Witchsign. Den Patrick

but dream of spring, speak to no one, see no one, be spared Cinderfell and Nordvlast and the Empire.’ She brushed fingers against an oak tree’s rough bark. The tree was a marker, the tiny clearing a spot she retreated to, an enclave away from the town. ‘But not today,’ she whispered, pressing deeper in to the woods. Marek had warned her it was unwise to wander so far from home, but she refused to turn back. Chilled fingers gathered the odd stick of wood; the idea of going home empty-handed was not a welcome one. Her father may not notice, lost to grief as he was, but they’d need firewood soon enough.

      She journeyed deeper into the forest, lost to her thoughts and picking out sticks of firewood when she remembered. The chalet was as unexpected as it was unremarkable. A single storey with the thatched roof and short chimney so common to Cinderfell. Moss grew in a rich blanket across one wall, finding purchase on the slope of old thatch above. Windows remained shuttered against the day, yet the door was ajar, though only to the keenest eyes.

      ‘It can’t hurt to take a look,’ she reassured herself.

      A wide stump of wood emerged from the earth between Kjellrunn and the chalet door, marked with cuts now dark from rain and moss. A woodcutter’s chalet then. Her father had mentioned it before, but she’d never given much thought to where it was.

      She drew closer, curiosity making her bold. No light flickered from the gap in the door. No golden glow escaped the shutters’ edges. A trio of sensations gave her pause: unease at being alone in such a secluded place, cold at the dictates of the wind that found a way to her, even here deep in the woodland. And of being watched, yet that was the work of a foolish mind, she chided herself.

      ‘I’m not scared,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I’ll not jump at shadows,’ she said, keen to reassure herself.

      The snap of a branch beneath her foot made her flinch so hard she slipped and fell amid the dead leaves. The firewood she had gathered lay all around her. No sooner had she recovered herself than two crows called out, strident at first then settling into a brooding silence.

      ‘You might have warned me about the branch.’ Kjellrunn favoured the crows with a dark look. The first hid its head under a wing, while the other raised tail feathers and released a jet of watery droppings.

      ‘Would it kill you to show some manners?’ Kjellrunn turned her back on the birds and regarded the chalet. It was less imposing now she’d scared herself insensible. She reached for the door and once again the crows called out. Kjellrunn froze; a wary look over her shoulder confirmed the raucous birds were agitated. They flapped wings and fussed until one knocked the other from their perch, causing Kjellrunn to smirk.

       Steiner wouldn’t be deterred by a couple of noisy old crows.

      One of the birds stared after her, the other flapped about on the ground, aggrieved.

      Her chilled fingers pushed the door open and Kjellrunn blinked in the gloom. She remained in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold, hoping the meagre daylight would reveal some clue about the derelict dwelling. Nothing stirred in the darkness yet Kjellrunn’s curiosity burned brightly. She crossed to the hearth, hands held out to ashes, palms rewarded with the faintest warmth. Someone had been here, just last night perhaps. A puddle of water had collected in the dust nearby. Kjellrunn traced the source to a cloak hanging from an iron peg. She had a vivid impression of stumbling through the woods late at night, wet to the skin and desperate for shelter.

      The chalet was not so different to her own home. Three chairs attended a table standing in the centre of the room. An unlit lantern hung from a hook by the door, soot-black and rust-red. Leaves lay strewn about the flagstones, collected in drifts at the corners, the alcove beside the fire deep with them. Dead ferns and twigs added to the debris. Rustling sounded and Kjellrunn stared with widening eyes. A breeze gusted through the doorway, making her shiver. Wild thoughts summoned the spirit of a long-dead woodcutter, appearing to defend the home he had loved so much in life. The leaves in the alcove continued to shake. Kjellrunn lurched towards the door as a bleary-eyed winter fox appeared, snuffling about the cold flagstones.

      Kjellrunn released a long sigh. ‘Sorry to wake you.’

      The winter fox blinked at her, white fur spectral in the darkness.

      ‘It’s fine,’ said a voice from the back room, rusty with sleep.

      Kjellrunn’s heart kicked in her chest and she was running before the thought had occurred. Her elbow glanced painfully off the doorway as she fled through it and she was under the grey sky again, panic gripping lungs that sought air to speed her on. Feet slipped and skidded on mud, tree branches reached for frantic eyes and all was blind panic. Only when she reached the opposite side of the clearing did she stop, listening to her ragged breathing, eyes fixed on the chalet door.

      No one emerged, living or dead. Not the phantom woodcutter of her imagination or the slumbering winter fox. No one chased after her, nor did they peer from the doorway with a frown. The crows called out, mocking this foolish frightened girl, she imagined.

      ‘Shut your beaks,’ said Kjellrunn, not taking her eye from the lonely chalet. The occupant did not sate her curiosity by stepping outside.

      ‘I was more frightened than the fox was,’ she muttered. Still nothing. No sign of the voice in the darkness.

      Kjellrunn gathered the scattered firewood as she departed. Perhaps I imagined the voice. A figment of a scared girl in the woods alone. She knew full well her imagination needed no provocation.

      The chalet was almost lost from sight when she stole a glance over her shoulder. A curl of smoke drifted from the chimney, faint grey but unmistakable. Someone had lit a fire, but who?