Page 27 of The Frog Prince

“An ox needs to eat more than a rabbit.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I should be offended by that.”

“By the truth?” She smiled before growing serious again. “We’ve never kept secrets between us, Otto. Secrets keep us sick.”

Otto closed his eyes and nodded. “I know…just…not today, Gisela. Please?”

“I’ll ask again tomorrow,” she warned him.

“I would expect nothing else, Sister.” He smiled and walked over to kiss her forehead. Her skin was warm and vibrant under his lips. He pulled back and looked down at her. “Please don’t go wandering around the village. I don’t want to spend my day worrying about you.”

“I will stay here,” she promised. “The house is a mess.”

“I did my best,” he said, walking toward the door, picking up his satchel, and slinging it over his shoulder.

“I know, Brother. Sadly, when it comes to household chores your best is…questionable.”

“Insolent little brat.”

She grinned at him the way she’d done when she was a little girl. It sent a flood of memories through his mind, and his heart ached as he looked at her.

He’d almost lost her.

“I’m so happy you’re well,” he whispered.

“Me too,” she said, softening in return. For all her bite, she was still so young, and he knew she had been terrified. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you.” The words held more weight than she knew. “Promise you won’t leave the house?”

She frowned at the repeated request but nodded. “Promise.”

“And don’t let anyone inside.”

“Who would be coming to our house, Otto?” she asked, worry etched into her face. “Nobody but us has crossed that threshold in years. Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Best to be safe, that’s all.” He ignored her pointed look as he opened the front door and left the house.

He turned to look back at his home several times as he walked down the path leading deeper into the village. It got smaller and smaller in his view the farther he got, and he realized each step felt like a stab to the heart.

He didn’t want to leave Gisela alone. Not right now. Not when everything around him seemed so precarious.

Something swiped at his feet—a long, dark shape that brushed against his ankles.

He gasped and hopped to avoid tripping and falling, spinning on the balls of his feet to see what it was.

The path beneath his feet was void of anything he could stumble over. Just dirt turned to a sticky paste with moisture. Footsteps were branded into it, coming and going in all directions. Boots and shoes and bare feet had left tracks everywhere, but nothing out of the ordinary.

He drew the attention of several passersby, and he quickly stared at the ground, trying to avoid their eyes. He couldn’t look at the shadows around them, at the paleness of their skin or the way they winced from the pain in their bones as they moved. He couldn’t look at them and face the fact that they were still dying and he couldn’t help. Didn’t know how. That ultimately, he’d chosen his sister over them.

Someone called his name, pointed and eager, and he made the mistake of looking up to see Gunther’s mom looking at him, a silent plea on her lips.

Her son was sick. Their farm, already decimated by the famine, suffered further without his strength, their lives upended because there was no solution. And Otto had nothing to tell her. Nothing to offer to comfort her.

He gave her a silent shake of his head and quickened his steps, desperate to get inside again. Away from so much open spacewhere he was a target—of his own guilt, of the consequences of his selfishness, of his mind playing tricks on him.

So far, none of the things he had seen had been real. The noises and the shadows and the dreams. The long fingers reaching for him, touching him in ways that should have repulsed him. That monstrous face grinning at him in satisfaction as he writhed and pleaded for more.

None of it was real.