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Eager to escape the man’s rank breath, I pried his fingers off. “Lie down!”

The man obliged, shivering violently. Somewhere in his journey, he’d broken the end of the bolt off. Luckily, there was enough remaining that I could grip it. I put my hand on his chest and braced him. My fingers curled tighter around the bolt, and without warning, I yanked it out.

“Aghhh!” The man arched, bunching the sheets in his fists.

Slipping into surgeon mode, I muttered, “I know, I know!” I pressed the wound while I scrabbled in my satchel for water. Blood poured through my fingers; it didn’t phase me.

I’d seen worse.

The man’s breath came in heavy bursts, his eyes lulled and closed. When the wound was clean, I examined it. Jagged flesh, a deep incision, a bit of white, which I surmised was a rib. Yes, I’d seen worse—but this was still bad. There weren’t many who could sustain an injury like this and survive.

He’s no common man , I reminded myself.

Sewing quickly, I ignored the man’s groans and acknowledged that I probably wasn’t as gentle as I could have been. After the last stitch, I cut the thread and tucked my kit away. I sat back and traced the stitches.

My fingers tingled, and I knew he would survive.

The man’s breathing evened, and his eyes remained closed. Just as well; he should rest after such a severe injury. My gaze wandered from the man’s face, down his throat, where it settled on his left breast.

On his heart.

I could take it.

I should take it.

My hand drifted to the knife on my belt.

All I had to do was carve it out and give it to the queen; it would save my brother.

I imagined it, driving the blade into the man’s chest, dragging it through the flesh.

I swayed on my knees. I couldn’t… I couldn’t do that.

Maybe my mother or Lottie could, but I wasn’t strong enough.

I could not will my hand to execute a wounded man who lay sleeping.

You might think me weak but, if our places were exchanged, and it was you looming over a dying man, the choice, though obvious, may not be so easily executed.

I would have to find another way to save Lysander.

I withdrew a scrap of fabric from my bag and doused it with water.

Stringy hair obscured the man’s face. I pushed it aside and wiped grime and sweat from his cheeks, one of which bore a light scar.

I’ll admit, he wasn’t a bad looking brute— Liliwen!

I pulled away and threw the cloth in my bag. He is a monster.

He is the Hound.

And he killed my father.

I tossed a blanket over the man’s naked body and left.

Now that he was taken care of, I was overwhelmed by urgency.

An intuitive part of me, the part that carefully noted everything indescribably wrong with this place, screamed, Get out!

Get out immediately! I jogged from the room and took the stairs three at a time.

The gigantic doors started to close.

Fright nearly choked me. I ran toward the shrinking sunlight, tearing down the remaining stairs and across the sinister carpet. The doors clicked shut and I slammed into them.

“No!”

There weren’t any handles on this side either. I pounded the solid wood, but the only outcome was pain, and I shook my hand bitterly.

Creaaaaak.

The sound floated over my shoulder. Below one of the grand staircases, a short door swung open. A breeze floated through the foyer, carrying a voice that whispered, “Liliwen.”

An impossible voice.

My father’s voice.

Fear spiked my adrenaline. A face, obscured in shadows, was peering around the doorframe. Holding perfectly still, it watched me. Four dark fingers pulled from the stone as the entity disappeared down the hall. The haunting, distorted copy of my father’s voice whispered, “Liliwen. Come, look.”

Mimicry was a weapon used often in the Hollow, and I was not foolish enough to believe my father was here, in this castle.

Tentatively, I crossed the foyer. The question was, who—or what —was mimicking him?

I peered around the door and down the shadowed hall.

Sunshine peeked through the other side. I proceeded with caution, ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

Entering the bright courtyard, I squinted at the tall walls surrounding it.

Was this the heart of the castle? Just ahead, the cobblestone gave way to a garden.

Sunbeams shone through the parapets and bathed a central tree in buttery, welcoming light.

My steps echoed against the cobble as I approached the garden.

Large, fat fruits dangled from the branches.

The smell was intoxicating, and saliva pooled beneath my tongue.

I reached out and picked a ruby-red fruit.

It pulsed, wriggling like an egg about to hatch.

I dug my thumbs into the flesh and cracked it open.

Inside, hundreds of seeds twinkled like tiny gems. The aroma was dizzyingly sweet. I grazed a seed.

My fingers burned.

During one of our foraging trips, my father and I had happened upon a cluster of delightful red and white capped mushrooms. I’d plucked up a mushroom and put it in my basket, but my father put his hand on mine.

