“In return I’ll call off the dog, and you can go after your father,” her mother said, calm again. “Come, now. It’s not like he’s a good friend. Isn’t he spending an awful lot of time with the woodchopper’s daughter? Sweet girl. Beautiful face.” She saw Kestrel’s expression and smiled wickedly.
Kestrel shook her head fiercely. “I can give you something better,” she said. “I can clean and make food and—”
“I don’t want anything else,” said her mother. “Only to help you. Get rid of him, and you’ll be stronger and more fearsome than ever.”
Her mother released her grip, but Kestrel felt like she was being crushed by the tiny house. The weave was everywhere, tangled into her hair, pressed against her mouth and nose. Without thinking, she slipped her hand into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the holey stone.
“What do you say?” her mother asked. “Are you ready to grow up and leave your childish ways behind?”
Kestrel closed her eyes and tried to force the words out of her mouth. She almost failed. Then she heard the triumphant crowing of the wolves, their howls moving farther away. She released the stone.
“Yes,” Kestrel whispered.
“Show me,” her mother said, tapping her own cheek.
Slowly, Kestrel leaned forward and kissed her mother on the cheek. Her skin was dry and soft, as though there was no bone beneath it. She hadn’t kissed her mother in a long time. Maybe even since her grandma was taken.
“Bless you, child,” her mother whispered. “We’ll make a hunter of you yet.”
Kestrel stepped back, suppressing the urge to wipe her lips.
“Dog!” her mother called, beckoning. “Come here!”
The black dog oozed over to her. Its ears were folded back, and its tail was between its legs. It looked as though it knew exactly what was about to happen.
“This is final,” her mother said.
“I know,” said Kestrel.
Her mother’s fingers flew over the piece of black string, tying a huge knot in the middle. The dog jerked twice like it was being kicked, then it keeled over and lay on its side, breathing gently, its tail twitching in some kind of dream.
“Come back to me as soon as you’re done,” her mother said curtly, “or Finn dies anyway. Go.”
“Thank you,” Kestrel gasped, and fled.
Finn was waiting in the trees, a limp and sodden Pippit in his hand. Pippit twisted out of his grasp and ran to Kestrel, shooting up her leg and licking the side of her face with his tiny, sandpapery tongue.
“What happened?” Finn said worriedly, looking around for the dog. “Kes?”
“Not now,” she choked, stuffing Pippit into her pocket.
“Wait!” he shouted, but she was already away, plunging into the forest again, her heart cracking in a dozen places.
Nettles whipped her legs and sharp stones pierced the soles of her boots, but nothing would slow her down. She ignored the hot, ragged pain in her chest. She had to get to her dad before it was too late. She had to kill the grabber before it took him.
She ran toward the tree-covered hill that the wolves’ howls had come from. The forest grew darker and danker, the ground squelchy and moist underfoot. There was moss everywhere, and the earth smelled rich and boggy.
A wolf howled on the hill above her. Kestrel deflated. It felt like everything was leaking from her in one huge whoosh. The fear that she had been holding back since she left the village oozed out of every pore like little black worms.
She wished that Finn was here with her. She wished that she was back in the moment before the wolves howled, when her face was pressed into his sweater and everything felt just a tiny bit better.
Without warning she remembered what Finn had tried to say the other day, when she was after the woodchopper’s grabber, and suddenly she understood.
It’s just that I—
“I care about him, too, Pip,” said Kestrel, feeling awful and empty. “He knows that, right?”
Pippit didn’t say anything. Kestrel shook her head, took one last deep breath, and braced herself.
She was ready.
9
THE BLIND WOLF
Kestrel scrambled up a viciously steep hill, following the tracks left by her father and his grabber. From his deep footprints, and the ones right behind his, she could see he was being chased. The grabber had four footprints and lots of claws. Every time her dad’s footprints changed direction Kestrel’s heart leaped into her throat, wondering if they would suddenly disappear, if the grabber had caught up with him here or here. But they kept going, on and on, as though the grabber had kept just missing him.
Pippit sat on the crown of her head, muttering urgently under his breath.
“Bad smell,” he said, unhappily scratching his head with his back leg.
Kestrel could smell it, too: a sweet, cloying scent that stuck to the back of her throat. It was getting stronger the farther they went.
The hill kept rising steeply in front of them, as though the forest was trying to climb into the sky. Kestrel stumbled to a halt in front of a thick wall of trees. A great, gulping silence fell over them. The sweetness was so thick she could almost chew it.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.
“There,” said Pippit, twitching.
There was something human-shaped lurking in the shadows behind the trees, not hidden quite well enough to escape her sharp eyes. She had a dark, worried feeling in her gut, the kind that tells you it’s a great time to start running in the opposite direction.
Maybe it was her father’s grabber, lying in wait. Kestrel gritted her teeth and crept closer.
Suddenly, the thing dodged away from her, a long brown coat flapping through the trees.
“Dad!” she screamed, her heart racing. “Dad, it’s me! It’s Kestrel!”
Her dad stopped and turned. He looked at her for a second, as though he wasn’t sure what to do; then he pounded toward her in his heavy boots.
“Kestrel!” he shouted, flying toward her.
“Dad!” she said when he reached her, trying to hold back a big, childish sob. She ran into his arms and he held her tightly. “I thought your grabber had you.”
“I gave it the slip,” he said, looking around. “It won’t be gone for long. Follow me!”
“Wait,” she gasped. She wanted to cling on to him just for a few more seconds, to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, but he was already running.
Kestrel scrambled after him. He wasn’t wearing any of the metal traps that usually swung around his waist, or the fringe of teeth that decorated his hat. He must have shed them for speed. That’s why he’d lost his grabber, Kestrel thought; he was cleverer than the other villagers. A huge bubble of joy swelled inside her. And now he had her. He was going to survive.
“Where are we going?” she asked between breaths, trying to keep up with him. They slipped between two gnarled trees.
“We’ve got to hide.”
“But we could fight—”
“Quiet, Kestrel.”
The snap in his voice stung. Before Kestrel could say anything, her dad grasped her wrist. His grip was strong, and he hauled her through the trees so fast her feet barely touched the floor.
“Dad, you’re hurting me,” she gasped as she went flying over the rocks.
“Quickly!” he insisted.
They emerged in a small hollow. Trees crowded around it like a wall, and dead needles made a bristling carpet on the floor. Kestrel’s dad released her and bent over to catch his breath.