He and Papa had left me alone to rest. I laid there as I had been told. Until I heard them talking out in the parlor.
I slid down from the cot, wincing at new aches knifing into my thighs and lower back. My 19
ripped, muddy dress had been thrown away. I now wore a pair of boy’s trousers and a shirt, which Doctor Renoire had borrowed from his son’s wardrobe.
Only one item had been rescued, and lay on the table beside the cot. My burlap cloak. At least the dark bloodstain in the center gave it some color. I pulled it about my shoulders and hobbled to the door, the wooden floor chilling my bare feet.
I peered through the crack and listened.
Papa leaned forward in a chair, burying his face in his hands.
Doctor Renoire kept a hand on his
shoulder. “Relax, Henri,” he said. “Helena’s going to be all right.”
Papa sat up and wiped away tears. “This is why. This is why we don’t come out any more.
Why we can’t.”
“Because of her face?”
“No. Not exactly. I just don’t want her suffering any more harm.”
My cloak scraped my bruised forearm as I draped it tighter about myself. Doctor Renoire stared at the floorboards. “When Father Vestille brought her in last spring – I had never seen anything like it. At least, not anyone who survived.
And certainly no child.”
My breath grew quick and shallow. My skin bristled at the memories that still filled my nightmares. The wolf that spoke to me in the forest, that killed Grand’Mere Marie and tried to kill me. The wolf that was anything but a wolf.
20
Doctor Renoire knelt before my father.
“Perhaps it’s distasteful to say, but you really should be so grateful, Henri. Just grateful to have her.”
“I know. We are. That’s why we can’t let her go out. Not until we can know this won’t happen again.”
My foot shuffled against the floor. They both turned. I opened the door slowly as if I had just arrived.
Papa quickly wiped his face. “Helena. How do you feel?”
“A little better.”
“Come here, Helena,” Doctor Renoire
beckoned, still kneeling. I limped toward him, feeling some of my strength returning. “That’s it.
Good girl. You’re walking fine. You just need to rest up for a few days. Your father agreed to let you skip some chores the next few weeks while you recover. But you should be up and around in no time. Nothing seems to be broken and you’re already moving around much better.”
They smiled. They seemed to be waiting for me to respond in kind, so I smiled back.
“You know, Helena,” Doctor Renoire
continued. “I’ve never seen a girl recover so quickly. You survived six months ago and again today. You’re fortunate to be alive, both times.
You’re a true miracle.”
My smile faded. “I don’t feel like a miracle.”
21
I clutched at my sore ribs as we trudged through the leaves littering the cobblestone street. I was eager to barter for a new dress at the village clothier and return the trousers that felt so strange, clinging to my legs and exposing them in public.
We rarely visited the brick shops and stone houses of La Rue Sauvage. It seemed aptly named now: “Wild Street”. I had begged Papa to take me with him today, but he would never allow it again.
Perhaps my parents were right to keep me close to home, never venturing too far outside. Where the wolf might be waiting. “I want to see Francois,” I said.
Papa said nothing at first. “You need to rest. We came to the village. That should be enough excitement for one day, don’t you think?”
I heard laughter and flinched. A few men strolled by in front of us, chuckling. Not Jacque Denue or his friends. “I want to see Francois.
Please, Papa.”
He sighed. “I’ll think on it.
