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Pierre withdrew a bundle of leaves. He peered into the drawer, as if there was less remaining than he’d expected.

“Well, you never know,” he continued. “Lauren was always stumbling home, drunk.” When I didn’t rise to meet Pierre’s gossip, he frowned and adjusted his spectacles.

“If you ask me, she was practically asking to be snatched by the Hound.”

Stigma followed the families of those that fell to the Hound, a filthiness that clung like mud.

Whispers trailed the remaining members, ‘Why was your loved one out when they knew they shouldn’t be?

Why didn’t they take precautions? How foolish!

’ The threat of alienation often led to dishonesty…

and very rich coroners, who had no qualm accepting bribes to lie on a family’s behalf.

Father was the first to die, so we'd escaped the talk, but with Lysander.

.. It didn't matter that he had no choice, that we needed the money from his foraging; when it came down to it, the Hound was a predator, and that was his Hollow.

Lysander should have known better—that’s what people would say.

Pierre placed the Queensfoil on the counter.

“Oh dear, what am I going to do now that Lysander has gone and fallen to the Hound.” He sighed.

“Wherever will I get my herbs?” My nails dug into my palms, and I couldn’t help but wish Lottie were with me.

Unfortunately, she’d been banned after Pierre said an unsavoury word about our father, and she’d gone over the counter.

Pierre’s eyes darted to my clenched fists.

Perhaps also thinking of Lottie, he rubbed his jaw, precisely where Lottie’s first blow had landed.

Flashing a wide grin, Pierre backtracked.

“I’m sorry, my dear! How insensitive of me.

” He tucked the Queensfoil into my basket, along with a second pile of dried leaves.

“Have your brother chew this. It’ll help the nausea. ”

I grumbled, “Thank you,” and left.

***

The cottage den was full when I returned.

My mother occupied a chair next to a dozing Lysander, while Lottie sat with her arms behind her head, her feet on the table.

A silver-haired man, dressed in the same black outfit as my mother, stood before the fire.

Several new pins and distinctions trailed the neck of his cloak; what heroic deeds had the captain done this time?

Captain Marek offered a sullen, “Afternoon, Lili.” The fire illuminated half of the captain’s face, highlighting his too-straight nose, and casting his sharp, grey beard in darkness.

I returned the greeting and took my basket to the kitchen.

Not long after my father passed, Marek began calling on us.

His visits continued even after he was appointed captain of the guard, a position which didn’t leave much spare time.

And while Marek visited under the guise of keeping the town secure of the encroaching Hollow, he always found an excuse to linger.

‘Just one cup of tea,’ he’d say. Or ‘It’s bitterly cold in the Hollow; would you mind if I warm my fingers by the fire?

’ I’d always felt that was the captain’s way of keeping an eye on us.

To make sure that, despite having lost our father, we were okay.

I prepared the Queensfoil and returned to the den, where I took my mother’s place beside Lysander.

I unwound and removed Lysander’s soiled bandages.

“You’re a tremendous girl, Liliwen,” Marek started.

“Such a good sister and a wonderful daughter.” Marek’s voice grew louder at the end, as he watched my mother disappear down the hall.

Speaking with such volume, I wondered if the far-off neighbours might hear him, Marek continued, “Your mother should be very proud to have raised such a truly exemplary daughter!”

Whether it was Marek’s delivery, or some fault within me, the compliments felt empty.

Marek waited until my mother returned, then spoke up. “Too many of our brothers and sisters have died. Too many farmers put out because of slaughtered livestock. Finally, the queen has heard our plea.” Marek withdrew a scroll and unrolled it so Lottie could see.

With furrowed brows, she asked, “What’s it say?”

“The queen has offered a reward for the Hound’s heart.”

Lottie snatched the scroll. “How much?”

Marek snatched the scroll back and rerolled it. “You’d be comfortable for the rest of your life.”

Lottie’s boots thudded on the floor.

“Where are you going?” Mother hissed.

