my arm was numb and I was out of stones, which it was now too dark to see regardless. Edward found me there.

Is my party that terrible? he asked, sitting down next to me on the bank.

No, I said, leaning against him. I was the problem, not you.

He put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. That’s…not exactly good news.

I chuckled, then sighed. This growing-up business is hard.

Really? I wouldn’t know. I never bothered.

A snort of laughter escaped me, and I gave him a shove. That’s no surprise to any of us.

He placed a hand over his heart and shook his head. You wound me! Come, you have to make it up to me by dancing with me. He