Gretel (21 page)

But Anika swore the next time the shackles came off the scene would be very different.

Anika glanced over at the tray beside her and the waft of plum hit her immediately. The smell disgusted her. All the pies disgusted her now. She wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the drugs or what the food now represented—or perhaps the recipe for the pies she found so delicious in the beginning had changed—but her stomach now immediately lurched even at the sight of them. The ones with meat were the worst. She ate them, she had no choice, but Anika promised herself if she was still alive at the end of this ordeal, she would never again eat another piece of pie.

She scooted to the end of the bed, threw the chain over the post, and pushed herself over the foot and onto the floor. Her legs wobbled a bit, but she steadied them quickly. They were getting stronger, at least compared to a month ago.

Anika stood still for a moment, feeling her muscles adjust to standing and focused her mind again. She took a deep breath and bowed her back, forcing her legs and spine to stretch as far as they would go. The cracking of joints and tendons reverberated through the room, adding to the exhilaration of the maneuver.

Following that first day on the floor, when the old woman had caught Anika testing the room for weaknesses—and told Anika about her morbid intentions—Anika was reluctant to leave the bed; and, in fact, she had not gotten out of it for several weeks. But her body’s craving for motion had eventually won out over her fear, and she now got up at least three times a week. Sometimes for only a minute of two, but usually closer to an hour.

The movements were a blessing and seemed to be making her stronger, though with the shackle on her ankle she was mostly limited to stretching and isometrics. And, of course, Anika did this only when she was certain the woman was gone, though truthfully she began to doubt the necessity of that. On the one other occasion, the woman had caught her up and about she had only given Anika a mild scolding. Anika reasoned the woman needed her to stay healthy, and healthy did not include atrophied muscles and bed sores. But still, she didn’t want to push it.

The other thing Anika figured was that the woman meant to eat her.

She had never told her this explicitly, but the fact that she considered Anika an animal to be slaughtered was as obvious a clue as one could expect to gather. As was the constant supply of pies. Too much food was better than starving, Anika supposed, and she couldn’t have cared less about her appearance, but Anika could feel herself getting fat, particularly in her legs and feet, though she probably singled out those extremities because those were the parts of her anatomy she was forced to stare at most of the day. She wasn’t anywhere near obese, but she was significantly heavier than the day she arrived. She labeled this fact as bad, since she needed to maintain some level of fitness on the off chance a window of escape opened. At this point, knee bends and back stretches weren’t keeping her weight down, and she felt a lot like a turkey the week before Thanksgiving. And unless she did something soon, she’d end up like one.

Anika laced her fingers together and raised her arms over her head, pressing her palms toward the ceiling. She raised herself up on her toes and lowered her head with her eyes closed, holding that position for as long as she could.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a red patch of gauze attached to her gut and blood pouring down her side. Another incision. By her count, that made a total of five that she could see, and she was almost certain there were at least three on her back, near her spine between her shoulder blades. This one was fresh though—from when she couldn’t say for sure—but it was probably from early this morning. The drugs had hit her hard this time and now she knew why: they’d been dosed up to serve the purpose of both anesthetic and pacifier. Anika recognized the feeling from the other times.

The patch of gauze was about the size of a cracker and was taped to the side of her abdomen just below her ribcage. It was bright red, but not entirely soaked through, which meant the sutures had probably just opened during her stretches. Quickly Anika climbed back on the bed and, on her back, gently pushed her way back toward the head next to the night table. She had to stop the bleeding before the woman returned. If there was one thing Anika had learned about the woman since her capture, it was that she disliked instability. On the occasions that she had lost her temper, either with Anika or otherwise, it stemmed from things not working out just as she’d planned. Anika ruminated that this was probably the source of most anger in the world, but a deranged person’s anger was a bit more to deal with.

Anika picked up the napkin from the tray—the old witch usually forgot to include it, but not today—and dipped it in the water. Looking at the glass, Anika now realized if she didn’t drink the water the unnoticed cut on her belly would be all too noticeable to her in a few hours when the anesthesia wore off. Hopefully, she thought, the stuff works as a local anesthetic as well.

