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The crisp bite of the air outside tells Shannon snow is coming.
Shannon is every bit a child of summer and doesn’t much care for these long winters. He snuggles in his wools and burrows his nose into the warmth of his thick scarf. The icicle air continues to sting at his exposed cheekbones.
Leaves crunch and brittle branches snap as Bailey weaves her way through the bare woods behind their cottage. Her nose pokes at an abandoned animal hole nearby. Whatever lived there is long dead or hibernating, but the smells live on for the curious dog.
Shannon crouches, pulling his sweater over his kneecaps. His father, Vivian, hates when he does that—says it stretches out the material too thin—but hopefully he’s not watching out the back window.
“Are you done, Bailey?” Shannon doesn’t hide his hopeful tone, even though she hasn’t squatted once since they went outside.
Bailey’s reddish-brown coat is fluffy, allowing her to endure harsher cold weather than her summer boy. Nonetheless, she senses his urgency and does her business quickly before trotting up to his side.
He gives her a soft scratch behind her ears.
“Good girl.”
As he stands, the back door opens. Vivian appears, scowling down at his son.
“What have I said about stretching out your clothes?” he snaps as Shannon nears.
“My legs were cold.”
“Put your thermal pants on beneath your trousers.”
“I did.” Shannon shivers and squeezes between his father and the narrow doorway. His ruddy cheeks are puffed out in displeasure as he unlaces his boots. “Can’t we move?”
“Move where?”
“Someplace warm.”
Vivian ignores his request and presses a kettle into his palm. “Fill this with water. I’ll make tea. Will that warm you up?”
“When does Daddy get home?”
“I don’t know.”
Graham’s hunting and fishing hours are always erratic, but with the incoming storm, Shannon hopes he’ll return sooner than later. Unlike Vivian and Shannon, he’s a fragile human who wouldn’t survive getting caught up in a blizzard.
“Why couldn’t he take me fishing?”
“You’d complain about the cold and scare the fish away.” Vivian eyes him wearily as he pulls out a chair, its wooden legs scraping against the stone floor. As he sinks into the seat, he sighs and rests his chin on his knuckles. “I don’t want to be stuck alone with you, either.”
Shannon wisely turns away before he scowls. If Shannon is born from the cries of the cicadas, what birthed his papa—a cornered badger?
The pump is at the back of the house, near their wash basins for laundry and the tub they use for baths. It always makes Shannon’s arms ache to use it, because drawing water up from the well takes a few strong pumps.
As he’s working, he puts his back to the cellar door and tries not to think about its existence. Before his papa locked him in there, he used to be afraid of something evil lurking down there in the shadows. Now he fears it for additional reasons.
Shannon manages to fill the kettle without making a mess and brings it back to the kitchen. He presses down the cap and hooks it over the fire.
Vivian adds honey and a tea ball filled with dried chamomile to Shannon’s mug while preparing matcha green tea for himself. The calming scent of both wafts over to Shannon as he settles into a chair across from his father.
“You can take off your scarf and gloves now that you’re inside,” says Vivian without looking up.
“Still cold.” Despite his protestations, however, Shannon removes his winter accessories.
The two fireplaces—one at the front of the house and a double-sided one at the back—produce sufficient heat in their cottage. Graham always extinguishes the hearths before he goes to sleep. The thick tapestries over the windows, the rugs on the floors, and homemade quilts all help insulate against the cold.
Nonetheless, this time of year is the opposite of Shannon’s affinities, and he does not care for it.
“After tea, we have some important chores,” says Vivian. “Before the snow comes, we need to restock the wood racks inside and bring food stores up from the cellar.”
Those words form a tight coil around Shannon. He’s bad at the first task; he’d like to avoid the second entirely. “I’ll make room in the pantry.”
“I already did. If Daddy catches any fish, he’ll prepare those for dinner. You should also have a hot bath after you help me. It might be a few days before it’s warm enough to take another one, and I won’t have a filthy boy about the house.”
Shannon frowns at the table’s surface but says nothing. The bath doesn’t bother him. Fetching goods from the cellar is more concerning. It terrifies him, but if he argues against helping Vivian, his father will surely think he’s being willful and disobedient.
Not once does he ever think about why Shannon acts the way he does. To him, it is nothing but misbehavior and is caused only by a desire to disrupt.
