My eyes opened . The wolf remained low to the ground , his eyes glassy . Sad almost . He rose , skeletal , and slowly turned , his sparsely furred tail flicking low across the winter-trounced leaves . In a departure accented with staggers and limps , the animal left me , too weak to make the attack . He would be dead come sunrise .
Euphoric relief filled me with breath I almost choked on , so stark it left me nauseous . After the swishing tail had become one with the bracken once more , I stood . My tongue was heavy as a millstone , almost too dry to peel from the roof of my mouth .
I only had to walk for several more minutes before the distinct pattern of stone squeezed itself through the gaps in the trees . Rimy leaves gave way to frosted grass . The cottage was a charming sight , with a thatched roof and a crumbling chimney which threw thick tufts of cotton into the frigid air . My chest soared at the prospect of warmth . The door swung soundlessly open before I had the chance to knock . Leather faced , the old weaver peered around the door , her clawed hand gripping its edge with nails long overdue a trim . From somewhere within the wrinkled face , a wolfish smile cracked open , revealing two rows of browning teeth . Had I not smelled cooking food from within , I would have recoiled . Instead , I spoke . ‘ Hello .’ My voice was scratchy from the journey , the longest I had dared make in some time . Extending the arm that housed her basket , I brushed my gold hair behind my shoulder . Her eyes followed the movement , locking onto the red fabric around my neck . I only hoped she did not interpret the baring of my throat as an invitation to lunge for it . Instead , she lifted a wrinkled hand , her nail snagging on the material when she ran a single finger across it . Her smile broadened and she stepped aside to let me pass .
Delicious warmth rushed at me , taking ahold of my shoulders and kneading movement back into my cold-knotted muscles . I beheld the quiet opulence of the room : a fire crackling in the hearth , a threadbare beige rug stretched out before it . A cracked , russet leather armchair , a patchwork quilt of yellow and brown tones folded over its arm . A low wooden table piled high with books . My heart squeezed at the sight of the books . A memory from a past life fought to be remembered , of Mother and I reading beside a merry fire . I forced my gaze away .
A large spinning wheel lay in the centre of the room , threaded with shining brown strings . And pushed against the far wall , a loom . Spools of thread of varying textures were arranged on the wooden shelves beside it , accompanied by squares of fabric . The scene was completed by a set of bone needles of all thicknesses and lengths , stained and worn . Taking a tentative step
Ella Millar 71