She had sat with her Hounds at the high table. Masha— quick-tempered, first to throw words or knives. Neve— first to the ale, last to bed. Brendan— big-fisted, big-hearted, favorite among puppies and children. Lyon— faster on foot than a horse, but slow to laugh. And Quince. Small, sharp Quince, her shadow, her right hand, the last of her Hounds to fall to the witch’s spell. Which of them had the hunters taken? Which of her kin had they cut down, with their crude crossbows and steel traps?

She threw the berries from her. They scattered on the snow like drops of blood.

The deer were upwind.

She slid off the back of the bear and hefted her spear. Without the bear’s height, the berries faded from sight, and with them, the memories.

Snow, ice, thorn.

Within the briars, the Hounds lived on.

The witch smiled in the Huntress’s memory. She broke into a run, her long stride swallowing the drifts, until the smell of the deer drove away all else.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

I pulled another carrot, the dirt crowding underneath my fingernails. Carrots, in the middle of winter. The pile in the basket beside me grew. One onion. A handful of potatoes. A leek. Greens. Too many things that should not be, even with the glass ceiling filtering the pale sunlight as it lit the winter garden. My mother had taken me to the great glass greenhouse in the city, but this was nothing like that towering edifice.

Seven carrots total. One for each day I’d been here. I leaned back on my heels, staring around at the rows of plants. The pungent smell of crushed herbs clung to my fingers.

I was no closer to an escape than I had been that first day. If anything, I was farther, and the only thing I had managed to accomplish was to find my way from my room to the garden, the kitchen, and the baths. When I strayed beyond this narrow path, a wolf inevitably appeared around the next bend. They never snarled at me or came too close, but I was not stupid. I had been allotted my territory, and they guarded theirs. I felt like a sheep, and right now I even smelled like one, the steam from the spring in the corner of the garden leaving a fine mist over my wool tunic. As with the rest of the castle, the hot spring kept the garden from freezing, and I had come across warm pipes while digging. It would have impressed me more if I had not been a prisoner.