“Good luck,” Hannah said. Her smile was as cold as milk.
The door to her mother’s house was open, the inside as dark as a grabber’s belly. Kestrel paused on the doorstep, the villagers’ stares scraping down her back. Without taking her eyes off the door she bent down and picked up a cold bowl of porridge that was still on the ground.
The black dog trotted up behind her, radiating excitement. Before it could push her inside, Kestrel twisted her hand and dropped one of the bloodberries into the bowl.
To Kestrel her treachery was as loud as a siren, and she waited for the dog’s teeth to rip into her back, almost hoping to get it over with. But the dog did nothing except nudge her sharply with its muzzle.
The bloodberry sank beneath the spoon without a trace.
Kestrel’s mother was crouched in the middle of the floor, the weave crisscrossing around her like a cage. Kestrel dropped to her knees and put the bowl down, pushing it through the tunnel in the weave.
Her mother knitted yarn between her fingers, staring into the dark, changing spaces between each pattern. Kestrel hadn’t expected this. It was so silent she could hear mice under the floorboards. She waited, feeling sick, until it was clear that she had to speak first.
“I—I screwed up,” Kestrel said, her voice tripping.
Silence. Kestrel squirmed.
“I lost my temper,” she continued, moving just a little closer, her throat stoppered with the thick beating of her heart. She couldn’t help glancing at the porridge on the floor. “I ran away. But I can’t survive in the forest by myself. I want to come home.”
The door slammed behind her, making Kestrel jump. The old woman jerked a finger and a fat candle lit itself. Kestrel knew it was bad.
“You want forgiveness,” her mother said slowly. She drummed her fingers against her leg. “You’ve disobeyed me again and again. You’ve repeatedly lied. Then you crept in here while I was sleeping and tied up the dog that I created to protect you. And now you want . . . forgiveness?”
Kestrel felt as though they were standing on the edge of a cliff; her mother was either going to throw her off the edge or pull her back, and neither of them knew which way it would go.
Her mother stood up. She swept through the weave, right up to Kestrel’s face, the strings twisting away to let her through. She was so fast Kestrel didn’t have time to move.
“Where did you run to?” her mother hissed, dropping and hooking a finger under Kestrel’s chin. Kestrel wriggled.
“I don’t know,” she gasped, panic setting in. “I just kept going.”
“You smell of blood.”
“I got hurt.”
“Why did you come back?”
“I need you,” said Kestrel. Her mother’s expression didn’t change, but Kestrel thought she might have said the right thing.
Kestrel and her mother stared at each other. Kestrel felt like her lie must be plastered across her face, huge and red, but somehow she kept her face still. She wondered if her mother knew that her grabber was following her. If she did, she’d never fall for this.
“Flattery doesn’t suit you,” her mother said shortly. She withdrew her finger. “I suppose you do need me, don’t you?”
She dropped Kestrel. “I’ve given you too much freedom,” she said. “I should have broken all your bones the first time you disobeyed me. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so arrogant.”
“I won’t do it again,” said Kestrel shakily. She touched the bowl of porridge with her fingertips, praying her mother would notice it. It trembled with her hands.
“Look at yourself,” her mother said, the corners of her mouth hard. “Look at the way you’re shaking. You’re as cowardly as your father.”
Kestrel’s arm jerked with the barely contained impulse to attack her mother. The side of her hand caught the bowl, which rattled and spun on the floor.
Her mother finally noticed the bowl, snatched it, and lifted it to her nose.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was outside,” Kestrel said quickly.
Her mother slowly twirled the spoon in the bowl. Kestrel held her breath, but the bloodberry was still hidden.
“It was left for me, you greedy pig,” her mother said. “From now on, you’ll only eat when I let you.”
She picked up the spoon, raised it to her nose and sniffed.
She smiled at Kestrel.
“Delicious,” she said.
Then she reached out, as quick as a snake striking, and grabbed Kestrel by the neck.
“You little witch,” she said, rising, dragging Kestrel with her. She stamped on the bowl so hard it shattered. “I can smell that a mile off.”
Her mother tightened her strong, bony hands. Kestrel tried speaking, but panic drowned her and she couldn’t get any words out.
“Feeding poison to your own mother,” she shrieked. “I was stupid to keep you as long as I did. I am going to break you!”
“You—need—” Kestrel gasped, struggling.
“I need what? You?” Her mother dropped her. Kestrel landed in a pile on the floor.
Kestrel’s mother stood over her, flexing her fingers.
“You need your arms and legs for hunting,” she hissed. “But you don’t need a pretty face. You think the villagers hate you now? Imagine what they’ll say when you only have half a skull!”
Her mother grabbed a piece of string above her head, the one with Kestrel’s tooth tied into it. Kestrel leaped up and drove her knee into her mother’s chest. Her mother doubled over, and Kestrel tore the string from her hands as she fell back.
“Dad was right to leave,” Kestrel yelled, clutching the tooth in her fist. Her mother was back on her feet. The black dog advanced toward Kestrel, and she stepped back toward the door. “You tell lies to make people do things.”
“You’re calling me a liar?”
“I know the grabbers die after they’ve eaten!” Kestrel yelled. She hadn’t meant to say it, but her fury was burning white-hot.
Her mother flinched, and Kestrel’s fury grew.
“You think the villagers love you,” she said. “You’re wrong. They think you’re an evil old hag, but they’re too scared to say so. And when they see what you’d do to your own daughter, they’ll hate you even more.”
Her mother snorted.
“Dearest,” she said, “they’ll thank me once they’ve heard the truth. I’ll tell them that you’re the one who’s brought all the grabbers to the village.”
“That’s a lie,” Kestrel said, but for some reason, her spine had gone cold. Her mother licked her lips.
“It’s no lie,” she said. “After a grabber feeds, it dies. But every time you murder one, two more are born. You want to know why they’re coming so fast? It’s because you were too stupid to work out how they multiply. You’ve created a plague!”
Kestrel almost dropped the bloodberry. She knew her mother was telling the truth. That was why she’d seen two sets of eyes in the woodchopper’s grabber. That was why they were coming faster and faster. She should have known all along, but she hadn’t even tried to work it out.
Kestrel wanted to scream, but no sound would come out. Had she created her dad’s grabber herself? Was all of this her fault?
“Thought that would wipe the smile off your face,” her mother said coolly. She looked at the dog. “Rip her throat out.”
The black dog bounded toward her. Kestrel stumbled backward out the door. The villagers, who had crept close to the house, scattered like birds. The dog landed on Kestrel’s stomach, squashing all the air out of her and making her gasp. She pushed it off as hard as she could, sending it sprawling, and jumped up.