my family left it out; I would have had nightmares for weeks, dreaming of girls – maybe even myself – being led to the Sleeping Prince by his cursed son, to have their hearts torn out. It was horrifying, after all that time, to discover the tragic story had an even darker ending.
Even after I knew, though, I found it hard to believe that the smiling, shining prince from the book would ever eat a heart. I’d look at how he holds the rat catcher’s daughter as though she were made of glass; surely he’d cradle a heart and cherish it. His warm, amber eyes would watch over it. I couldn’t reconcile them, the pictures to the words, and I still can’t, not properly. Even though I know it’s true, and not a story at all.
I wonder now if we’d paid more attention to the story we might have been able to stop it. The Bringer was spotted in our woods with a dark-haired girl, and no one thought anything of it. We’d put it down to a pair of lovers running from Lormere – it wouldn’t have been the first time – and we’d paid it no mind. Until it was too late. It was an old superstition. Every century the son of the Sleeping Prince would rise from his grave and roam the land for a heart to feed his father; nonsense, surely, an old wives’ tale. We’d all but forgotten the Sleeping Prince and his son were, or ever had been, real.
When dawn comes I go through the motions of making my mother’s breakfast, her tea, and cleaning her. I sweep out the stained rushes from her room and change some of the blankets on the bed. She lies back when I’m done, staring up at the ceiling, and I leave her, locking the door.
As I make to leave I hear voices getting closer, and I panic, reaching for my knife. Then I remember that the evacuation is today, and peeping out of the window confirms it. Old Samm walks past, dragging a small cart filled with bulging hessian sacks, grumbling at a green-clad soldier at his side. If this were a different kind of place I might push the slats aside and wave, but I don’t. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, don’t want the soldiers here, telling us we need to go too. I have to hope that Unwin accepts my story about my mother being ill and doesn’t try to force us out. It doesn’t matter so much if they come for us once the full moon has passed; I can sedate her and blame the illness, say she’s still weakened. If I can get us through the next few days, I’ll have three weeks to try to find somewhere else deserted enough to hide us, south maybe, to the mountains near the Penaluna River.
I need to go to the well and collect enough water to last us, so I don’t have to keep going out. The less anyone sees of me, the better, and the more likely they are to assume we’ve left too. And I need to go into the woods. I remember what Unwin said about people being killed on sight and shiver.
It doesn’t matter, because I don’t have much choice. I need herbs, and also whatever berries, nuts and tubers I can find. I need to make sure we have enough food to last for at least the next few days, and potions and remedies to sell on the road. Mostly I need enough poppy tea to make sure that the beast is kept at bay. I’ll just have to stay well away from the border, and out of sight of anyone else.
The woods feel unwelcoming as I ghost my way through them, keeping low and to the shadows. I know where to go for the poppy pods, and for nightshade, and I head there first, moving slowly, my ears alert for any sound. At the sight of a squirrel dashing into the branches of a pine I startle, then, without thinking, throw my knife at it. I’m too slow; I miss the squirrel and it disappears, but the crash of the knife handle against the bark is loud in the deserted woodland and I stop dead, listening intently, terrified I’ll hear shouts and footsteps running towards me because of my haste. I wait long moments before I feel safe enough to go and collect the knife, grateful