Vivian checks the kettle, and when he returns, he sets down a plate with a single cookie on it. “Something to give you energy before supper.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
All of Vivian’s indulgences confuses Shannon. The cookie is a sudden treat. Undeserved. While he usually seems continuously angry at Shannon and faults him for existing, there are moments where he shows love or takes genuinely good care of him.
On days like today, Vivian is some strange mixture of both thoughtful and cruel. Like he doesn’t know how to balance the needs of a second person. Fatherhood becomes a chore one moment and a delight the next.
Shannon knows the fault lies with him, but his actions are always dictated by his emotions instead of figuring out how to be what Vivian wants him to be.
Shannon gives in just as much to his desire for bits of happiness whenever he can find them, just as much as he gives into his anger. Shannon enjoys cookies, and a childish love of sweets overrides any questions he might have about the purpose of Vivian’s kind gestures.
The tea is delicious with the additional honey, and Shannon nibbles on his cookies slowly between sips to savor it. A nap calls to him, but there’s no way the storm preparations will allow for it.
When they’re done with tea some thirty minutes later—having spent the entire time not exchanging a word—Vivian gathers up the dishes and places them in the basin.
“Get your boots back on.”
As Shannon ties his shoelaces, he tries to negotiate. “I can take care of the wood by myself.” And you can handle the cellar.
Vivian shakes his head as he pulls on his own boots. “You’ll let out all the heat in the house, opening the door that often.”
“It’ll be open anyway.”
“Not as long, if we work together.” Vivian fetches two curved metal trays with handles that will allow them to carry in multiple pieces of firewood at once. “We’ll use these to fill the racks and only open the door when we’re both going inside.”
Shannon can’t carry as much wood as his father. The trip into the cellar seems inevitable.
The cellar might be his least favorite punishment out of all the methods Vivian uses to discipline him. Even in warmer months, it’s chilly. Spankings and swallowing nasty spoonfuls of oil or vinegar are all over fairly quickly and don’t involve being surrounded by darkness and odd noises. (Though Shannon hates those punishments too.)
Just as the two are about to step outside to start fetching wood, they hear the crunch of boots on forest debris.
“That must be your daddy. If he’s home, he can carry more firewood than you.”
The back door opens, and Graham hurries indoors. He’s bundled in various fur and wool garments to stave off the cold. Two salmon of medium size dangle from bindings clutched in his gloved hand.
“It’s starting to snow,” he warns. The salmon are placed on the counter. “Once these are clean, we’ll get supper started. The rest will go for jerky.”
Vivian kisses his cheek. “Thank you. This will help. I was just about to carry in more firewood with Shannon, but you’re stronger and can carry more at a time. The fewer times we have to open the back door, the better.”
Graham’s brows furrow. “If there’s three of us—”
“Shannon can barely carry two pieces of wood at a time.” Vivian hands Shannon a piece of paper. A list of items and the numbers are all marked in Vivian’s neat cursive. “Shannon, grab a spare crate and start bringing these up from the cellar.”
Shannon’s hands tremble slightly as he takes the list from his father. If Vivian notices, he ignores it.
His fathers take the trays through the back door, and Shannon is left with the single chore he did not want. He’d rather be left to carry out the waste from the back house into the woods than be tasked with any cellar-related work.
In the back room, Shannon stares at the door to the cellar. It sits next to the pantry, and on the other side of the pantry is the bathtub. There’s a door across from it that leads to the back house.
The items on the list will require more than one trip to the cellar, which displeases Shannon enough that he considers defying all orders and tossing the list in the fire.
That’s also the easiest way to guarantee incurring Vivian’s wrath.
Shannon fidgets a moment before he turns to the dual fireplace shared with the kitchen and fetches the lantern from the mantle. He lights the candle and fits it firmly on the spike before closing its glass shutter.
Extra candles are among one of the items on the list. Shannon would like to use twenty of them to guide his way through the cellar, but he always fears some dramatic scenario where a sudden gust of magical wind snuffs them all out at once and plunges him into the pitch black. Not that the single lantern makes him feel much safer, but if it snuffs out, he can think of it as an accident rather than something supernatural.
Shannon finally takes a step toward the door and opens it. He ignores the scratches at the bottom of the wood as he moves a brick in place so it won’t swing closed on him. More damage is always added when he gets locked down here. At first, he tries to be brave in the dark—the same courage he seeks now but can never find—before he considers trying to dig his way out through the wood.
He once fell down these steps after exhaustion took over and he went to sleep at the top.
His legs feel like the gelatinous substance from cooled bone marrow broth. There are no backs to these steps, meaning anything could grab at his ankles from behind the staircase.
