Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [51]
Perched on a small table in front of the bookshelves in the back of the room was an ornate gold birdcage with its door open. And inside that cage was a small bird, like none Hazel had ever seen, as gleaming white as the feathers of the swanskin. The bird was about the size of a small robin, and from inside the gold cage it seemed to glow.
Hazel took a step toward the bird, mesmerized.
Then, the sound of voices from outside. She froze. Everything inside of her seized up, as if the claw hands were squeezing down on her right now. Hazel swallowed down the urge to vomit.
Making herself as small as she could, she crept over to the window to the left of the door. The shutters were closed, so she crouched underneath and listened, clutching her backpack in her hands.
Yes, it was the witch. Hazel could hear the rasping voice as if the woman was whispering to her heart. She couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it hardly mattered.
And then the boy’s voice. “No, I haven’t.”
Evil rasping.
“Mmm. I’ve been out here all day chopping wood. I’d have seen anyone come by.”
More evil.
“I will. I will. Of course.”
And then quiet, followed by the sound of wood chopping. Hazel pressed herself against the wall, barely able to breathe. She would not move, lest any disturbance in the air bring the woman back.
Hazel did not know how long she crouched there, while the bird skittered about the cage and outside the boy chopped wood. She just stayed, a puff of wool frozen in time.
And then the door opened and the boy burst in. “It’s all right now,” he said, hands out. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”
The boy tilted his head, trying to reassure her with wide, gentle eyes. Hazel blinked up at him. He looked high school age, fifteen or so. He had a thicket of dark hair and wore a worn flannel shirt, rough brown canvas pants, and heavy black boots. His tan face was boyish, and there was no sign of stubble on his chin. He was too young to live in a house with just one bed.
Hazel could not speak, could not do anything but shake her head slowly.
“You need help,” he said, his whole body cautious. “You’re bleeding.”
Hazel put her hand to her face and winced. Her hand came back red and sticky. Her stomach churned.
“It’ll be okay,” he said, reading her face. “It’ll keep bleeding unless I put something on it, though. Is that all right?”
She nodded. He went over to the kitchen area and began poking around on the shelves. He got down a small brown bottle and a towel, which he brought over to her. “I’m going to clean this, okay?”
Hazel nodded again. The boy put some light yellow fluid on the towel and touched it gently to her cheek. Hazel had a flash of a memory—Jack’s mom standing in front of her on some long-ago summer day, gently putting peroxide on a badly skinned knee, wincing along with Hazel.
“My name is Ben,” he said, dabbing at her cheek. “By the way.” He eyed her, but she had nothing to say. He lowered his voice. “Did you, um, do something with her swanskin?”
She nodded slowly.
He blew air out of his cheeks. “That was brave.”
It wasn’t, really.
“That’ll stop bleeding now,” he said, taking the rag away and stepping back. “It’s going to leave a pretty good scar,” he added. “I’m sorry. And, um . . . your clothes . . .”
She looked down. There was blood down the front of her sweater and smeared on one of the sleeves. She must have wiped her hand on her jeans at some point, because there were bloodstains there. The left leg of her jeans was ripped from the knee to her calf, and her knee was skinned underneath.
“I have more,” Hazel said quietly, nodding to her backpack.
“Good,” he said. “You don’t want to walk around here with blood on you.”
Hazel’s stomach tightened. It didn’t sound like it was just a laundry issue. “The wolves?” she asked.
He gave a grim