Willow and I spend a minute holding each other before a groan sends us scrambling apart.

"Father!" I rush to his side, helping him sit up as he stirs, a hand pressed to the cut on his brow.

"What happened?" he mutters, looking around in obvious confusion.

"Careful; don't sit up too quickly," I say, noting how pale he looks. The blood on his head is an angry red slash against his colorless skin. "You must have gotten hit by something in the windstorm last night. Willow and I found you unconscious outside this morning and brought you in."

While I'm talking, Father seems to come to his senses a little more, looking around and taking in the state of the house. With every broken window and overturned book, the lines in his face get deeper.

"You should probably be embarrassed that your daughters managed to carry you into the house." I'm desperately attempting to be lighthearted in an attempt to combat the sadness I can see taking over his face. "You should probably start letting me cook your dinners from now on."

I don't think he even hears me.

"Father?" Willow sits down next to him, taking his hand in hers gently. "It looks bad now but we can fix it. Talia and I will help you."

"Thank you, darling," he mutters, patting her on the hand. "I'm just relieved to see you aren't injured. I can fix the house, but my girls are irreplaceable."

His statement would warm my heart more if it wasn't so hollow. If his eyes didn't tell me just how much it hurts him to see Mother's things lying on the floor, battered and broken.

Willow and I start cleaning up the house, righting shelves and sweeping glass shards, working in silence. But as we go to pick up the books scattered on the ground, Father gently ushers us into our room, reminding us that we have to get ready for our morning deliveries.

I don't want to go, still shaken and confused from the night before. But as Father bends over and picks up one of Mother's beloved books, trying to smooth the crumpled pages, tears in his eyes, I understand that he needs time to himself. This house is all he has left of her.

Our room hasn't been spared from the wind, so I pull on the first pair of trousers and tunic that I find on the floor, briskly shaking them free of glass and debris. I quickly run a brush through my hair, pulling it back into a dark braid.

I've got Father's thick hair, so dark of a brown that it almost looks black, and his gray blue eyes. Willow, of course, got Mother's looks, from her icy blonde hair and clear blue eyes, to her delicate waifish frame. Sometimes, I see Willow out of the corner of my eye and my breath will catch, just for a second, thinking she's Mother. I know Father does it too, I've watched him turn away from her so she can't see the flash of disappointment in his eyes.

Willow gets dressed quickly, her back to me, shoulders hunched in. The bones of her hips and spine jut out from her body, covered quickly by a worn blue day dress. She notices me looking but turns away quickly, hiding her face and thoughts from me again.

______________

Making our way into town takes longer than usual, as Willow and I have to climb over fallen trees every few minutes, a reminder of the damage the storm did. Perhaps even what the monster did. It's seems like too large of a coincidence that on the night of the biggest storm we've had in recent memory, it just so happens to show up. I don't believe in coincidences like that. I'm nervous to see town and send a quick prayer to the gods as we walk, that no one has been injured.

"The town will be fine," Willow says, as if she can read my mind. Gods, she probably can. I wouldn't even be surprised at this point.

I push that thought away quickly, not needing one more thing to worry about this morning. She probably just read it on my face. Mother always called me her open book, as I'd inherited Father's skill of showing every emotion on my face.

I want to talk to Willow more about last night, about what she'd said, but can't find the words. It doesn't seem right to bring it up again when it's clearly upsetting her. Gods, it's upsetting me to think about her confession. My nails dig into the palms of my hands.

We ultimately have no choice but to go on with our day and pretend like nothing happened. Willow likes to pretend, likes to act as if nothing is wrong and usually I feel like going along with it is the least I can do for her. But this time, it's different. Something had come to our home and tried to kill us. Something that can potentially come back.

Even Willow is tugging nervously at her sleeve, glancing around at the woods like she expects the monster to pop out from behind a tree. She is making me twitchy and I keep my hand on the knife sheathed at my belt. If Willow is nervous, that's a good enough reason for me to be too.

______________

We make it to town with no incidences though. For once, the gods must be looking out for us.

Our town is small but thriving, full of dusty buildings lined down dusty streets. As far as I know, it has no name, though if I find a map, it might tell me otherwise. Everyone here just refers to it as "town" and travelers usually just ask if we are the last one before the Shadowcrest Mountains or the town north of Dalhurst.