“Bailey?” Shannon tries to summon her to his side, but he hears her low pitched whine at the back door—two of her humans are outside, and they’ve left her in. “Bailey, please?”
She doesn’t come, so he braves another step down, and another.
He starts humming a melody. Music is his only company. There are few songs he knows, and so he makes up one from random notes. It feels a lifetime ago when Vivian would sing him to sleep, rocking him back and forth in his arms before bedtime.
How the years pass. How secrets about one’s unwanted birth come to light.
The cellar is but a singular room with no windows. It rests beneath what is now his parents’ bedroom but was once shared between all three of them. Shannon even slept in the same bed from the ages of two to five, before they gave him a separate cot.
His tiny bedroom is a new addition to the home, and he’s grateful there’s no cellar above it to think about what lurks beneath him every night.
He hums a little louder after that thought.
There are sacks full of dry rice and beans; wooden crates housing glass jars of jams, pickled vegetables, jerky, nuts, and dried fruits; more burlap sacks filled with root vegetables and apples. The box of candles rests on a shelving unit. Shannon sets his lantern beside it and checks the list. Twelve candles—is that enough?
Shannon finds an empty crate and begins to fill it with the necessary goods.
Multiple trips down to this dreadful basement will be necessary. The list is too lengthy, and the potatoes and apples will require one journey each—never mind the jams, jerky, rice, beans, and jug of apple cider.
As Shannon is collecting two bars of soap, he hears a disturbance in the corner. Something metallic hits an old washing basin.
With a yelp, Shannon snatches up the lantern.
Bailey lowers her head and slinks beneath the stairwell.
“Bailey!” His scolding is not very harsh, and he’s actually grateful she’s down here beside him. A dog will protect him from monsters, right? But what if she gets hurt…?
“I hate it down here!” Shannon complains.
He fills the crate to capacity quickly and balances the lantern at the top before hurrying up the stairs as quickly as his legs will allow.
In doing so, he nearly barrels into Graham.
“What’s got into you?” asks Graham, moving aside to let Shannon pass.
Shannon slams the crate down beside the pantry.
“I don’t like it down there!” he shouts tearfully. “Don’t make me go back down! Papa made me.”
“What are you on about?” Vivian asks sternly from the doorway into the kitchen. His arms are folded over his chest. “Is that all you’ve managed to bring up so far?” He nods his head in the direction of the crate.
“You do the rest!” Shannon smacks the list against his father’s chest and keeps it pressed there with his fingertips.
“Excuse me?” Vivian stands a little taller and plucks the list away. “Everyone helps out around the house. Those are the rules. You’re not a precious prince, Shannon.”
“He doesn’t like the cellar, Vivian. He has his reasons, and you know it.”
“Fine. He can ready the bathwater.” Vivian glares at Shannon. “Are you capable of that, or shall we do that for you as well?”
“I can do it,” Shannon snaps.
“Maybe I ought to wash out that mouth of yours to start, if you’re going to take that tone with me.”
As Shannon turns away to grab a pail and start pumping his bath water, he hears Graham murmur, “You could’ve waited to see if he did it before assuming he’s incapable.”
“I know he’s not incapable,” Vivian sneers. “He’s never willing to do anything.”
“He looked ready to help with the firewood.”
Their voices grow distant as they descend the staircase, the moans of the wooden steps and the pumping of water further drowning out their voices.
Shannon doesn’t need to hear Vivian to know he’s still insulting him.
Once one bucket is sufficiently full but not too heavy to still cart over to the fireplace, Shannon settles it on a hook and begins filling a second one. It takes far too long to fill the tub properly on his own.
Shannon keeps his back turned to his parents as they return with the first batch of goods for the pantry. They deposit the goods he brought up earlier as well. There isn’t much conversation, and as the water boils, Graham abandons Vivian to help Shannon cart the hot pails over to the bathtub. A bit of cold water is added to maintain a more tolerable temperature—although Shannon can withstand greater heat than either of his fathers—even though previous buckets have already started to cool from waiting on more water to boil.
“After I’m done preparing the fish, I’ll be using the bath after,” says Graham as he hands Shannon a fresh bar of soap. He puts two pails over the fire—one on the kitchen side, the other on the laundry side—and goes to chop up the salmon.
Vivian returns with a drying cloth as Shannon is already settled into the water. He sits at the edge of the tub and reaches out to rake his fingers through Shannon’s wavy golden hair.
