Hazel & Gretel (The Clockwork Fairytales Book 2) Read online

  Hazel & Gretel

  A Clockwork Fairytale

  By A. B. Keuser

  Contents

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  Thank you!

  IRON HEINRICH Sneak Peek

  ONE

  About the Author

  Other Books By A. B. Keuser

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For Nikki

  ONE

  Once Upon a Time…

  Morning was Hazel's favorite time of day. Bright, crisp and as cold as a sliver of ice trailing down her spine. She could breathe in the sharp air and forget all the things she couldn't remember.

  At least... Most mornings she could forget.

  Hazel sat bolt upright in her cramped bed, gasping for air. She grabbed hold of the rafter in front of her a moment before she would have smacked her forehead against it and forced herself to breathe normally. A few moments of that ritual left her calmer. That didn't change the thing that made this morning utterly different from the mornings she'd had for the last six years.

  She remembered who she was. She recalled the dark fairy who had thrown her away and dumped her in this far off village.

  Scrambling out of the bed that was too close to the tiny garret’s ceiling, she knocked her boots over and winced at the noise. There was nothing she could do about it now. She wriggled into the thick fabric of her pants and pulled the too-thin tunic over her head as she glanced around the room, looking for the socks she’d discarded the night before.

  Thick, and carefully knitted, the socks kept her toes from freezing and made the too-big boots the huntsman had given her fit well enough to wear. A daily reminder that someone here loved her when the best she could hope for from others was to be ignored.

  She stuffed her arms into her jacket as she hurried down the stairs, trying to keep as quiet as she could. On the final step, she stopped dead in her tracks. Grimacing as the huntsman turned and left her face to chest with him. He was the last person she wanted to see.

  "Heading out to check the traps early, are you?" he asked.

  He knew better than anyone in the village how often she left the house before he woke. Most days, he didn’t seem to mind.

  She'd been too loud.

  Cursing her idiocy, she slowly nodded and reached for her bag and bow.

  The huntsman—she didn’t know his name—swatted her hand away. "You'll wait until I tell you you can go."

  Hazel had seen him in a mood like this before and she knew the last place she wanted to be was on the receiving end of his axe swing.

  The last tantrum he'd thrown had split his prized mox head in two. The thing had stared at her half on the floor, half on the wall… all stuffing and glass eyes. She glanced at the empty place on the mantle where it had hung from the time she'd arrived until he'd decided to try to scam Krell Tisu and wound up owing the man an extra three hundred gold pieces.

  Stepping around him, she moved to the only piece of furniture she was allowed to touch in the main part of the house. The rickety chair scrapped across floorboards, and she sat in it heavily. She waited silently. It was the only virtue the huntsman approved of—though it was a virtue he didn’t practice.

  "You’ve become more trouble than you're worth. You're a mouth I have to feed that returns nothing."

  Hazel looked at the floor, schooling her features in a way that wouldn't remind him that he was lying to the only person in this village who knew the truth. He hadn't caught or killed any game since the third month she'd arrived.

  "Outsourcing" as he called it was the thing that kept him deep in drinks and debts at the pub down the way. It had him clawing hand over fist to get into the bigger betting circle at the tile houses owned by Krell Tisu and his men. It might have been worth it if the huntsman knew how to play—or what a winning hand would look like.

  "That being as it is," he continued, oblivious to the truths that raced through her mind. "I've decided to trade the debt you owe me to settle one of my own."

  Looking up at that she almost met his eyes—really, how could she not question what he meant by trading her—she immediately flinched away. Defiance was met by a swift, backhand swing and biting words. She could pretend to be submissive if it made him complacent.

  The fist didn't come. The huntsman turned his back on her.

  Her debt was small, it was almost over. In six years, she’d managed to work off the debt of time the fairy had settled over her, but the huntsman found every way possible to keep her from accelerating her payment. She’d tried being a better hunter and managed to improve his yield, but it had only made him expect more of her and use any perceived loss as a chance to count the day as half.

  That was when she realized the man’s greed and sloth would keep her indentured to him as long as possible.

  He snorted, ending her woolgathering. "John the Butcher's brother wanted to take you off my hands, but he couldn't afford the debt you still owe me."

  Of course he couldn’t. John couldn't afford his opium habit, or his three sons and their predilection toward harassing the neighboring temple monks. Even with a paltry three months left in her servitude—which the huntsman would have found a way to stretch into nine or more—Jon couldn’t scrape enough funds for the price her current master had likely raised in an attempt to get every coin he could for her.

  "As it happens, I sold your debt to Krell." He smiled too widely and she looked away, once again, waiting for him to retaliate at nothing. "I thought you'd be happy. I'd bet he wants to marry you. I'd imagine he'll get you home, free you of the debt he's just bought and then you can thank him in whatever way women from Cyprea do.... We both know there are worse places to end up. I could hand you over to the Mager brothers; we know what they’d have you doing."

  Nodding, Hazel kept her eyes on the floor. He wasn’t wrong.

