Forsaken by the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, Red must brave the magic and monsters of the Wylds to find her true place in the world.
*****
Plague...
Oops! Questa immagine non segue le nostre linee guida sui contenuti. Per continuare la pubblicazione, provare a rimuoverlo o caricare un altro.
I gripped the handles of the cast iron cauldron for dear life, bracing myself against a wave of vertigo while the iron was still cool to the touch. The watery bath of vegetables beckoned the contents of my stomach, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the misshapen chunks of carrot, pumpkin and celery that bobbed up and down like decapitated heads.
Something clenched in my chest, painfully tight. Not again, I thought, feeling dangerously faint as my heart strained to pump blood through the tight grip of an impending heart attack.
"What now?" Mysandra asked, throwing up her hands. The right one was still red from the slap she'd given me ten minutes ago; I could only imagine what my throbbing face looked like. "I gave you the easiest job in the kitchen!"
It was true; I'd been marshalled to the cooking fires, tasked with stirring the bubbling pots of soup. The maiden originally stationed there had curled her lip and thrust the wooden spoon into my chest, livid to give up her cushy station for menial, gruelling prep work.
If only I found it just as relaxing. "Sorry," I wheezed, my vision curdling as I focussed inward, on my breathing. The squeezing sensation in my chest drained away, but it left a miserable ache in my arm that rejoiced in the company of my smarting cheek. "I should be good in a second."
"Good is not the word I would use to describe you at your prime." Contempt practically dripped off the end of her daintily upturned nose. "Get back to work."
Mysandra, of course, was breathtaking in her prime; long-legged and wide-hipped, with eyes so blue they made people who'd known her for years forget what they were doing when they looked at her.
I hated her for that beauty, which she wielded as ruthlessly as her husband's authority. Gordon Harland was the Beta of the Blood Moon Pack, which made Mysandra the highest ranking female in our village. It was why she'd been afforded the position of Head Cook, despite her glaring inexperience.
Not that I was any better. I lacked beauty, experience and rank; all I had to cling to was my twisted pride over becoming acquired to the bitter taste of failure. Gritting my teeth, I squared my shoulders and stood up straight; not because she told me to, but because I wanted to make myself useful. It took a village to raise a child, and I was determined to thank the Blood Moon Pack for feeding and clothing me all these years, even if they had done it grudgingly, out of respect for their alpha.
"You call that work?" Mysandra asked, clapping her hands to drive the pace of my stirring. "Put your back into it!"
I willed all of my strength into the task, feeling my tunic stick to my back as I broke into a sweat. Just until she walks away, I promised myself, but the steam coming off the pots was already making my thoughts go dangerously thin. Condensation beaded on my forehead, rolling down the bridge of my nose and stinging my eyes. Just a few more minutes. Then I can slow down.
