It felt like coming home, being in the woods after such a long period away.

There was a comfort in having the trees around her, listening to the crunch of dirt and leaves underfoot, and inhaling the scent of damp moss. 

No more serving the whims of a foul hag. No more stench of society. No more twisted mockeries of nature.

But this was not home, she had to remind herself. Whenever Credence's thoughts tried to disrupt her peace, or the voice inside rose to acknowledge what had happened in the recent past, she stifled it and pushed her focus to the sound of the wind moving through the trees.

I am a wife—

"Stop it. I am no one."

I'm the queen of—

"BE QUIET!"

She slapped her hands over her ears and kicked up a cloud of dirt with her foot.

"I am nothing I don't want to be—I'm not even from the woods anymore!"

If someone had been spying on her, they might have thought she lost the last of her good sense. 

Grumbling under her breath, Credence resumed her walk, determined to prove to herself that she cared for nothing in the world. It was a freeing, though hopeless, feeling, that made her numb to everything. The sounds of the woods, which at one point would have sent her cowering, passed unnoticed. She did not fear the night, and when the sun began to dip she did not seek a cave or tree, but made a crude torch to light the path ahead.

And continued walking.

She paused only when she felt the need to sleep, be it day or night, and rested against a tree with no other shelter, without even bothering to raise a Circle of Protection around her.

The only real nuisance was the lack of proper meals.

Credence was growing tired of roots and berries—so when the smell of real cooking hit her nostrils, it stopped her instantly.

It was distant, carrying the punch of smoke with it. Her feet took her towards it, and in a short time she found herself in front of a tavern with red walls.

How could such a place be in the woods? What sort of people did it serve out here?

Red walls. I was looking for red walls once.

Was this the tavern from Ma's long-gone map, the second landmark on the way to Lilith's home, that she and Josiah were meant to find?

It doesn't matter, she chided herself. Nothing matters anymore.

Except the delicious smell wafting from the tavern.

Ajo would be hunting her. She didn't have endless days to reach the end of the woods. 

But their souls were no longer bound, and his search would be done blindly, without the aid of a vow made in blood.

A real meal in her belly and a real bed to sleep in...

It would only be one night, and surely Ajo would not descend upon her in a handful of hours.

A lone sign hung from a post by the front door, which simply read, Fighting Drunks Will Be Tossed. As she drew near, Credence heard laughter and the sound of clanging dishes. She hoped the owner would be as welcoming as the other tavern maid she knew, Sally.

A friend like her would prove invaluable right now.

Not wanting to appear rude and potentially earn the ire of her hosts, Credence knocked twice on the door and, remembering an old rule of the woods, called to those within:

"I wish to speak with the master or mistress of this house."

The noise inside continued undisturbed, so Credence tried again, calling louder, "May I speak to the master or mistress of this house?"

A gruff, feminine voice shouted, "No use knocking, drunk fool! Just come in!"

She pushed through the door and entered a large room with wooden tables. Just like Sally's home, there was a long counter with an assortment of bottles behind it. A scattering of mismatched plates and bowls were set before guests who were in various states of sobriety. Two rocking chairs sat before a fire in a corner of the room, and an old minstrel sat beside them, looking as dusty and unused as his cornermates, cradling an instrument that had two of its five strings broken and curled. 

It wasn't quite Sally's, but familiar enough to be comfortable.

Running behind the counter was a short woman with sweat-slicked silver hair haphazardly tucked into a handkerchief. In only a few moments, Credence witnessed her refill drinks, wipe dishes with a rag, and open a back door to shout at whoever was on the other side.

In short, the woman had a manner that indicated she enjoyed keeping busy.

Unlike Sally's tavern, this one had two stories, connected by a splintering set of stairs. A red-faced man was stumbling down, holding onto the railing as if it were his final hope for balance.

The woman behind the counter left through the back door and, after another round of screaming, re-entered with a steaming bowl.

Must be the kitchen, Credence thought, and she decided the woman was the proper person to speak to about a meal.

"Excuse me," she greeted the woman, trying to put on a pleasant face.

The woman ignored her.

