Red Riding Hood's Child

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If Anrin had not needed to finish the hoeing, all might have gone differently. The blacksmith was a strong man and the walls of the smithy were thick. Not that the smith would have killed him—except perhaps accidentally, if he’d put up too much of a fight—but his future would have been set in the eyes of the villagers. Blood told, and they’d been waiting for Anrin’s to tell since his birth. This was what happened instead.

“Come here, boy,” said the smith. “I’ve something special to give you.”

Anrin stopped hoeing the tailor’s garden and obediently crossed the road to the smithy. “More work, sir?”

“No work,” said the smith, turning from the doorway to reach for something out of sight. He returned with a big wooden bowl, which he held out to Anrin. “See.”

And Anrin caught his breath, for the bowl held half a dozen straw-berries.

“Lovely, aren’t they? Got them from a nobleman traveler as payment. Came from the king’s own hothouses, he swore. Have one.”

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