I blinked hard, clearing my head before raising the axe for the first strike. It bit into the trunk with a mighty crack, but I only heard a wet squelch, as if I’d struck flesh instead.
“Everything all right, Ellerie?” Samuel called out after a moment went by. “It can be easier if you build up more of swing, really get some momentum into it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “The blade is dull. Someone must have left it outside too long.” My voice was flinty, making sure there was no doubt who I held responsible.
“Looked just fine to me,” he said, unconcerned.
In response, I swung it again, letting anger guide my aim. I struck the tree over and over, dark bitterness seizing hold of my limbs, clinging fast like thorned ivy. My blood simmered, hot with rage and troubling thoughts. They curdled my insides until all I felt, all I saw, was a ferocious and biting slash of red. Again and again, I whacked the trunk. Chips of bark flew through the air, as mad as buzzing hornets.
My breath hung in a dense fog around me as I gasped for air and my dress clung uncomfortably against my skin, soaked with sweat even in the chilled morning. With a final blow, the trunk gave way, splitting under the tree’s weight. I had the presence of mind to shove Sadie’s sled out, and the tree crashed onto it with a resounding thud, shaking the ground.
Out in the open, away from all the shadows and trees, my sisters let out cheers, jumping in victory.
Deep within the forest’s gloom, I eyed the fallen giant in silence. If Samuel were to actually help, we’d be able to carry it out in no time at all, but as I watched him toe the tree line, I knew there was little chance of it. My fingers tightened on the axe’s handle, hatred unfurling across my chest like the opening leaves of a fern.
“I thought all loggers were meant to call out ‘Timber!’ ”
I turned to see Whitaker standing behind me, leaning against a tree as though he’d been watching me for quite some time.
“You could have killed me,” he chastised lightly.
“Hardly.”
“Oh yes,” he continued, the corner of his lips raised in an endearing quirk. “If there’d been just a wee more breeze blowing this way rather than that, I’d be as flat as a flapjack.” He held up a wet finger as if proving his claim. “But luck was on my side today. And yours too, I suppose. I see you require some assistance with that?”
“I can handle it,” I said, surprised how sharp my words sounded.
What was wrong with me? I certainly couldn’t pick the tree up on my own, and Whitaker had done nothing to earn my ire.
Not like Sam. The coward.
I didn’t mean that.
At least, I didn’t think I did.
Since I’d stepped into the woods, the very worst facets of my being had suddenly sprung to the forefront—impatience, short-temperedness, and above all, a burning, primal rage—and I was helpless to push them back.
“I’ve no doubt you could, Ellerie Downing,” he said, ignoring my barbed tone and stepping forward to help. “But if you have four hands, why use two?” He reached down and easily hoisted one end of the tree. “I’ll pull if you steer?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to voice an assent. Who knew what would come out?
As we set off, I felt a shift inside me, layers of blushing reds and crimsons falling over the black, angry rage. My skin throbbed, my nerves were raw, and a sudden ache reached out from the center of my core, down my arms, and into my fingers until they itched to move in its bidding. My heart panged, overcome with a physical yearning, a hunger, a need.
My breath felt impossibly heavy, and my chest heaved as if I’d run a sprinted race.
When Whitaker turned back to offer an encouraging smile, all of the strange sensations came together to a sharp edge.
Desire.
Lust.
I wanted him.
I wanted to march right up and kiss him. I wanted to taste his lips, to rip open his shirt and feel his pounding heartbeat beneath my touch. I wanted his hands on me, pressed against my bare flesh, gripping and grasping. I wanted to feel the edge of his teeth rake down my neck, wanted to feel him suck at the hollow of my throat before moving lower, then lower still. It would be so easy to lose control in this forest, to give in to temptation, to bask and bathe in it.
To drown.
The sliver of me acknowledging how absurd these wild thoughts were felt very distant, as if it were watching through a spyglass, miles away and utterly powerless to extend reason.
The sensation grew worse as we approached the tree line, as if the depraved thoughts overriding me knew we only had a short time to act. They rose up, droning in my mind until all I could hear was their horrible buzz, baiting and urging me on. Part of me wanted to reach out and caress Whitaker; the other wanted to take the axe and hurl it into his back.
He’d never see it coming.
As I pictured the split skin, the raw wound, the blood—so much blood—that tiny distant part of me, the real me, rushed back and slammed into the dark rage with all the force of a rockslide. The wickedness did not give up easily, shrieking its displeasure so loudly, it wasn’t until we’d stepped free of the pines’ shadows that I could even begin to pick up what was happening around me.
I could tell from the looks of expectation on Sadie’s and Merry’s faces that someone had asked a question, but I’d been too wrapped in the struggle in my head to respond.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d be honored to join your celebrations tomorrow,” Whitaker said, covering my moment of blankness. He blinked curiously at me, sensing that something was amiss.
Tomorrow.
Christmas.
The girls had invited him for Christmas.
With the sudden departure of the darkness, I felt hollowed, too thin, a mere shell of my usual self. Even trying to figure out the last of the conversation had taxed me to the point of exhaustion.
“Yes, please,” I said, forcing a smile when one didn’t automatically form. “We’d love to have you for supper…if you’ve not made other plans already.”
His eyes were warm and amber, happy and wholly unaware of all the exquisitely horrible things I’d dreamed up for him in the woods. “None whatsoever.”
“Sadie, can you grab the butter for me?” I called, flipping over the potatoes. Their sizzling filled the cast-iron skillet with a happy sound, and my stomach rumbled in anticipation of the meal to come.
“Whitaker’s here!” my little sister cried, racing down the stairs. Her pounding footsteps thundered through the house, and I hoped Ezra and Thomas—chatting with Samuel in the sitting room—didn’t think to compare Whitaker’s arrival with their own lukewarm reception.