“Like fields of harvest wheat,” he murmurs softly, his voice filled with sudden warmth and affection. “I’ll wash and braid it for you. Let me fill a basin.”
Washing and caring for his son’s hair is one task Vivian never seems to mind. As if it might be Shannon’s only asset to have beautiful tresses.
“Come closer,” says Vivian, returning with a wooden bowl mixed with the leftover warm water from the kettle and apple cider vinegar. Shannon leans his head against the edge of the tub and dips his hair into the mixture. Tender fingers massage against Shannon’s scalp, followed by the gentle combing of each delicate lock.
Shannon’s hair is almost exactly like Vivian’s—soft and wispy—but the color is richer. It surprises him that Vivian doesn’t hate it out of jealousy.
Vivian rinses out Shannon’s hair carefully before wrapping it in a cotton cloth.
“Finish bathing. Daddy needs the tub next—his water is already boiling.”
Shannon would prefer to stay settled in the hot water, basking in the warmth of the nearby fire, but when Vivian brings him clean clothes, he obediently dries and dresses.
Bailey is waiting for him on the rug at the front of the house. The fire is going in the corner, and Shannon eases down beside his dog as close to the hearth as possible. The heat helps to dry his hair. As if instinctive on the timing, Vivian appears once it’s no longer wet with a comb and a length of cotton string in hand.
Vivian settles among the furs on the settee. With a single point, he directs Shannon closer.
Shannon doesn’t move away from the fire.
“Shannon.” Vivian uses a stern tone that sends Shannon’s toes curling in their woolen socks. “Let’s fix your hair.”
Shannon reluctantly crawls away from the fire and settles down in front of his father. Vivian gently works through the small snares, combing long after his hair is smooth and his waves spring up when released. The comb’s teeth have been soaked in a bit of olive oil to work it through the ends of the dry strands.
“The snow’s starting,” says Graham as he joins them. He settles into the chair by the fireplace, hair wrapped in a cotton cloth. He lets out a shiver and draws a fur throw up over his shoulders. “It’s accumulating fast. The snow is coming down in chunks—like it’s been holding off on this for ages.”
“Visibility?” asks Vivian, carefully dividing Shannon’s hair with the comb into three sections.
“Can’t see beyond a few yards from the windows. We’re in for a few inches.”
Which also means Shannon will be trapped in the house with his fathers for several days. The idea is nearly intolerable. Room is limited within the cottage, and Shannon and Bailey have been scolded repeatedly for rambunctious behavior indoors.
There are few books on the shelves by the dining table, and most of them are nonfiction, which can only occupy Shannon so long before he’s miserable.
Never mind the lack of toys. Shannon owns a weird doll Vivian made him as a child, but now that he’s no longer small, he doesn’t know what to do with it. He outgrew the blocks Graham carved for him as well.
Vivian finishes the braid and lets it fall against his back. It’s a short, stubby thing, and Shannon usually messes it up within a few hours, but it seems to please Vivian to play with his hair.
“Supper will be ready shortly,” says Vivian, herding Shannon back toward the fire as he stands. “Stay out of trouble.”
The implication that Shannon seeks it only makes the idea of misbehavior that more tempting.
The snow continues through the evening. Shannon sits by the fire and steals the occasional glance behind the tapestry they use as a curtain. The snow drifts down in large chunks. It seems impossibly cold.
Bailey goes to the front door and whines.
“I can’t,” he whispers to her. His parents are in the kitchen, preparing meals and making jerky and whatever else it is adults do. “It’s too dark out now.”
When Shannon glances in the kitchen, both his parents are at the counter, peeling and chopping apples. They’re both chattering back and forth, having what appears to be a nostalgic conversation. Graham even leans over and kisses Vivian on the cheek.
“Once he’s in bed, we’ll find our own ways of staying warm,” Graham whispers too loudly.
Shannon scrunches up his nose and retreats. His parents don’t seem like they’re in a place to tolerate interruption.
Shannon retrieves his boots and begins dressing up for the outdoors. Bailey lets out a whine and bangs at the bottom of the door with her nose impatiently.
“Stay close, Bailey.”
Surely they won’t be upset if he only releases her outside and watches from the front stoop?
Bailey dashes out as soon as he opens the door. She barely makes it a yard before she squats, looking as displeased about the snow as Shannon feels about the cold.
She’s sniffing around by a tree to continue her business when the door opens again.