He withdrew the mushroom and broke the little red cap in two.

He brushed the mushroom against his lips, and then did the same to mine.

Almost immediately, my lips burned, and I cried.

It was a harsh lesson, but to my father’s credit, I’d never put a poison mushroom in my basket again.

I rubbed my burning fingers together…and tossed the fruit aside.

If I was hungry, I had food in my bag. I turned my back on the tree…

Wait.

Was that bird always there?

Beside the hall where I’d entered was a bust, the facial features long worn away. Perched upon the bust was a raven. It looked real, though it remained stiller than the statue below it. I scanned the courtyard. That was the only exit, I couldn’t leave without passing by.

Cautiously, I approached.

Was it alive? Surely, it would have flown by now; I was only a few paces away. I covered my nose. The air was suddenly ripe with the stench of rotting flesh. I scrutinized the bird, who stared into my very core. A small, writhing insect fell to the cobblestone.

Maggots.

The bird was rotting. A patchwork of bones and decayed flesh covered its body, where more maggots squirmed beneath dark feathers. I wanted to reach out and touch it, knock it from its perch so I might know if it was real or some trick of the Hollow.

Its beady eyes watched me.

I reached out— CAW! In a fluttering of feathers, the bird leapt forward.

“Agh!”

Claws raked my face, and I winced, protecting my eyes. Cackles faded, and I turned to curse the bird. “Lousy—”

The tree had moved.

Shadows enveloped me, as if the entire tree had curved and bent toward me. The bark was different too. It was black and had a sort of sheen to it. The kind blood might get. My eyes travelled all the way down the tree…to the wrought branch almost touching me.

A fruit dangled there, so close I could take it.

Another of my father’s warnings floated back to me. ‘Keep your eye on the prize is an adage for royalty. My advice to you: always look behind.’ Though there were walls separating me from the Hollow, I must remember I was still inside its borders, and I needed to be more cautious.

Keeping the tree in my sight, I backed away and slipped into the dark passage.

I cast a startled look over my shoulder. Though there was no one behind me, a second set of footfalls followed mine. I ran through the door and slammed it. Exhaling, I turned to—

“Did you eat it?!” the Hound cried.

“Guh!” I clutched my chest and fell against the door.

Stooping, the Hound gripped my shoulders with such strength, I cried out. His irises darted frantically across my face. In the meagre torchlight, his eyes adopted a strange glint—almost a shine—like an animal caught out at night.

“Well?” The Hound shook me. “Did you?!”

“Did I what?!”

“Did you eat the fruit?!”

“No!” The Hound’s fingers were iron; I struggled to pry them off.

“I didn’t eat anything!” The Hound slumped, and he fell against the stone wall.

Still naked, the Hound did nothing to hide himself, and I avoided looking down.

“Let’s go.” I took the Hound’s arm and guided him upstairs.

The weight of his body leaning on mine seemed less.

His health was already returning. Again, I laid him down and tossed a blanket over him.

I skirted the bed and peered behind the lengthy, red drapes hanging along the bedroom wall.

Magnificent windows displayed a view of the front gardens.

Thud.

My forehead pressed against the glass. There was a balcony out there.

I struggled to escape the drapery—an endeavor which was made worse by my false assumption that the fabric had come alive to strangle me—and found the balcony door.

Grasping the handle, I held my breath. I turned the knob…

and the door opened! I snuck out and stood between two proud gargoyles, who sat upon an intricate stone railing.

Down below lay the overgrown gardens and path that brought us in.

“No,” I murmured. Just beyond the murky haze of the veil, sat two dozen thin wolves. At least a dozen more than when we came through. Tall and narrow, I knew they were wolves and not trees because of the occasional blink.

The Hound was right.

This was a cage.

“It won’t let you leave.” The hoarse voice gave me such a panicked start I jumped against the railing, sending bits crumbling down.

The Hound loomed in the doorway, his hulking body distorted to peer through the frame.

“And if you manage to escape”—he jutted his chin toward the veil—“the wolves will butcher you.”

Biting back fear, I cried, “How am I supposed to get home?”

The Hound shrugged.

“You are home.”

The drapes shuffled and the Hound disappeared inside.

But not before a brief, fluttering smile curved his cheek.

Cold regret tiptoed through me, freezing my limbs. While I so often heard my father’s voice, through memories of his lessons, it was my mother’s voice that offered me advice now.

‘You should have killed him when you had the chance.’