It's the only home I've ever known though. Our crops do well enough and we often get travelers, so I imagine we aren't the poorest town in Lumor. If you look down one side of the street, we have a blacksmith, bakery, butcher shop and a fishmongers, though it often has a meager selection since the river that runs to the west isn't particularly thriving, this close to the Shadowcrest Mountains.

Down the other side, we have a meeting hall, apothecary and Mariel Bonnard's shop, where she sells anything from clothes to jewelry to hunting knifes. Rumor has it, she married a lord years ago and he died, leaving her a fortune. But unable to stand his pompous family, she moved back here, building a modest home and shop, and has enough money to comfortably do whatever craft fancies her at the moment.

I envy her freedom.

Late morning means the town is usually bustling with activity, vendors selling their wares on the street, neighbors calling out to each other. This morning however, it is quiet. Few people shuffle along the street, and those who do, keep their heads down. An ominous cloud hangs over the town and from the slightly ill look on Willow's face, she can feel it too.

"Maybe we should take the back way to the bakery," I suggest uneasily, leading Willow away from the main path that cuts through the middle of the town. We keep out of sight, making our way behind shops and houses until we reach the bakery.

The smell of fresh bread in the morning usually greets us, making my stomach growl and Mrs. Hamlyn will scold us about a good breakfast before she relents and gives us a roll each. No smell wafts out this morning, but the back door is open and I can see Mrs. Hamlyn's plump figure loading bread out of the oven.

Willow and I step through the backdoor, startling Mrs. Hamlyn so terribly that she jumps, spilling her tray of rolls all over the floor.

"Girls!" she exclaims, eyes wide with shock. "What are you doing here?"

"It's our day to help you with your deliveries, remember?" I bend down to start picking up the rolls but she waves me away.

"Never mind those now. You girls shouldn't be here now, especially you Willow." She leans around us to close the back door, peeking outside like she's making sure no one is out there.

I'm starting to feel nervous, a sour taste on my tongue. The town feels different today to be sure, but Mrs. Hamlyn is always kind to us, never calling Willow names or giving us a hard time for being reclusive, like many of the other townsfolk. She brought us a cake when Mother died and afterwards, convinced her husband to let us help with deliveries a few days of the week, paying us in baked goods.

"What do you mean?" Willow askes, watching Mrs. Hamlyn carefully.  "Does this have something to do with the town being so empty this morning?"

"Yes." She wipes her hands on her flour-covered apron, then nervously tucks her curly brown hair behind her ears. "Listen girls, you need to go home now. It won't do you any good to be seen by the wrong person this morning. You know I don't buy into all this nonsense about you being different..." She nods at Willow. "But some of the town thinks differently and they're having a... a meeting of sorts, this morning. After last night, they're all worked up and not thinking straight."

We've tried to be careful. Tried to hide Willow and her powers as much as we can. But there are some things that haven't been able to be avoided over the years. Animals constantly gravitating towards Willow, birds perching on her, sheep following her around. Flowers blooming where she walks. Those damn trees constantly leaning down to brush their branches against her. Eventually, people take notice. Rumors and whispers about Willow have been swirling around the town for a while now. The townsfolk respect Father though, who has lived here his whole life, so no harm has come from it yet.

"After the windstorm you mean? Surely they can't be stupid enough to blame Willow for that." I exclaim, anger streaking through me. Though most of the time the town is right to suspect her of something, they can't seriously be blaming the wind on her.

"Lower your voice, you foolish girl,"Mrs. Hamlyn snaps. "And yes they can. Listen..." she pauses, looking conflicted. "You need to go home and tell your father what's happening. But on your way, stop by the chapel."

She opens the back door, looking around once again before pushing us out. "Be careful now," she whispers, pressing a roll into our hands. Before either of us can say anything, she is back in the shop, the door firmly closed behind her.

"What do we do?" Willow whispers, shoving her roll into the pocket of her dress. She is obviously worried, chewing on her bottom lip.

"We do as Mrs. Baker said; go home and tell Father.  But first," I say, checking to make sure my knife is still in it's sheath," we go to the chapel and see what made the town so scared."