“Shannon!” Graham steps out beside him in boots, but he’s dangerously under-dressed in only a coat and boots, with no hat or gloves. “Get back inside.”
“Bailey needed out! You were supposed to take her out after supper!”
Graham grimaces. “I’m sorry, but that’s no excuse to break the rules.” He hugs his arms across his chest, burying his palms beneath his armpits. When Shannon doesn’t move, he barks, “Get inside like I told you!”
Shannon flees, slamming the door behind him, only to collide with Vivian in the entryway.
“Do you ever listen?” Vivian’s fingers dig deep into his upper arms as he gives Shannon a firm shake. “What are the rules?”
“You didn’t let Bailey out! She needed to go!”
“You could have asked one of us to take care of it. You forgot to even put on her booties.”
Shannon scowls. “You were too busy kissing.”
“One kiss, you insolent child.” Vivian gives him another firm shake. “We’re preparing more food so you can survive the winter—not that you do much to convince me you’re worth the effort.”
The door opens again, and Bailey rushes in, shadowed by Graham. He theatrically shivers as he takes off his boots.
“I thought I heard howling nearby,” he warns.
“That’s a bad sign, and all the more reason Shannon shouldn’t have gone out.”
“We should have let Bailey out earlier. The snow hasn’t quit. Poor girl will be miserable if it gets any higher, and I don’t want her out if there are wolves wandering this close to the house.”
“If you don’t like feeding me, why do you care if I get eaten by wolves?” snaps Shannon sulkily at Vivian.
“I don’t want to clean up the bloody mess they’ll leave when they tear you limb from limb.”
“Vivian, would you stop talking to him like that?” Graham peers down at Shannon. “Papa wants to keep you safe, but you’re annoying him. He doesn’t mean what he says.”
“No, I don’t want him dead. He’s just the worst mistake I’ve ever made and reminds me everyday.”
“Vivian!”
Vivian huffs. “Get out of those boots and go dry Bailey’s paws off.”
Shannon obeys, eyes burning despite how much they stung from the cold only minutes ago. Papa hates him, and Daddy loves Papa more than he loves Shannon.
Bailey is less willing to cooperate with Vivian’s orders than her boy. When Shannon approaches with a cloth, she darts away. It becomes a game for her, being pursued and dashing off just as Shannon gets close. By the time she’s calm enough to even touch, her paws are only a little damp. Even the wet prints across the floors have mostly dried.
“Never mind,” says Vivian, plucking the cloth out of Shannon’s hands. “It’s time for bed.”
“It’s early.”
“Going to bed on time is a privilege for good children. You are not a good child.” Vivian steers him toward his bedroom. “I’ll be in shortly.”
Shannon’s shoulders slump, and he trudges away. Bailey follows at his heels, nudging his hand with her nose.
Once the covers are peeled back, Bailey waits until Shannon is beneath them before hopping up beside his legs. Her chin rests on his thigh.
Petting her soft fur and feeling her warmth against his side is soothing against the rising tide of fire in his heart. Now he’s left with only a self-pitying state of mind.
“That dog had better not be in your bed, Shannon, or I’ll spank you both.”
Bailey’s head rises in alarm.
“Off,” Shannon hisses, but Bailey is already moving. She curls up on the rug and wags her tail as Vivian enters holding a few items.
Vivian eyes her suspiciously. Every night, it’s the same—she’ll be back in Shannon’s bed once everyone else is asleep. Before anyone wakes, she’s out again. The dog hair on the top quilt gets overlooked, but Vivian’s threat isn’t a fib if he catches Bailey in the act.
Which is all the more reason Shannon’s grateful she has learned how to go behind Vivian’s back.
Vivian hands Shannon a cup and his toothbrush, which already has a baking soda mixture on the bristles.
“Go on, brush them.”
Despite his sour expression, Shannon cooperates with this part of his nighttime ritual. He holds out the brush to his father.
“Tongue as well.”
Shannon huffs, eyes watering as he scratches the brushes against the top of his tongue. He’s grateful when he can rinse it out with water. It’s only mildly better than when he’s disrespectful and has to hold fish oil or vinegar in his mouth for a set amount of time.
“Better to care for your teeth than have them rot,” says Vivian as he drops the toothbrush into the metal cup. He leans in and kisses Shannon on the forehead. “Settle in.”
Graham appears to help tuck Shannon further in. His beard scratches against Shannon’s eyebrows as he kisses him almost in the exact same spot as Vivian did moments before.
“Let us know if you get cold,” says Graham, patting his stomach through the layers of bedding.