"Hey—Oi!" Credence exclaimed loudly and slapped her hand against the counter. It was a noise she'd heard often in Sally's tavern, a signal that, polite or not, seemed the common ritual to gain someone's attention.

It worked, and the woman glanced at her new guest.

"Who're you?" she asked with obvious disdain. "Dun look like one of my gals—did Mistress Cinder send you?"

Credence paled, recognizing the name of a fiend.

"I'm not from Cinder. I need a meal and a room for the night." Unsure if the woman would appreciate manners, she added, "If you please."

"If I please?" The woman laughed. "If I please, I'd be a royal highness and out of this heap! You want room and food, I'll want coin first."

Credence's face dropped. She'd given no thought to needing currency. Upon noticing her hesitation, the woman shrugged and grabbed a dirty plate to wipe with her rag.

"No coin, eh? I always know a pauper lookin' for somethin' free! Think 'cause you have a pretty face the world must hand you everything? You want anythin' from me, you'll trade coin. Didn't your mam teach you nothin'?"

"I'll clean for you," Credence offered, hoping work might be as good as gold.

"I clean enough for my likin'," the woman replied with a snort. She looked Credence up and down. "Fancy earnin' coin other ways? Got two of me very own walkers upstairs, trained by the best in the towns. I could take a third to freshen things up. 'Course you'll need a bath first—look at the state of you! Is that blood? And a new dress. We can take that out of your earnings, too.

Credence shook her head.

"I won't be a walker."

The woman's face grew dark. "Don't believe anyone would want your sour company anyway. No coin, an' no will to earn it fairly? I'll see you out of me place, then. Won't stand for beggars in here—you'll bother paying guests and drive them away! Out with you now! Or do I need to take a switch to your backside?"

"Wait! I have something I could trade!" Credence bent and tugged at the golden chain around her ankle. "I have gold here—I just need a way to take it off."

She pulled harder, but it was no use. The claspless jewelry would not break.

"If you have a knife, or a tool or some sort—"

"I don't care if it's a king's jeweled crown," the woman snarled. "You've gone and pissed me off, and I've not another second to spare on your distractions. Probably fool's gold anyway, you little cheat. Now GO!"

The woman twisted her soiled rag and snapped it at Credence, shooing her away like a hound. Her raised voice had caught the attention of several customers, and their heads turned toward the noise. Defeated, and not wanting the focus of strangers on her, Credence began to slink away.

"I'll pay her way," a voice announced.

Credence looked to her right and found a twig of a man with a weasel-like face grinning at her. He looked somehow both greasy and clean, like he'd managed to bathe too much. His thinning brown hair was slicked against his head, and his spotless skin was stretched tightly over the jutting bones of his cheeks. He gave a friendly wink, but the gesture made Credence's skin crawl.

"Didn't you hear the brat," the woman said, unimpressed by his chivalry. "She won't trade you for it. Too high and prim. You'd be better to forget her and go see one of mine! They'll show better sport than her highness here!"

"I'm sure I don't understand what you mean," the man said. "I'm not trading. I'm paying for this girl to eat and sleep. Should we leave and find another place to spend my coin?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Don't matter to me if you want to spend all on nothin'. Three pieces will see her to a meal, seven more will get her a bed."

"Take twelve," the man answered as he threw a handful of coins on the counter, "and don't say another word about it."

The woman snatched his coins and bit into them before smiling with feigned civility.

"As the gent likes."

She left to yell into the kitchen, and the man beckoned Credence to follow him to an empty table. When she refused his invitation to sit beside him and took her seat across the table, he raised an eyebrow but said nothing on the matter.

"I hope you don't mind my company," he said.

"It's fine," Credence mumbled.

"I hope you don't mind my impertinence, either. Was I rude to interrupt your haggling and pay for your meal?"

"You're free to do as you like."

His eyes narrowed at her icy reply. "Perhaps the barmaid was right, and I was a fool to extend kindness."

There was an implied threat that he would cancel Credence's meal and room if she continued to address him coldly.

An idea bubbled into her mind that almost made her giggle.

Rule One: Always Appear Friendly.

She feigned a smile and said in a sweet voice, "Thank you for your charity, sir."