  It was a sad state of affairs when being sold to the head of a local crime syndicate was seven steps above the worst option. She had met several women in the village who would leap at the chance to get their hands into his business. Several of them could increase his income and productivity threefold. She did not fall into either category.

  Until this morning there were only three certainties in her life.

  She had no idea how she had gotten to this village or where she had come from.

  She belonged somewhere specific and it was not here.

  And she would never love any man.

  Irritated by her silence—as he usually became—the huntsman waved his hand toward the door. "Get out, reset the traps that have sprung and if you don't bring back enough, you won't be eating tonight. Tomorrow, you’re no longer my problem."

  Hazel stood at a measured pace. Quick movements startled him as much as they would a grazing doe. Hostile reactions would draw his attention like an angry bear.

  She took up her bag and her bow, slinging one over her head and taking the other in a vice grip.

  Even before she took her first step outside the house, she knew she had a long day ahead of her. There were traps to check, plans to make, and game to kill… if she wanted to keep the huntsman in the dark.

  She would not let him dictate her life. Her service to him was a fairy’s trick, and she was about to take charge again.

  Glancing back through the village, she thought of the one person she wanted to take with her. It was time to plan.

 
; Her life was not something meant to be wasted in the chains of someone else. She had a family to get back to.

  That was especially true now she was certain she had one.

  *

  Gretel had watched Hazel disappear into the forest an hour before and still glanced up every time she heard the faintest of noises coming from the thick tree line.

  She knew she was being silly. Hazel wouldn't be back until she'd cleared all the traps and spent an hour or two hunting game that the huntsman could sell and claim he'd procured by himself. The huntsman was a fool if he thought the rest of the village had failed to notice the astronomical rise in his skills after his so-called apprentice had arrived. The man who'd once been on the verge of poverty because he hadn't the patience for the profession he'd chosen had managed to convince everyone in the village that he was worth more than Hazel.

  Since Hazel's arrival, the stock of game that went through the market's less-than reputable channels was ever increasing. And still the village played the huntsman’s game.

  They all knew it was Hazel. But no one wanted the idiot to get his feelings hurt and do something insane, like stop her from working and plunge them all back into the pre-meat years. Glancing over her shoulder at the kitchen she knew held too little grain and then to the garden that had yielded far fewer crops than they'd hoped, she knew that neither they, nor the rest of the village could afford to lose what Hazel brought to each and every one of their tables.

  After six years, it still amazed Gretel that people believed anything the huntsman said about Hazel. He had the whole town believing that she was a lazy leech when she did most of the work and he took credit. They bought his lies every time. He claimed that she ate most of the food he traded for and everyone bought it… which made no sense when he kept growing wider and wider, and she’d remained exactly the same size as when she’d shown up mysteriously six years ago.

  He called her fat and lazy to her face. It was a wonder she hadn’t “accidentally” shot him yet.

  The front door of her two-story home opened behind her with a grating screech and Gretel looked over her shoulder, startled.

  Her mother stopped at the door and looked at her as though shocked to find her in the garden. Glowering, she buttoned the top of her long coat, took a step forward and then shook her head as if she'd decided Gretel wasn't worth the effort and walked down the path, out of the yard and toward the center of town.

  The gate clattered closed behind her and Gretel watched her disappear around a corner.

  If she was still twelve, she would have asked where her mother was off to. Somewhere between twelve and thirteen, she'd realized her mother's privacy was more important to her than anything else. That trying to invade that privacy, no matter how innocently would be met by a harsh words and a smaller portion at dinner.

  She’d learned years ago that it was better if she didn't care. It was a mutual ignorance. Her mother only cared what she was doing when it looked like she wasn't working.

  The basket of washing sat at the corner of the house and she wiped her hands on her threadbare apron before crossing the yard and hanging the few garments that were mended and ready to be delivered back to their owners after they dried. Among them was a new dress Gretel had made for the vicar's wedding. At least...

  She dug through the pile, heedless of the sock that fell to the dry grass. The dress wasn't there. She shook her head and reminded herself that it might not have made it into the washing. Pinning the last sock to the line, she glanced back at the empty basket and forced herself not to worry.

  Letting out an exhausted sigh, she pulled the last of the morning's vegetables—a paltry gathering from the hard dirt—gathered them in her basket and headed into the house. Her mother had a pile of mending for her and would want dinner started before the sun beat down on them at noon.

  Setting a stew to boil, she glanced back toward the window. Her mother could be back at any time, but breakfast had been meager. Her mother's frugality demanded that thin porridge was all that she would receive.

  She glanced out the window. Her mother would probably be gone half the day. She just needed a little break.

  Stomach growling, she ran up the stairs to her room and closed the door behind her.

  The floorboards creaked beneath her feet and she stepped carefully, listening for any sign her mother had come back. With cautious fingers, she pried up a board beneath her bed and fished the box she had hidden there back into the light of the room.