Lottie gave her an arrogant look, as if where she was going was terribly obvious. “To kill the mongrel!”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Mother pointed at the chair and growled, “Sit.”

“You’re not a guard,” Marek said to Lottie.

“You’re a trainee. We will devise a plan—a hunt—to capture the beast.” Lottie crossed her arms and turned away from the captain.

Out of his sight, she rolled her eyes. “I should return to my duties,” Marek said, but remained at the mantle.

When no one suggested otherwise, he headed for the door.

He paused, where my mother stood, and squeezed her shoulder.

“My thoughts are with your son.” Mother smiled but pulled away.

Marek nodded at me and said, “Liliwen,” and to Lottie, “trainee,” before leaving.

I rewrapped Lysander’s wounds, and my mother resumed her spot by the fire.

“Did you see the gift Marek brought mum?” Lottie tossed me a book, which I caught and flipped over so I might read the title.

Songs of Love . I winced. While mother was once fond of reading, it had been many years since she’d talked of love.

“How do you bewitch these men so?” Lottie demanded of our mother, with a laugh.

Not conventionally handsome, our mother possessed a severe profile, with black hair pinned on top of her head—a remnant of her teaching days.

She waved and said, “I don’t know. I certainly don’t encourage it.

” She spoke with a commanding, authoritative presence, acquired through years of instructing.

Even now, sitting before the fire, worried for her only son, her posture was one of dignity and power.

It was that steadfast assurance that left suitors tripping over themselves to draw her favour.

“Father is gone,” Lottie pressed. “You should find happiness elsewhere.”

Mother crinkled her nose. “I’m not interested in men, least of all Marek.”

“He’s not bad,” Lottie reasoned. She flexed her arms in mock imitation. “He’s strong, and decently handsome. You know, for an old man.”

Glaring at Lottie, Mother’s dark brows arched. Perhaps, because of Lottie’s impertinence…but more likely because Marek was two years our mother’s junior.

“If he’s decently handsome,” Mother replied, “why don’t you have a go?

” Lottie scoffed and made a face that indicated she might consider it.

Mother shook her head. “Marek is cold. To be with him would be lonelier than the memory of your father.” An ironic comment from my mother, whose stare might freeze the bravest observer.

“Well, if his luck persists as well as the captains before him, he’ll be retiring soon enough.

” Lottie dragged a finger across her throat and stuck her tongue out, feigning death.

While grim, it was an unfortunate truth.

For a period, the death of those leading the queen’s guard was so high, the town began referring to those who were promoted as having the captain’s curse .

Lysander roused, only to be sick. I gave him the leaves Pierre recommended. Once Lysander was resting, I went out back and sat on a bench nestled amongst the wisteria. I watched the Hollow and my hands tingled—the same way they did when I’d woven an impossible garment.

A vestigial remnant of our ancestral magic.

Lysander’s low groan carried through the window, followed by Mother’s reassuring whispers.

Perhaps Lottie’s plan to kill the Hound wasn’t so unfounded. I scoffed, but then considered it more seriously. I’d trapped rabbits, and the occasional bird if we were starving. Surely, the process was the same for the Hound. Lay a trap and deliver the killing blow. Not difficult at all, really.

The sun began its descent below the trees, casting shadows across the garden. They crept up my boots and reached for my hands, nestled in my lap.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t dreamed of killing the Hound.

Since father died, I’d spent many nights fantasizing about taking the beast down, of dragging a blade across its throat until curtains of blood poured forth.

An ugly, squirming pleasure rooted in me when I thought of digging the beast’s heart from its breast and presenting it to the queen.

In lieu of the reward, I could ask the royal physician to help Lysander.

Dr. Phaedra didn’t have the skill or equipment to heal my brother, but the queen’s healer, that was a different story entirely.

If I defeated the Hound, my father would be avenged, and my brother saved.

While the plan unfolded in my mind, I continued watching the Hollow.

And the Hollow watched me back.