He nodded. "My pleasure. The rest of the lot here would never show courtesy that wasn't laced with venom. What's your name?"

"Credence."

"A fine sound." He didn't bother to give his name in return. "What brings you to a tavern in the woods, Credence? Pretty thing like yourself shouldn't be alone."

Credence stifled a laugh.

"I'm looking for work," she lied.

"Not much work here that would be kind to you."

"Still have to try."

"Parents are gone?"

He asked his questions like he was reading from a book, and his well-rehearsed routine made Credence uncomfortable. She disliked the man immediately but resigned to suffer his company for the length of a meal. 

"My parents are alive."

"But are they gone?"

"No. I need work to feed our family."

"Did they give you that dress to find work? I can tell it was lovely once, but it's been through an arduous time, hasn't it? Your eyes tell me you're a strong woman who knows how to survive." He reached into his pocket and produced a square of fabric. "Are you aware you've got blood on your cheek? Are you hurt? I have some knowledge of healing, perhaps I could take a look at your wounds—"

"It's not my blood."

He offered the fabric square. "Surely you'd like your face to be clean."

Credence shook her head. "I like it there."

"It may be the reason you're having difficulty finding work."

"But it warns people not to get in my way."

The man chuckled. "I imagine very few ignore such a warning."

"Only the foolish ones."

He pocketed the fabric square and leaned in, resting his chin on his hands.

"How fascinating! That someone with an innocent face could be so...wonderfully wild."

Wanting to steer the conversation away from herself, Credence asked, "Why are you in a tavern in the woods?"

He gave a smug look that implied he knew something she didn't.

"I'm a painter," he said. "Best place to do it is the woods."

"What do you paint?"

He gave a wistful sigh and winked at her. "Beautiful things. Like you."

Each compliment he gave grew more disgust in her stomach. Confident he would cease his praise at the sight of it, Credence laid her hand on the table, displaying her missing finger.

"I'm not beautiful," she said sternly.

The man's mouth curled into a tight frown.

"May I inspect it?" he asked and Credence nodded.

He took her hand and bent to examine it closely.

"Goodness," he whispered, "this is something else, isn't it?" He gave a light pinch on the scarred skin of her knuckle. "It doesn't hurt?"

"Not anymore."

He released her hand and rubbed his chin in thought.

"You believe your lacking hand mars your beauty?" He tsked. "It elevates it. The larger the imperfection, the more interesting the subject. I've painted thousands of five-fingered hands. Oh, they may differ in the wrinkles and hues and shapes. But you, my lovely dear, are one in a million. Thank you for showing yourself to me."

Credence was not easily fooled. His admiration was a tool.

"What other beautiful things do you paint, besides hands?"

"Nature, mostly. I use the woods for reference. I find much inspiration here. Do you enjoy nature?"

"I've seen too much of it."

"What do you enjoy then? I don't mean to pry. You probably don't want to tell a stranger your secrets—even if he did buy dinner."

"Trees are fine," Credence said with an exasperated sigh.

"That's wonderful to hear! I have just the thing to delight you."

He went into a satchel tied around his chest and withdrew a rolled parchment. He laid it on the table and unfurled it, revealing a gorgeous picture of wilderness.

If he had painted it, he was indeed a capable artist.

"It's lovely," Credence complimented out of courtesy.

"I have others much more beautiful than this, but—oh!" His face wrenched into a frown. "Yes, that's right. I don't have them with me."

"A shame."

"They're at my home. A little cottage, not even an hour's walk from here, where the walls are covered by my paintings." He rolled the parchment into a tight tube.

"If you have a home, why are you at this tavern?"

He had not expected Credence to ask that sort of question, and there was a slight impatience in his tone when he said, "I get lonely, so I come here for company. Unfortunately, the people here like to overindulge in drinking. I never understood why folks bothered with it, for all the trouble it causes in the morning."

"Perhaps they want to forget bigger troubles."

"But sometimes I get lucky and meet an interesting person like you." He gave her a pointed look. "Do you ever get lonely, Credence?"

"I like being alone."

He returned the parchment to his satchel.