  She carefully took out the loaf of bread Hazel had smuggled to her the night before and tore it in half, savoring each fluffy bite as her stomach slowly ceased its grumbling.

  Sitting on the hard floor, she looked out her window. Blue skies, puffy clouds and birds that flit through the air as though there was nothing in the world to care about. She envied them.

  A hard thunk from downstairs made her jump and she quickly stowed her box and the remaining bread, before hurrying downstairs.

  Her mother wasn't back. The thump had come from a small, twisted parsnip that had fallen from the table. Picking it up, she cleaned and stored it and the rest of the vegetables and turned her attention to the mending. She stayed there, working—ignoring the glorious day outside—and sifted through the pile, waiting for her mother to come home.

  Three pairs of socks, one chemise, a pair of trousers and half of one dress later, the front door opened and her mother's harsh laughter flooded in ahead of her and the huntsman. Her mother's laughter died the moment she laid eyes on Gretel.

  Swallowing, Gretel did what she'd learned to do, she kept working.

  "Haven't you finished that yet?" Her mother looked at the pile beside her—a week’s worth of work at the very least and it wouldn't ever stop growing—and let out a disgusted noise.

  The huntsman sat down on their best chair and stretched as though it was his own living room.

  "I'm almost done with this dress." Gretel said, her fingers pinching the torn fabric more tightly. "They take more time than the others"

  "Well, work faster," her mother said as she pulled off her coat. “You don’t have time to dilly dally anymore.”

  Gretel opened her mouth to promise she would try, but the words wouldn't come as she caught sight of the dress her mother wore.

  Gold fabric with lace covering the upper half of the bodice and the sleeves. It was a miracle that Gretel had finished it at all. That her mother was wearing it now….

  With an unsteady voice and fists clenched tightly enough her nails bit into her palms, she said, "That was for the vicar. She ordered it specifically."

  The huntsman laughed, "So that's why she looked so flustered. I guess you'll just have to make her a new one."

  Gretel nearly choked. The dress had taken two months to complete. It had required numerous fittings and the vicar's wedding was a few weeks away. She didn't know whether to cry or scream.

  "Why would you wear that?" The dress did not fit well. Her mother was wider in the hips and narrower in the shoulders than the vicar. Her chest was larger and the hem was two inches too short.

  "Don't you try to tell me what I should wear for my wedding. I like the dress, I own it since the vicar still hasn't paid me for it. Don't act so high and mighty. If she wanted it, she would have paid up front."

  Gretel sat in her chair immobile; the vicar had absolved them of a tithe for a full year in exchange for the dress. It might not be a traditional payment, but it was one her mother had agreed to and.... Gretel almost choked.

  "Wait, married?"

  Her mother rolled her eyes as if the conversation was too exasperating. "You didn't think I'd spend the rest of my life alone, did you? Your father was an idiot who got himself killed and forced me to make a living with this mess." She threw her hand toward the pile of mending—one she hadn't touched since she'd finished teaching Gretel how to do every stitch.

  "I—" Gretel looked from her mother to the Huntsman and blinked, unable to put words to the oddity of her sit
uation.

  "Don't gawk, it's unbecoming. And we'll need you to shape up; after all you're getting married next week."

  Gretel pulled back sharply in spite of herself. "I am?"

  The chair felt too hard beneath her, the air too close.

  "Yes, you're too much of a burden and there's a man from Aurona who's willing to take you off my hands. If we're going to start our new life together, we don't want you hanging around. Besides, you're little more than dead weight at this point."

  With that pronouncement, her mother pulled the huntsman from the chair he'd appropriated and led him up the stairs and out of sight.

  Gretel blinked at the vacant room for a moment before swallowing and trying to get back to her mending. She thought it might take her mind off everything her mother had just said.

  It didn't.

  Before she could finish the dress, she'd stabbed herself with the needle four times.

  The sound of scraping furniture echoed overhead and Gretel threw her mending aside, running out the door and through the streets as fast as her legs would take her.

  She stumbled to a stop outside the village church. Its round roof and steepled towers stretched toward the sky and shadowed her from the mid afternoon sun.

  The doors were open as always and she took the steps up at a measured pace.

  Sitting on the dais in front of the low altar, the vicar’s back was to her, kinky black hair circled her head in an ebony halo. Her dark hands rested on her knees, bare feet tucked beneath, and as Gretel stepped beside her, the vicar smiled, though her eyes did not open.

  “I had a feeling you’d be coming to see me.”

  "Leilei, I wanted to throw up when she took off her coat. How are you so calm about this?"

  Sinking down beside her, Gretel adopted a similar pose. “I didn’t know she was going to do that.”

  "I'm meditating on forgiveness and acceptance. Remember, our maker gives us what we ask for so long as we are willing to open ourselves to her will and commune with her."

  "I've spent so long trying," Gretel said

  "And you'll probably spend the rest of your lifetime trying, but grace will find you." She placed her hand on Gretel’s. "Join me."