in—or in her case, what sort of story she had fallen into. You found forests in stories of enchantment and fantasy. Forests were homes to elves and fairies. Were humans even allowed in an enchanted forest? Good question. Isabelle would have to look it up later, but it seemed to her that forests were so magical that only the most special of humans—say, a changeling sort of a human—would be allowed in.
Woods, on the other hand, were earthier, populated by trolls and witches and woodsmen. Woodscrept up to the edges of villages and offered enticements to their children. Spotted toadstools. Babbling brooks. Could there be buried treasure in the woods? No, Isabelle didn’t think that sounded right. A wizard? Probably not. A wicked queen in exile? Yes, Isabelle decided. That was a distinct possibility.
As for changelings, well, they could show up anywhere, woods or forest, city or suburb. Changelings, to the best of Isabelle’s knowledge, were versatile and at home in a variety of settings.)
She leaned over and punched Hen again. “You should stop calling me ’miss.’ It’s too fancy for”—Isabelle had to push the word from her mouth, and it came out more like a question—“friends?”
“Yes,” Hen replied, yawning. “I suppose it is. Are we friends then, miss? I mean, Isabelle?”
“Of course we are, Hen,” Isabelle insisted, feeling more sure of herself now. “We’ve been on a journey together. That naturally makes us friends.”
“Friends or no, you two lazy birds need to get out of bed! I’m not running an inn here, now, am I?” Grete stood over them, her hands on her hips. “’Tisa business, and if you’re going to stay here, you’d best do your part to keep it running.”
So Hen scrambled out of bed and Isabelle almost scrambled out of bed, but remembered her ankle at the last second and sat back down to examine it. The swelling was gone but for a small bump. When Isabelle stood and put her weight on it, she felt the barest pinch of pain. So, not 100 percent healed; more like 96 percent. Isabelle shrugged. Close enough. She quickly dressed in the clothes Grete had laid out for her, a soft cotton shirt and a loose skirt.
“Come eat!” Grete called to the girls from the kitchen. “Then I’ll put you to work.”
Bowls of oatmeal sat steaming on the table alongside plates of thick toast spread with jam and butter. The girls ate quickly, then washed and dried their dishes, Isabelle dipping them into a soapy bucket of water, Hen drying with a flannel cloth.
“To the woods, then, for your first lesson.” Grete stood in the doorway with a basket in her hand. “You’re not scared of critters or creepy andcrawly things, are ya? The woods here are wild woods.”
Hen laughed, as though the very idea of her being afraid of insects or animals was too preposterous to take seriously. “Only things that scare me are inside a house—clothes that need mending, babes that need bathing.” She turned to Isabelle. “Anything outside a house scare you?”
Isabelle shook her head no, but it was not the most convincing shake of the head ever shook in this world. Spiders, she could handle. Squirrels, not a problem. Snakes?
The little hairs on her arms stood at attention. Please, she thought, don’t let there be snakes in these woods.
“For the kind of work I do, you’ve got to use your eyes and your nose, and sometimes you’ve got to use your teeth and tongue as well,” Grete said, crouching beside a patch of unruly-looking weeds twenty yards past the cottage gate. Well, they looked like weeds to Isabelle. But the way Grete was so careful to pluck one of the plants by its roots and hold italmost lovingly up for Isabelle and Hen to examine made her think perhaps one girl’s weeds were another woman’s roses.
“Rattle root,” Grete told them. “Listen.”
She shook the plant’s stalk, and the seed pods growing from its branches made a light, rattling noise. “For rheumatism and
Woods, on the other hand, were earthier, populated by trolls and witches and woodsmen. Woodscrept up to the edges of villages and offered enticements to their children. Spotted toadstools. Babbling brooks. Could there be buried treasure in the woods? No, Isabelle didn’t think that sounded right. A wizard? Probably not. A wicked queen in exile? Yes, Isabelle decided. That was a distinct possibility.
As for changelings, well, they could show up anywhere, woods or forest, city or suburb. Changelings, to the best of Isabelle’s knowledge, were versatile and at home in a variety of settings.)
She leaned over and punched Hen again. “You should stop calling me ’miss.’ It’s too fancy for”—Isabelle had to push the word from her mouth, and it came out more like a question—“friends?”
“Yes,” Hen replied, yawning. “I suppose it is. Are we friends then, miss? I mean, Isabelle?”
“Of course we are, Hen,” Isabelle insisted, feeling more sure of herself now. “We’ve been on a journey together. That naturally makes us friends.”
“Friends or no, you two lazy birds need to get out of bed! I’m not running an inn here, now, am I?” Grete stood over them, her hands on her hips. “’Tisa business, and if you’re going to stay here, you’d best do your part to keep it running.”
So Hen scrambled out of bed and Isabelle almost scrambled out of bed, but remembered her ankle at the last second and sat back down to examine it. The swelling was gone but for a small bump. When Isabelle stood and put her weight on it, she felt the barest pinch of pain. So, not 100 percent healed; more like 96 percent. Isabelle shrugged. Close enough. She quickly dressed in the clothes Grete had laid out for her, a soft cotton shirt and a loose skirt.
“Come eat!” Grete called to the girls from the kitchen. “Then I’ll put you to work.”
Bowls of oatmeal sat steaming on the table alongside plates of thick toast spread with jam and butter. The girls ate quickly, then washed and dried their dishes, Isabelle dipping them into a soapy bucket of water, Hen drying with a flannel cloth.
“To the woods, then, for your first lesson.” Grete stood in the doorway with a basket in her hand. “You’re not scared of critters or creepy andcrawly things, are ya? The woods here are wild woods.”
Hen laughed, as though the very idea of her being afraid of insects or animals was too preposterous to take seriously. “Only things that scare me are inside a house—clothes that need mending, babes that need bathing.” She turned to Isabelle. “Anything outside a house scare you?”
Isabelle shook her head no, but it was not the most convincing shake of the head ever shook in this world. Spiders, she could handle. Squirrels, not a problem. Snakes?
The little hairs on her arms stood at attention. Please, she thought, don’t let there be snakes in these woods.
“For the kind of work I do, you’ve got to use your eyes and your nose, and sometimes you’ve got to use your teeth and tongue as well,” Grete said, crouching beside a patch of unruly-looking weeds twenty yards past the cottage gate. Well, they looked like weeds to Isabelle. But the way Grete was so careful to pluck one of the plants by its roots and hold italmost lovingly up for Isabelle and Hen to examine made her think perhaps one girl’s weeds were another woman’s roses.
“Rattle root,” Grete told them. “Listen.”
She shook the plant’s stalk, and the seed pods growing from its branches made a light, rattling noise. “For rheumatism and
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