"Where will you go tomorrow?" he asked. 

"Don't know."

"Well, you've got a room for the night, at least. That gives me some comfort." His eyes lit up as if a brilliant idea had struck him. "You could..." He stopped himself. "No, it's silly."

"What is?"

"It's nothing. Forget I said anything." He sighed. "I just don't like thinking of you out there, on your own."

The last time someone said that to Credence, she'd been held prisoner in an enchanted cabin.

"I can handle things," she said curtly.

"I'm sure you believe that."

"Thank you again for the meal and room, sir. It was kind of you to provide it, knowing I had no way to repay you."

"I enjoy helping when I can."

Liar, Credence thought.

"And your company is payment enough. I might use your face—blood and all—as inspiration for my next painting."

He wasn't asking, and Credence wasn't sure if she should feel complimented or insulted, but in the end she decided it didn't matter.

The woman from the bar approached their table and slammed plates of bread and meat in front of them. She cast another disapproving look at the odd pair and scoffed, a wordless suggestion that the man was wasting his time, before leaving.

Their talking ceased as they ate, but when their plates were empty the man sat back and hummed with satisfaction.

"Not a king's feast, but it does the trick." He snapped his fingers to get the barwoman's attention and motioned with his mug to signal a need for a refill. "I've painted royalty, too," he said, resuming their conversation. "I've painted the Iron King in the east, and the Dragon King in the south. I've even painted the monster slayer King Devlynn, if you can believe it."

"I've never heard those names. Have you painted the Queen of the Wood?"

The man gave her a confused look. "The—who?"

"She rules the woods. You're sitting in her kingdom right now."

"Ah, you mean the majestic lady of myth, yes?"

Credence shrugged.

"I'm sure I've painted her. I've painted all sorts of imaginary creatures. Imps and unicorns and the like. Do those sorts of things interest you? People in the towns enjoy them, and they make excellent brothel decorations—" He cleared his throat. "I prefer real things, though. Real nature. Real people. But I suppose young ladies enjoy fantastical fairies and mermaids."

"I've seen enough of those," Credence said and the man laughed.

"You've seen other artists' interpretations, but you've never seen mine." He leaned forward. "As I said before, I have hundreds at home. Any creature you could dream of. I might even be obliged to give you one of my paintings, of whatever creature you like. It's really a short walk—"

"It's late. Perhaps this discussion could be continued in the morning."

The man did not look pleased.

"Indeed," he mumbled. "To bed, then."

Credence followed him up the staircase and into a short hallway with four doors. Strange noises were coming from inside the first room, and Credence did her best to ignore them. The man, however, pressed his ear against the door and grinned.

"I've got this room for the night," he said as he moved to the third door in the hall. He pointed to the fourth room, which lay directly across from his. "This one is yours. If anyone tries to bother you, come straight to me."

Credence nodded, curious of what sort of trouble might come around at night.

"We'll have breakfast in the morning, if you like. My treat."

Credence entered her room, eager to close the door.

"Goodnight," she said.

"Just a moment—" He put his hand on the door to keep it open. "I had a thought, if you're looking to pay me for the meal."

Credence tensed. "What is it?"

"I said before that I would like to paint you. If you would be so kind, I want you to sit for me while I capture your image. My work always turns out better if I have the actual inspiration in front of me, rather than trying to paint from memory. I could paint you as a queen or a mermaid. Wouldn't that be a marvelous picture? Does that sound like a fair trade?"

"I'll think about it."

She tried to close the door but the man was still holding it.

"You won't be young and beautiful forever. And I know for a fact that once a crone, a lady often longs to remember her better years. Your beauty captured for eternity, that's the real magic an artist can create." He clucked his tongue. "If you really wish to repay me, that is all I would ask for."

He released the door and Credence pushed it shut. There was only a flimsy hook to lock it with, which did little to comfort her.

A sturdy kick would easily break the barrier.

For several minutes Credence listened for the man's footsteps to signal he had moved to his own room, but they never came.

He was standing at her door, on guard, and how long he would stay remained a dreadful mystery.

Perhaps he was biding his time until Credence fell asleep.

Her room was nothing more than a cage.