Read Online BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale by Adam Dreece - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adam Dreece
Ads: Link
strange thing called “snow.”
They’d been traveling north for months. Having fled with nothing, her father always seemed to find a way to earn money no matter where they went. Sometimes, he found a merchant who needed something from another merchant, and sometimes he figured out what people needed. In one village, Mounira watched her father shine shoes—and many of his customers were far from nice. He refused to let her help, other than fetching rags or water. When she would ask if they could stay somewhere, he would refuse, insisting they needed to go north until it felt right.
Mounira thought about how, at this time of year, her mother would typically tend to the winter flowers—a parade of color, all in sections and rows, ensuring each color and flower could be seen with its brethren and stand out, while also harmoniously blending into a greater whole.
Snow fell from a high branch, landing on Mounira’s head and bringing her back to the present. She pulled off her furry hat with her left hand, shook it, and then awkwardly put it back on. The bandits had chased her until she was deep into the forest, and then they’d disappeared. She was exhausted and had no sense of direction or time. She’d started to cry when she saw the wind blow snow and erase her tracks, but she quickly turned it into anger. She understood anger—anger and pain.
Mounira pulled the blanket that was tied around her a little tighter. Under the blanket, she wore a thick set of coats, badly sewn together. She felt the cold in her bones, and it hurt. At the insistence of her father, her hand was covered in three warm socks. How silly she felt now for having argued about it. She was thankful he’d done the same with her feet. Her boots, though heavy, didn’t keep out the cold the way she’d hoped.
“This way,” the forest seemed to whisper.
Mounira looked around, trying to see where the voice came from. “Am I imagining it?” she asked herself. She turned to where she thought the voice had come from. “Maybe the legends of helpful forest spirits are true? Maybe Mama was right and Baba was wrong!”
“Come on. Quickly. Just a bit further,” said a different voice. The wind made it hard to hear, but Mounira was certain that this time it was a voice, not her imagination.
Tripping on a hidden tree root, she fell, landing on her left arm and packing the snow in front into a perfect form of her body. Snow covered her face, and she wiggled desperately.
“Come on. Get up already,” said the same voice, clear this time, and notably male.
“Why doesn’t she just get up? Come on,” said another male voice, hidden in the trees.
Mounira struggled to turn or otherwise get free.
“She’s going to suffocate. Where’s the fun in that?” said a female voice.
Mounira fought furiously until the blanket tied around her loosened and she managed to flip herself over. She stared up at the dark, gray, snowy sky and took a couple of breaths to calm herself down. The sweat on her short, dark brown hair sticking out the back of her hat quickly froze.
“Oh, I get it,” said the first male voice.
“What, Hans?” inquired the second male voice.
“Yes, Hans, do tell,” said the female voice playfully.
Mounira sat up, looked around, and tried to locate the voices among the trees, some of which seemed to move. Could they really be fairies? she wondered.
“No matter what she does, she can’t ever do it… right! Ha ha,” said Hans.
“She’s a lefty,” said the second male voice. “Do you think she lost her whole right arm, or just part of it?”
“Well, we haven’t played with a lefty. Is it still sporting?” asked the female voice.
The wind calmed just enough that Mounira was certain she heard the faint crunching of snow. “They aren’t spirits,” she said to herself, annoyed at having entertained such a childish idea. “These are cruel, twisted monsters.”
She unconsciously moved the stump below her right shoulder,
They’d been traveling north for months. Having fled with nothing, her father always seemed to find a way to earn money no matter where they went. Sometimes, he found a merchant who needed something from another merchant, and sometimes he figured out what people needed. In one village, Mounira watched her father shine shoes—and many of his customers were far from nice. He refused to let her help, other than fetching rags or water. When she would ask if they could stay somewhere, he would refuse, insisting they needed to go north until it felt right.
Mounira thought about how, at this time of year, her mother would typically tend to the winter flowers—a parade of color, all in sections and rows, ensuring each color and flower could be seen with its brethren and stand out, while also harmoniously blending into a greater whole.
Snow fell from a high branch, landing on Mounira’s head and bringing her back to the present. She pulled off her furry hat with her left hand, shook it, and then awkwardly put it back on. The bandits had chased her until she was deep into the forest, and then they’d disappeared. She was exhausted and had no sense of direction or time. She’d started to cry when she saw the wind blow snow and erase her tracks, but she quickly turned it into anger. She understood anger—anger and pain.
Mounira pulled the blanket that was tied around her a little tighter. Under the blanket, she wore a thick set of coats, badly sewn together. She felt the cold in her bones, and it hurt. At the insistence of her father, her hand was covered in three warm socks. How silly she felt now for having argued about it. She was thankful he’d done the same with her feet. Her boots, though heavy, didn’t keep out the cold the way she’d hoped.
“This way,” the forest seemed to whisper.
Mounira looked around, trying to see where the voice came from. “Am I imagining it?” she asked herself. She turned to where she thought the voice had come from. “Maybe the legends of helpful forest spirits are true? Maybe Mama was right and Baba was wrong!”
“Come on. Quickly. Just a bit further,” said a different voice. The wind made it hard to hear, but Mounira was certain that this time it was a voice, not her imagination.
Tripping on a hidden tree root, she fell, landing on her left arm and packing the snow in front into a perfect form of her body. Snow covered her face, and she wiggled desperately.
“Come on. Get up already,” said the same voice, clear this time, and notably male.
“Why doesn’t she just get up? Come on,” said another male voice, hidden in the trees.
Mounira struggled to turn or otherwise get free.
“She’s going to suffocate. Where’s the fun in that?” said a female voice.
Mounira fought furiously until the blanket tied around her loosened and she managed to flip herself over. She stared up at the dark, gray, snowy sky and took a couple of breaths to calm herself down. The sweat on her short, dark brown hair sticking out the back of her hat quickly froze.
“Oh, I get it,” said the first male voice.
“What, Hans?” inquired the second male voice.
“Yes, Hans, do tell,” said the female voice playfully.
Mounira sat up, looked around, and tried to locate the voices among the trees, some of which seemed to move. Could they really be fairies? she wondered.
“No matter what she does, she can’t ever do it… right! Ha ha,” said Hans.
“She’s a lefty,” said the second male voice. “Do you think she lost her whole right arm, or just part of it?”
“Well, we haven’t played with a lefty. Is it still sporting?” asked the female voice.
The wind calmed just enough that Mounira was certain she heard the faint crunching of snow. “They aren’t spirits,” she said to herself, annoyed at having entertained such a childish idea. “These are cruel, twisted monsters.”
She unconsciously moved the stump below her right shoulder,
Similar Books