Shannon does not sleep when Vivian extinguishes his lantern and they leave. Soft light glows from the front room into the small hallway, created by a combination of candles and the fireplace. The house is warm enough, and he’s snug beneath his blankets, but there are new tears in his eyes.
For all the bedtime kisses he has had and will get in the future, they are not enough to convince him that Vivian’s frequent expressions of regret at Shannon’s birth and survival are anything but genuine.
After much debate between whether or not Shannon prefers to endure the snow or stay in the company his papa, he choose the bad weather.
Shannon pulls on his boots while Bailey is busy gnawing on a bit of venison jerky he’s using as a distraction. In this weather, she’s sure to get her poor paws frozen, and he doesn’t trust that the woolen booties Vivian made for her are enough protection against the cold. Not long-term. She can’t accompany him.
He’s sorry to leave her.
Her brown eyes fall on him, and her jaws stop.
He puts his finger to his lips. She goes back to chewing.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and sees the singular wag of her tail. While mostly an intelligent puppy, she has her moments of stupidity—usually when food is involved.
Without that treat, she’d never willingly let her boy go out that door quietly or without her. It’s not known how she’ll react when the jerky is finished and she realizes Shannon is gone. He hopes to have made headway by then.
Shannon uses the window at the front of the house. The door hinges would be louder and certainly alert Vivian, who is a relatively light sleeper compared to Graham. The drop from the window is muffled by the rough rug on the porch, which is dusted with snow that whipped up under the roof.
Shannon drags his bag carefully over the ledge and slowly pulls everything shut, watching the curtain slip back into place.
The world outside is still. There’s only a little noise from the large snow clusters gathering and creaking the limbs of the trees.
Shannon loves that they always choose to live on the edge of a village. Never too far from civilization, but never so close as to not live among nature.
His intention is to follow the creek nearby, avoiding the town altogether.
The star and moonlight glow brightly through the clouds and reflect off the snow, giving him generous light to navigate in the dark. He’s able to spare the candle in his lantern.
It’s one of the many things he took, along with a blanket and extra clothing, although he wears extra layers to fend off the current frost. He also stole some of Vivian’s coins, which he knows if he gets caught will come out of his hide.
The point, however, is to never go back.
This is the perfect weather to slip away, even if Shannon has no love of the cold. The snow falls steadily in fat chunks, but it doesn’t swirl around and ruin his visibility. It is much calmer than it was earlier that evening. He can recognize the trees, fence posts, and farm sheds, which work as a map that leads him to the creek. The precipitation should hopefully cover his tracks before morning.
No one will know which direction he headed if the snow buries all the evidence.
Shannon reaches the creek’s frozen waters and picks up his pace. There’s a light bounce to his steps. Beneath his layers, some parts of him are too warm, but his face is chilled to the bone even with his woolen scarf up over his nose.
A bark suddenly echoes through the forest. Shannon ducks behind a tree. There are often dogs out here—giant, white guardians who don’t mind the snow and spend the evenings protecting their flocks. But this isn’t the deep, intimidating bark of one of those livestock dogs.
That’s Bailey’s lighter yap. While she can certainly come close to the larger shepherd dogs when it comes to her deeper barks, her mixed breed heritage means an assortment of unusual sounds come from her. It all depends on the circumstances.
Shannon hears running through the snow. Panting.
A minute later, Bailey’s nose nuzzles beneath his arms. She’s wearing all four of her woolen socks around her skinny legs, long fur puffing out over the cuffs.
Bailey offers Shannon a proud yap, tail wagging.
“Bailey, stop,” he hisses, even though he can hear the adult boots crunching through the snow. “Tattletale.”
“It’s a good thing she is,” says Vivian, stopping beside Bailey to scratch her ears in reward. He has put on his work pants over his thermal sleepwear and tossed on a robe and boots, but he doesn’t wear nearly the protection that covers Shannon. No scarf, no gloves—as if the risk of frostbite is nothing to him. “You’re a very good girl, Bailey! You found him.”
“It’s too cold for Bailey to be out.”
“It’s even worse for you,” snaps Vivian. “There’s more than the cold to worry about out here for all of us!”
Bailey stills, eyes shifting nervously in Vivian’s direction.
“No worries.” Vivian reaches over and grasps Shannon’s arm firmly. “I’ll see to it that you’re warmed up quickly and thoroughly.”