She reclined slightly and then placed the wet napkin on the incision, wiping away the excess blood. The cut was relatively small, about three inches she guessed, and the stitchwork looked precise. She’d need to be more careful with her stretching.

Anika sat up and reached to dip the napkin again, but this time froze, her eyes locking in on the large black book lying next to the pies. She’d completely missed it before. Even now, as she focused on the form, it looked more like the shadow of a book than an actual book, and she considered the drugs may still be working their charms.

To be sure what she was seeing was real, she reached over and touched the tome, feeling the dull, cold leather. Certainly real.

She turned the tray toward her, hoping to get a better look at the cover, but whatever words or symbols may have been etched during the original printing had long since faded. She had to restrain herself from instantly picking up the book and opening it. The woman may be back any minute, and who knew what the punishment would be for snooping. And there remained the more urgent matter of her cut.

Still, this seemed like some form of an opportunity, if not for an escape, then at least to gather information which could help her.

Anika moved the pies from the tray to the night table and as she did, spotted a thin piece of straw sticking from the top of the book. A bookmark. She wedged a finger between the pages on either side of the straw and pulled the book open, gravity thumping the weight of the first three-quarters of the book down to the tray, nearly spilling the glass of water. Anika clenched her teeth and whispered a curse.

She stared wide-eyed at the pages and instantly saw that the writing was foreign to her—Greek perhaps—and that the surrounding margins were littered with handwritten notes. In fact, she noted, all of the white space was taken up with pencil and pen marks, including above and below the type. The space between the lines was wide, so the letters were perfectly legible, and as Anika studied the text further, she saw this writing was in English. Cursive, sloppy, and grammatically atrocious, but definitely English. In some instances there were just single words, often capitalized and underlined or with exclamation points. But most of the words seemed to be a translation of the text and not the aimless writings of a lunatic. And as Anika continued to read, she now realized one thing was certain: there wasn’t much time left.

Gretel’s first week back at the orchard was bittersweet; she was happy to be with the Klahrs again, working and feeling productive, but there was an anxiety that nagged, lingering in her belly, reminding her that things at home were tenuous and unresolved. That her father may be dying. Perhaps being murdered slowly.

She thought of Hansel almost constantly, imagining the unbearable guilt she would forever live with if anything happened to him. There hadn’t been any further mention from Odalinde concerning the swan figurine, and apparently father had kept the cabinet breach a secret, but Gretel perceived a difference in Odalinde since that night in the kitchen, a new sort of quietness that implied restraint and plotting.

Still though, it was nice to be back at work, and compared to the madness of the weeks during the harvest, Gretel had it easy. All of the workers were gone, having migrated to further corners of the region where various other crops were about to be born, so Gretel’s work mainly consisted of cleaning the Klahr house to the point of sterilization, dividing the newly picked fruit for their various uses, and helping prepare the meals for Mr. and Mrs. Klahr.

Petr was staying on for a few weeks more, but apparently would only be making appearances on Fridays, as well as the weekends. So in addition to not being particularly busy, Gretel’s first week back was also quite lonely.

But she worked hard and tried to stay occupied, and Mrs. Klahr, bless her heart, seemed to make the point regularly to Gretel that her presence was critical to keeping the Klahrs out of the graveyard and the house from crumbling to splinters. Still, she wasn’t used to the downtime and boredom that filled much of her day, so when Friday finally came and Gretel saw Petr standing on the bank of the orchard as she eased her canoe to the shore, she couldn’t help but smile and wave. She was instantly embarrassed by the act, of course, and was still blushing when she walked up to the boy, who himself wore the look of giddy unease.

She’d barely spoken to Petr since that day in the Klahr kitchen—she’d been so focused on her work and the harvest—but she had always been keenly aware of his presence at the house and felt a nervous comfort whenever he smiled at her or offered to help with a chore, only to be told “No, thank you” in a way that implied everything was exceedingly simple to Gretel and in her complete control.

