Tress

By Larissa Brown

Ever since little Tess cut off her doll's hands and painted them blood red, she's longed to live in a gruesome fairy tale. But when grown-up Tess can hardly tend her own wounds, how can she free a golden-haired woodsman from his curse?

Larissa Brown, author of the Viking love story Beautiful Wreck, crosses genres again with a novella that's part fairytale, part psychological horror, with a dash of fated love. "A deliciously dark tale worthy of The Brothers Grimm. The sumptuously colorful and evocative prose takes you to a realm far beyond the ordinary." -- N.J. Layouni, author of the bestselling TALES OF A TRAVELER series.

Tress is a novella of 21,000 words (the equivalent of about 80 print pages.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larissa Brown
• Release date: May 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781612200828

Larissa Brown

Larissa Brown is a writer and fiber artist whose artwork has been featured in Fiberarts and Knit.1 magazines and exhibited in New York, Seattle, Boston, and her hometown of Portland, Oregon. See her art at www.larissabrown.net and read her blog at www.larissmix.typepad.

Book preview

Tress

by Larissa Brown

TRESS

Electronic edition ISBN-13: 978-1-61220-082-8

Copyright © 2015 Larissa Brown

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. All characters are imaginary and any resemblances to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental. For information about licensing, custom editions, special sales, or academic/corporate purchases, please contact Larissa Brown, [e-mail]

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except brief excerpts for the purpose of review, without prior written permission of the publisher. Do not post this book for free downloading. Thank you for respecting my copyright.

More about this work and upcoming books at www.larissabrown.net

1

Tess sways with the night breeze, wet grass between her toes, remnants of old drinking songs at her back. Across the moon-dark field, a man chops wood. Crisp September air carries whispers of smoke from his fire. It burns in a ring of stones at his feet, violently bright in the deep blue night.

A tall canvas tent rises behind him — just one in a row of merchants' tents at the far edge of this field. Diffuse, orange light glows from inside the pale walls, and the lanterns and flames light his angular features, high cheekbones casting shadows that jump wildly over his face.

His beard is trimmed close, and his hair just touches his shoulders, falling into his face as he works. His tunic's dark material almost disappears in the night, the fire capturing mostly his movement, the hint of cuffs and a collar in something light, the glint of his blade. His back moves as he chops, raising the ax above his shoulder and bringing it down again and again with thick and satisfying chunks of sound. A woodsman straight out of a fairy tale.

A gust comes, and his fire flickers. Tess's dress moves against her calves, and a wisp of hair comes loose and waves about. She pushes it off her forehead, and the man does the same. He wipes his eyes with the back of his wrist. Across the distance, he looks up. He sees her.

And the years rush away.

Everything about now is gone, flying past Tess with a swing of his ax, leaving only night creatures and tent and flame. Sparkling stars and grass and this man, boots laced up to his knees and a drinking horn hanging at his waist, his movements as liquid and easy as a song. Tess is in the tale with him, caught in time and by his eyes, across this softly sighing field.

Hey– A drunken voice cuts in. What are you doing all alone?

The guy she came here with, to this weekend war, careens into view in his black kilt with a skeleton print. He's spilled wine down the front of his pirate shirt.

Axel.

She wipes her hand on her skirt. A habit. So much charcoal and pencil dust rubbed into so many pairs of jeans over so many years. At least this dress is black.

He stumbles toward her and looks down at the grass as if it's tripped him.

Hey, Red, he says, pitching forward. Tess lunges to catch him, and he ends up in her arms. So heavy, they almost fall.

No one calls me that, Tess says.

I was looking for you. It’s a slurry of words.

No, you weren't. Tess tries to turn him around. I think you were looking for the Porta Potties.

No, he says. I wanted to see you.

He stands admirably straight for someone so drunk. Alcohol and the smell of dirt roll off him, and he pulls her into a sudden, clumsy kiss that tastes of spiced rum. His chest presses against her ribs, hands in her hair, and Tess is breathless. A kiss! She hasn't been kissed often, and not in a very long time, not since before. Something deep inside turns toward it like leaves toward the sun.

She doesn't like him. But could she? She opens her lips, tasting the idea. She runs her hands down his arms, and he stiffens.

He forgot about her hand.

He must have. He pulls away, and there's a fleeting shot of clarity, as if he shakes off the rum and lets his pity and disgust show through the haze. So fleeting she could have missed it, if she weren't so accustomed to the shock and quickly-covered horror when people realize her hand is not real.

She pushes him away. You don't want me.

That's not true, Axel says. I wanted you since.

He stops, as if that's all, but then draws more words up one at a time as if from a deep well. Since we got here.

He actually hiccups.

I think you've had a lot to drink. Tess turns him toward their tents, clustered at the edge of the field. Maybe...go to bed.

You're just... Axel sways. His voice drops to a whisper and he leans in close, conspiratorially. You're so quiet.

Tess laughs a little. Is that all it is? Maybe her only problem is being silent. She's not really a freak. Not weird Tess. Could it be?

She pulls away and searches his face. He’s tall, but so is she, and so they stand eye to eye. Thick dark brows accentuate his pretty blue eyes, and bits of wavy brown hair brush his forehead and curl around his collar. But nothing happens. Nothing stirs in her heart, no years rush away. Nothing comes to life in his gaze, either. They just stand together, the mud chilling her toes.

It's alright, she says. Come. Get to bed.

She takes him by the elbow and turns him toward the tents.

I once did a school project about skeletons, she says. She pushes him gently into his tent and he slumps onto his mattress.

Huh? He sinks into his sleeping bag with his clothes and boots on, his skeleton patterned kilt tossed up around his thighs. She murmurs to him, like a bedtime story. I made soup with the bones of several kinds of animals. But he's already snoring.

Tess backs out of his tent. As she ducks low, it hits, with a single throb of her heart and flash of an image. She is somewhere else.