Shannon tries to jerk out of Vivian’s grip, but the effort is futile. He’s spun around, and although his layers pad the blow, the message of his father’s hand across his backside is clear.
“I don’t want to go home.”
“What you want isn’t up for discussion, Shannon Miles Liddell. I’d rather not use all my energy to teleport us home unless wolves show up, but I will if I have to.”
The house doesn’t seem that far now that Vivian is dragging him back through the snow. Shannon overestimated the distance he crossed. Perhaps he moved too slowly and should have gone at a run.
Vivian calls out when they’re closer to the cottage. “Graham! I’ve found him!”
Footfalls across the snow come from around the side of the house. Graham appears a few minutes later, far more dressed than his husband. A lantern swings from his gloved hand. He’s able to let Bailey inside before Vivian reaches the front door of the cottage.
Shannon stumbles forward when Vivian tosses him inside.
“It’s nearly one in the morning,” Vivian complains as he slams the door closed. Snow collapses from the rooftop from the vibrations.
“No frostbite?” asks Graham, glancing over at Shannon.
“Not that I can tell. It’ll only get colder tonight. Who knows how he would’ve fared out there.”
“Better than here,” snaps Shannon, although his courage is slowly sapping away, and there’s a tight twist in his gut.
“It will certainly feel like it when I’m done with you,” says Vivian as he unties his boots and carefully pulls them off. He sets them on the mat next to the front door. “Boots off, Shannon. You’re dripping, and the less that needs mopped later, the better for you.”
“There’s no better for me,” Shannon grumbles, undoing his laces.
“If you keep running off, there won’t be. How many times is this now?”
Once they’re fully unlaced and loose enough, Shannon kicks off his boots, letting his toes do the aiming. The first one thumps against the wall and falls on its side on the mat.
“Do that with the other one and see how it ends.”
Shannon stomps over with the other boot in hand and settles them in a standing position.
“Pleased now?”
“I am far from pleased, child.”
No, you’re mean, and that’s why I’m running away. Shannon doesn’t dare say these thoughts—he has already awakened his father’s rage. Summoning more might be unwise. As far as he knows, there’s no switch in the house, but that doesn’t mean Vivian won’t put his boots back on and cut one if he decides it’s necessary.
Vivian sifts through Shannon’s meager packing, hissing when his hands close around a few coins.
“I’m even more unhappy now. Do you live to upset me?”
Shannon doesn’t answer, but the fact remains known and unspoken between them: he’ll never be the child his father wants.
Vivian gathers all wet clothes in his arms—including his robe, which has gotten snow at the bottom hem—and takes them to the back room to put them on the line.
Bailey has scampered away, presumably to hide beneath Shannon’s bed. That’s where she goes whenever Shannon is punished, although she’ll leave the room if Vivian carries out discipline in there.
Graham has his arms folded as he frowns down at Shannon.
There’s nowhere to run.
Shannon’s stomach curls inward when Vivian returns to the front of the house. The mop in his hands only delays the inevitable. The melted snow from their return is soaked up, leaving behind smears of water across the stones.
“Graham, would you be so kind as to put this up while I tend to our son?” Vivian offers the handle of the mop to his husband.
Graham nods and disappears, and Vivian takes a seat on the settee. His hand pushes some of the furs and woolen blankets aside before he reaches across the small space and snags Shannon’s wrist.
“There are animals out there that would happily maul you, especially at nighttime,” Vivian scolds as he tugs down the waistband of Shannon’s thermal bottoms, along with his cotton drawers. “You’re lucky Bailey fussed and screeched as soon as you were gone.”
He pulls his son across his lap. Shannon burrows his burning face into the nearest woolen blanket, hugging it tightly. A shiver crawls up from the exposed skin on his lower back.
“You won’t be cold long,” Vivian promises. His hand clamps around Shannon’s middle, pinning him in place. “This weather is not safe to travel in for a child of summer. Not that you should have run away in the first place, wholly unprepared. No food, no water—only an absolute fool with a death wish would travel outside right now. Carrying only some of my coins, which are not easy to earn, and you were not the one who worked for them. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Shannon grits his teeth.
“Stubborn boy,” Vivian complains, raising his hand high.
The room holds the echo of the sound of flesh slapping flesh. Shannon muffles his grunts of pain into the blanket, but soon tears fill his eyes. His legs kick up, and his hand tries to swing back to block the blows, but Vivian merely captures his wrist, pins it against his back, and continues to crack his palm across the little boy’s bottom with full strength in every swing.
