Because he murdered them.
His parents, his brother, his whole family. He drowned them one by one in the lake behind their estate.
They said his father was found laid out on the shore, white and still, as though all his blood had been drained. That his mother’s throat was snared in sedge grass, drawn so tight it cut her skin.
“Yes, he might already be here.” The girl pauses and scans the crowd around us, then drags her fingers across her chest. “My village is next to his estate. We have a name for him there.”
“Calathea?” A man comes through the crowd, crossing the distance in an easy stride. He has the same oak-brown skin and features, though he’s pulled his curls back into a knot, without even a single strand escaping. “Thea, what did I tell you?”
“Mark off the list. Don’t get distracted.” Thea ducks her head, chagrined. She peers into our basket and quickly scratches a few lines on the parchment with her pen. “Sorry, Father. They were the last ones.”
He sighs heavily. “You should have been finished already instead of wasting time. We still have to prepare all the tithes for transport back to Lakesedge.” He takes hold of her arm and draws her closer, his voice lowering. “I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary, not with him around.”
“I didn’t mean to take so long. I’ll help you load the baskets when they’re ready.”
“No. You can stay over there, out of trouble.” Her father starts to direct Thea away from us, toward a wagon.
“Wait,” I call after her as she leaves. “The name they have for Lord Sylvanan in your village, what is it?”
Thea turns back to us. “The Monster of Lakesedge.”
The sun is still high above the tree line. Sweat has beaded on the back of my neck, and there’s a stripe of sunburn across my nose. I’m hot and itchy, prickled by my woolen stockings. But when I hear that name, I start to shiver.
“Thea. Enough.” Her father mutters a warning in her ear, his expression tense. She walks over to the wagon with her eyes downcast, but when she settles herself in the seat, he pats her knee, comforting her.
A strange, sore ache fills my chest as I watch Thea and her father, remembering my father. His strong hands, weathered from work in the garden, but still gentle when he touched me. If he were here, he would keep us safe.
“The Monster of Lakesedge.” I say it softly, only a whisper, but the words taste like smoke and darkness.
Arien steps closer to me. “Can you see him?”
I stand on tiptoe to see past the people ahead. There’s a table set up near the altar, shaded by two tall pine trees, where the tithe goods will be laid out. A woman in a long, embroidered dress stands behind it. Her silvery hair is swept back from her tanned face in a braid that loosens to waves, cascading down her back.
“He isn’t waiting for the tithes.”
“Maybe he’s like a woods wolf.” Arien points at the forest, where the shadows are thick between the trees. “And he can’t come out in the daylight.”
“Those aren’t real. That was just a story I made up.”
But what happened at Lakesedge Estate sounds like a story, too. A house locked up and almost empty. A whole family murdered.
There’s a knot in my stomach. It tightens with each moment that passes. I can’t stop searching the crowd. As the sun dips, shadows from the pine trees at the edges of the square lengthen over the ground. Every shift of light and shade makes me jump. I expect to turn and see the monster right there, as if I summoned him when I spoke his name.
Beside me, Arien has stayed still and quiet. His face has started to turn pale.
“What’s wrong? Are you worried about Lord Sylvanan? I can’t see him. Maybe he’s not even here.”
“No.” He wraps his arms around himself. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
His skin looks bloodless, almost completely white. “Arien. What’s the matter?”
“I—I don’t—” He shakes his head, then turns and walks swiftly away without another word.
I blink, stunned. It only takes me a moment to gather myself, to follow. But when I step out into the square, I’ve already lost sight of him.
I slip between a row of buildings. Heat radiates against my face from afternoon sun baked into the rough stone walls. I rush past the store. Past the healer’s cottage. There are footprints in the dust, about the size of Arien’s boots. Smudged and smeared, like he was running. The noise of the crowd dwindles away, smaller and smaller. I’m outside the village now, in a flower field. Bees circle a white line of hives. Trees rise up beyond.