The door opened at my touch. I knew the house was empty, but that did nothing to lessen the sharp ache of disappointment. No cloaks hung from the rack by the door, and no boots slouched against the wall. I ran my hands along the door itself, my fingers finding the places where the door had splintered beneath the bear’s assault. Someone had repaired it, but that someone no longer lived here.

Inside, the house was tidy, unlike the Huntress’s keep, but for all that leaves and bones gathered in the corners of those halls, this house still felt emptier. The kitchen table had a fine layer of dust on it, and the vase where the rose had bloomed in frost was nowhere to be seen. The wolf sniffed at the floor, pausing by the hearth where my father’s chair watched, the battered leather oddly sentient.

I wandered into the bedroom I had shared with my sisters. The pallets had been stripped of sheets, and no clothes remained in the chest. Not even mine. I wondered at this, then decided it didn’t matter. I knew where my family was. Their clothes were no doubt with them.

The rose twisted, and I gasped in pain as a thousand thorns pierced me. It was over by the time I drew my next breath, but I held my hand up to the dim light of dusk, staring at the smooth skin.

She let you go. You knew there would be a price to pay.

I would pay it later. First, I had to find my father.

I walked through the house one more time, running my hands over the familiar surfaces and trying not to feel like I was memorizing every detail. It was the kind of house a person could love, once that person moved past memories of richly decorated town houses, dead mothers, lost friends, and freedom. The walls were sturdy and the roof was sound, and someone had carved roses around the door frame. I paused, running my finger along the trim. I didn’t remember that detail from before, but the work was old and polished with oil from generations of hands. It reminded me of my mother’s garden.