“You know the rules, Shannon. Misbehave in my household and I will redden your tail to the same color as a sunburn.”
“Papa, please!” Shannon whimpers.
“I hear no promises to never run away again. No acknowledgment that your actions endangered not just your welfare, but that of all of us. Wolves aren’t particular about their victims—boy, adult, especially dogs.”
“You’re the one who took Bailey outside! I left her here!”
“How else was I supposed to find you quickly? I’ll risk her life if it means saving yours.” Vivian pauses in landing blows, his hand still firmly wrapped around Shannon’s wrist. “Graham? Would you fetch something else? I do not believe my hand sufficient in driving this lesson home.”
Shannon had no idea his daddy was standing in the doorway, watching, but now he sees his shadow out of his peripheral, cast by the lantern left on the kitchen table.
“I’m not sure that’s…”
“What would have happened if you had done this?” snaps Vivian.
“My papa would’ve taken a belt to my hide.”
“That was Gideon’s tool for keeping order. A belt will do.”
“Papa, please stop!” Shannon has been struck by many objects, usually whatever his parents have had on hand, but never the belt or any kind of strap. Some implements are more menacing than others. Maybe it’s not like the swish of a thin branch, but it’ll leave its own sting. He has no doubt of that fact.
As Graham’s footsteps retreat, Vivian resumes spanking. Shannon kicks and pleads for it to stop, but he bites back all urges to apologize or accept that this is his fault. They ought to have let him go if they hated him so much.
Harsh treatment is the very reason he wanted to leave. How is more of it supposed to convince him to stay?
The slaps pause again, and in their absence, Shannon hears the jingle of a belt buckle. His cries turn to desperate wails.
Vivian doesn’t extend any sympathies to his panicked son. He adjusts Shannon over his left knee, wrists still pinned, locking Shannon’s legs with his own.
Shannon claws at the settee’s upholstery and sobs as the belt swings down and leaves its first mark against his unprotected backside.
The noise as it travels through the air is enough to release the air from Shannon’s lungs, but the blows guarantee that he’s soon gasping at every lick.
He sobs, all the fight soon exhausted from him. No words can form. Not apologies, not confessions, not denials. He deflates against the settee, jolted forward by the impact of leather meeting his bare flesh.
The belt stops. He can’t stand, but Vivian tugs his drawers back up, and follows them with his thermal pants. The fabric chafes the bruised and welted skin.
Shannon whimpers.
“If I have to spank you every night to remind you of a fraction of what you’ll get should you leave your bed, I’ll do it,” Vivian promises. “Do I need to do that? Take you across my knee at bedtime until you can be trusted not to leave the house at night?”
“Vivian.” Graham’s protest is weak. Like they often are.
“Better a few smacks to his bottom each night than making me ever repeat this lesson.”
“Punish him for what he’s done, not what he might do.”
“Then let’s hope this lesson sticks.” Vivian releases his frustrating in the form of a hard smack to Shannon’s clothed seat. “Up. Enough of your crying. If you don’t want disciplined, don’t misbehave. It’s a simple system, one parents and guardians have implemented for generations. No one likes to do it, but someone has to. Can’t have children acting out as they please.”
Shannon’s legs tremble as he slips off his father’s lap. It is Graham who reaches out to hold his arm and help him keep steady.
“What were you thinking?” asks Graham, dismayed.
“He wasn’t thinking. If he had any thoughts at all, he’d stop all this nonsense and behave.” Vivian rubs at his eyes before glancing at Shannon. “Use the back house if you need to now, because you won’t be leaving your bed tonight.” He wags the belt. “I’ll lay this on you again if I catch you out of it.”
Shannon doesn’t wait to hear more threats before hurrying to the back house.
Papa doesn’t love him. Daddy doesn’t love him enough.
Shannon has a dog who cares, but he’s feeling too sorry for himself to accept her apologies when he returns to his bedroom. Bailey licks at his face once everyone has settled back into bed.
“You’re a traitor,” he whispers.
He pets her anyway, because he’s not really mad at her.
It isn’t her fault. She’s barely a year old, and she’s a dog. She can’t possibly know why Vivian yells—it’s not like Shannon knows why he says some of the things he does, either—or why her beloved boy is often smacked.
She doesn’t understand why Shannon leaves her behind for her safety but doesn’t care about his own.
Shannon would rather die in the cold with the wolves than feel this pain in his heart. Even the ache in his backside hardly contributes to the reason for the salty tears Bailey tries to chase away.