Now, though, having spent a mostly restful week away from the orchard and returning to find the feverish regimen of the place substituted with an almost placid routine of thorough maintenance, Gretel regarded Petr as an old friend, a domestic soldier like herself, who’d fought beside her in some recent battle and now waited for her in the clearing dust.

“You’re here early,” Gretel said, arching her eyebrows to show she was mildly impressed.

“I got in last night. Something came up and it was the only time my father could drop me off.”

Gretel nodded, still smiling, and stared at Petr, measuring him, until finally he looked away, embarrassed.

It was strange. As beautiful as Petr was physically, Gretel was not at all intimidated by him. Of course, she didn’t really know him well, so there was still a certain self-consciousness she felt around him; but whenever they met, within a minute or two she always felt like she had the upper-hand. Even on that first night in her kitchen, when she first collided with those sky blue eyes and dark curls, she had been more stunned by his looks than threatened by them. Not that she normally came unhinged in front of boys anyway, but she would have thought a boy like Petr would have made her far more uncomfortable than he did.

“It’s good to see you, Gretel.”

Gretel’s smile widened with this brave revelation, as if she was proud of Petr for his boldness, and she let out a good-natured laugh. “It’s good to see you too, Petr. Are the Klahrs awake?”

Gretel and Petr split the chores evenly that day, with Petr taking on most of the outdoor duties and Gretel minding the interior of the house. But by Saturday, the two children decided the work could be done in the same amount of time if they tackled the tasks together, and they would enjoy the added pleasure of companionship. Mrs. Klahr met this suggestion with a thin smile, and then an exaggerated nod signifying the resourcefulness of the idea. Petr and Gretel both knew what she was thinking—that love was blooming or some such thing—but they initiated no corrections to this assumption, as they were both just happy to have a friend to work with and conversation to fill the day.

And if love blossomed, that was fine too.

“What do you do on your days off?” Petr lifted a full bucket of pears onto the flatbed of the Klahrs’ truck, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

It was an unseasonably hot day for the Southlands, even for early summer, and though he’d only worked two full days that week, Gretel could see the boy was tired and looking forward to Sunday. Unlike Gretel, Petr technically had to work on Sundays, but the work was laughably light, and even he understood his pay for that day was mostly charity.

“I sleep mostly. And row. That’s the bulk of it. The two things that keep me away from my…my father’s nurse.”

Petr stared at Gretel for a moment and then heaved another full bucket to the unhinged tailgate. “Is she cruel?” he asked bluntly. “Your father’s nurse, that is.”

Gretel glanced sideways at Petr, not really wanting to get into her home affairs. She liked Petr, and they seemed to have enough in common to become real friends, if not more, but her instincts told her it was too early to fully trust him. Especially with his father’s name (maybe?) etched in Odalinde’s address book.

“Maybe,” she offered, “I’m not sure yet.”

Petr nodded as if understanding not to push it further, and then changed the subject. “Well, I was thinking…if you…if you are going to be around tomorrow…I only work until noon, and my father won’t pick me up until around four.” The boy looked away and swallowed hard. “So I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch tomorrow. With me. A picnic maybe.”

The corners of Gretel’s mouth turned up slightly, reflexively, and she cocked her head in a move indicating both flattery and delight. “I…sure…I would love to.”

“Okay! That’s great! Do you want to meet somewhere here in the orchard?”

Gretel thought for a moment and then said, “Do you know Rifle Field?”

Petr shook his head.

Gretel was suddenly embarrassed for Petr, and realized she had just hijacked his plans by inserting Rifle Field into the date. “I’m sorry,” she said, “it doesn’t matter. The orchard is fine.

“No, it’s okay. I’m not sold on the orchard. What’s Rifle Field? It sounds great.”

Gretel smiled and recognized a new sweetness in Petr. She saw a mature quality, one that just wanted happiness for the ones he cared about and didn’t need to control the feeling or be credited for bringing it about.