Chapter 57

“Your mother thought you might enjoy a walk in the woods,” he said that morning, smiling at me across the breakfast table. “Learn some woodcraft. Maybe try your hand at archery.”

The Huntsman was a good man—everyone said so. Loyal. Strong. He’d taught my father to hunt when Father was young. He’d brought me back a fox pelt once, soft and red, and showed me how to cure leather.

I liked him.

“Really?” I looked at my mother, surprised. She rarely let me leave the castle grounds, and never into the deep woods.

“You’re old enough now,” Mother said, not looking up from her plate. “The Huntsman will keep you safe.”

Something about the way she said “safe” made the hair on my arms stand up. But I was nine, and the woods were an adventure, and the Huntsman was smiling at me.

“I’d love to,” I said.

The forest was beautiful.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves in golden shafts. Birds sang. The Huntsman showed me how to identify edible mushrooms, how to spot deer tracks, how to move quietly through undergrowth.

“You’re a natural,” he said when I managed to step over a branch without snapping it. “Quiet feet. Good instincts.”

We picked wildflowers. He told me their names—foxglove, columbine, lady’s slipper. I wove them into a crown and he laughed and said I looked like a forest sprite.

Then he taught me to use his bow.

“Here,” he said, standing behind me, his hands guiding mine. “Elbow up. Draw back smooth. Breathe out as you release.”

The arrow flew wide, but not by much.

“Again,” he said.

I tried three more times. The last arrow hit the tree trunk, just left of where I’d aimed.

“Excellent!” The Huntsman’s voice was warm. “You’ve got a good eye, Princess.”

I beamed at him.