She pressed her eye to the keyhole.
The wolf lay down on the bed again, and Grandmother draped the orange crazy-quilt over him. “Loosely,” he said. “It will do no good to draw him near if I cannot escape the blankets in time.”
“I hate this,” muttered Grandmother. She picked up her faded mobcap — Turtle could not remember ever seeing her wear it, but it had lived on the bedpost as long as she could remember — and set it over the back of the wolf ’s head. “Don’t wag your tail, no matter how much this amuses you. No, that won’t do. Your ears are too big.”
“The better to hear with,” said the wolf, still sounding amused. “And I hear now that the birds outside the clearing have fallen silent. Truly, if you would let me tear his throat out at the door, this would be much easier.”
“I don’t want to kill him,” growled Grandmother, sounding almost like a wolf herself. “If he would simply go away … ” She stuffed the wolf ’s enormous ears under the mobcap, and draped it across the side of his face. With the quilt pulled up high and the fire burning down, Turtle thought that perhaps it was not completely unconvincing.
“He will not go away,” said the wolf, very softly. “He is coming even now.”
“I know,” said Grandmother, and dropped with grace that belied her age and slid underneath the bed.
The steps creaked.
“Amelia?” called a voice from outside the door. “Amelia?”
It was a male voice. It did not sound strange or monstrous. It didn’t sound like the voice of a goat-killer, but who knew what they sounded like? Turtle wiggled in the blankets and peered out the narrow notch underneath the hinges.
“Go away!” yelled Grandmother. “I don’t want company!”
“Now Amelia … ” said the woodsman, opening the door. “Don’t be like that.”
Grandmother groaned. She might have been acting, but Turtle thought that it was a particularly heartfelt sound. “I don’t feel well. I just want to sleep. I don’t have anything to say to you. Go away.”
He stood framed in the door. He was tall and rawboned and his face was lined, except for the skin around his eyes, which was smooth. He carried an axe in one hand, a wicked looking thing with a curved blade, and Turtle’s heart clenched at the sight of it.
“Don’t be like that, Amelia,” he said again. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Can I make you some tea?”
“Just go away,” said Grandmother (whose name, yes, was Amelia). “I have plenty of tea. I told you I didn’t want you here. I will feel better if you leave.”
The woodsman took a few steps closer. “I came to say that I forgive you for the things you said earlier,” he said.
“For the love of god, will you just go?”
It was his death she was warning him away from, Turtle thought, and he didn’t seem to be listening.
In fact, he was staring at something by the foot of the bed.
“What is that?”
Turtle slithered around to the keyhole. Had the wolf ’s tail popped out? What was he seeing?
“What?” asked Grandmother, and for the first time, Turtle could hear the fear in her voice. She craned her neck to one side, trying to see what the woodsman was looking at. Her left eye ached from not blinking.
It was the basket of muffins.
“Someone’s been here,” said the woodsman. His voice was thick and choked. “Someone else came here. We talked about this … ”
“It was one of my grandchildren,” said Grandmother wearily. “And you are a fool. I will see whoever I wish in my own house. Leave now, and don’t bother me again.”
She knows he won’t do it, Turtle thought. She wouldn’t sound so tired if she didn’t.
The woodsman stepped toward the bed. His face had gone red and blotchy. The straw mattress rustled a little as the wolf shifted his weight.
“We talked about this,” the woodsman said again, sounding almost plaintive, standing beside the bed. Turtle thought that surely he must see through the disguise, surely the shape of the ears must be wrong or a tuft of gray fur would show through, something.
He lifted his axe over his head.
“Fool,” said Grandmother under the bed, with the finality of a death sentence.
The wolf erupted from the quilt.
For Turtle, watching through the keyhole, there was only a blur of grey and a flash of the orange quilt and a horrible yell that turned into a gurgle that turned into nothing at all. The woodsman’s body came crashing down. The wolf gave a muffled yelp and a snarl and the metal axe-blade clattered across the floor.
And then there was no sound at all.
Turtle flung the wardrobe door open, heedless of the very strict orders, and saw the wolf crouched atop the woodsman’s chest, his teeth still buried in the man’s throat. The orange quilt was splashed with blood, sodden with it, a color that matched the orange rather regrettably well.
“Well,” said Grandmother, surveying the scene, “that quilt’s had it.”
Turtle nodded.
The wolf let go. Turtle very deliberately did not look at what he had done to the woodsman’s neck.
“Are you hurt, my friend?” asked Grandmother.
The wolf licked at his shoulder briefly. “Hardly at all. He dropped his axe on me. It will heal.”
Grandmother pulled the quilt the rest of the way off the bed. “Well. I suppose … I suppose we should … ”
She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I am sorry, my friend,” she said. “I do not seem to be able to think right now.”
The wolf nodded. “Help me roll him onto the quilt,” he said. “The cub and I will see to the body. You should rest.”
“And have more tea,” said Turtle firmly.
“Yes,” said Grandmother after a moment. “Yes. You are both right.” She spread the quilt next to the dead man and grabbed his shoulder. Her eyes were averted and stared at a blank spot
