My sister has always had a soft heart. Soft as sweetbread. horror story

Despite everything, she wept as she followed the elderly woman. Perhaps as a result of everything. I recall holding her while she wept, both of us covered in ash and her burned fingers from closing the oven door. After the tears, she was quiet. She trailed me through the awful house with its sweetbread walls and sugared windows. She put on her kirtle without saying a word when I offered her the outfit we had arrived in. She showed no whisper of response when we found the treasure in the attic, only nodded vaguely when I asked her to help me fill up the few bags we could easily carry back through the woods.

Perhaps, perhaps, it would be sufficient. enough to shield us from the whims of our stepmother. I do not wish to return there. It was the first she’d spoken in hours. I hesitated outside the witch’s cottage, looking back over my shoulder at her.

"I don't want to return to them," I exhaled. Neither do I. But where else can we go?”

She wrung her fingers together in front of her skirt, eyes downcast and her teeth digging into her lower lip. But she eventually gave a nod. “Fine. You are correct. She returned her gaze to the house. “Wait one minute. There may be something left in the kitchen.”

"In the kitchen?" I repeated in horror, but she only nodded.

“Yes. She did not think I paid attention, but I did. I know which of her potions might be useful; we could sell them when we return, if nothing else. I nodded slowly and followed her back into the cottage, though I stopped in the open arch that led into the kitchen itself. She moved easily though the space, reminding me painfully of just how long she had been under the witch’s thumb while the horrid crone tried to fatten me like a prize hog. Before returning to me, she carefully tucked a dozen bottles and vials between the bolts of silks and satins we had stolen from the attic.

“Let us go.”

Though there was no trail this time, she seemed to know her way through the trees. When we paused to wait out the darkness, I once asked how. But all she said was that she simply knew now. as if the forest were speaking to her in a new way. I felt the first thrill of fear at that. But I refused to let her see it because I was aware that she was still so terrified. I succeeded in eliciting a meager smile from her when I tried to get her to dream about our lives with the witch's stolen goods. But it was cold and dark, and soon enough we simply huddled together under a gnarled tree as we waited for the deepest part of night to pass.

She was the first to stand as the leaves started to be illuminated by the grayish dawn light. She had gone quiet again, and only answered me with faint hums or single words as we continued on our way. She seemed more comfortable to be leading us now, but something in the set of her shoulders reminded me of… of something. Something I could not quite name.

Eventually, I lapsed into her silence.

When the trees broke apart to reveal the familiar shape of our father’s home, she froze. After that, she started to run, and I was only a half-step behind her. The door was already opening when we reached the stoop, and our father met us with his arms open and tears in his eyes. He held us close and apologized, over and over, praising the Lord’s name.

I embraced him in turn, but alongside the relief in my chest there was an anger in my gut. It had started a spark, but over the length of our trek back through the woods had grown into a steady flame.

I met my sister’s eyes over our father’s shoulder, and a chill ran through me.

Hers was the bitter cold of the coldest winter, whereas my anger was like a flame. Shortly after we left, our father told us that our stepmother had fallen ill. She had been sleeping for days and was now in her room. He did not expect her to recover, though he had been following the physician’s orders as best he could.

He gave us the hopeful suggestion, "Perhaps she will rally to see you."

When neither of us answered, he sighed and dragged a hand down his thick beard. There was more gray in it than I remembered.

"I am aware that you must... be mad at me. With us,” he told us wretchedly. That I could easily lose track of you It is an unforgivable failing in a father.”

“Lost?”

In my sister's voice, I started slightly at the sharp edge. Our father also did. She had always had a soft voice to match her heart.

"We got lost?" She went on, paying close attention to him. Our father returned the stare with wide, frightened eyes. “... Lost,” he confirmed at last in little more than a whisper.

I was unable to continue looking at him, so I closed my eyes. Neither did my sister. She suddenly got up from our small table. "We will see her then," she said. I blinked, startled both by the sudden movement and the conviction in her voice, but I followed her into our stepmother’s sickroom. I was unable to move more than two steps inside the door as that rage flame flickered a little higher in my chest. In a tender gesture that made me want to break something, my sister knelt next to the hateful person and smoothed her brow with her hand. “Here.” She touched her lips with one of the witch's vials. "This will be helpful." She held a steady hand back toward me, as if sensing the movement, and I almost reached out to stop her. When the vial was empty, she stood and brushed her hands down the front of her skirt. She did not look at me as she left the room.

I hesitated a moment longer behind her, staring at the woman who had left us to the wood and the wild. Already, her breathing seemed easier.

In the middle of my chest, anger and love for my sister fought. She had always borne such a soft heart.

Our stepmother was awake and lively within a day. Though shocked by our return, she was mollified enough by the offerings of treasure we had stolen away with that she simpered and even summoned up some mockish tears through which to tell us she was so sorry we had been “lost to the wood”.

My sister became more distant as my fury grew in intensity. “We should celebrate your return,” our stepmother exclaimed, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders but no other sign of her illness remaining. “What do you wish for supper, my darlings?”

“Sweetbread.”

With my mouth open and my eyes wide, I jerked around to stare at my sister. She did not so much as glance at me, but I felt her hand take mine under the table.

My throat started to dry out as she smiled at our stepmother. “But you are still recovering, stepmother. All things considered, I'm feeling pretty good. I shall make it,” she offered gently.

She could have been stopped then. could have dragged us out by squeezing her hand in mine. We could have taken the treasure and left--it had been foolish of me to think there was nowhere for us to go, we might go anywhere. Seeing our father again, hearing him refuse to admit what they had done, made me sure of that.

But my sister looked at me, just for a moment, and the ice in her gaze froze me to my chair.

She was not looking for permission, but I nodded shakily anyway.

Our stepmother exclaimed what a “good, kind girl” she was as she moved into the kitchen. The overpowering aroma of sweetbread baking soon filled the air. I tried my hardest not to gag. My sister served the plates while the bread was still steaming gently, even drizzling the last of our honey stores over our parents’ portions. “We can always get more at the market now,” she said with a hollow little laugh.

Our stepmother agreed happily, though our father hesitated a moment before doing so himself. He was watching my sister with a faint wariness as she took her seat beside me.

“Go on, then, let us eat!”

They did.

We sat in silence.

It took our stepmother first. She had a faint cough and a brow furrow. As she stared at my sister, her confusion quickly gave way to a horrified realization as she looked up. “You--!”

Our father choked, red spattering his lips. I looked away, squeezing my sister’s hand tight where she had once more taken it beneath the table.

He choked out, reaching for her pleadingly, "We were desperate." "I wasn't going to! She made me!”

My sister gave a head shake. “You let her.”

With each passing moment, his breath became a wheezing rattle as he collapsed onto the table. Our stepmother made an attempt to pounce on us, but her legs gave out and she fell to the ground. Her mouth corner left a scarlet trail that looked like candied jam. “You…” she gasped again, glaring balefully up at my sister. “You… little witch…”

They both began to convulse. I buried my face in my sister’s shoulder. I could feel her stroking my hair--even without raising my head, I knew she did not look away until their last breaths had faded into silence.

Then she simply stood, her hand still in mine. We were both silent as we gathered up our bags--still unpacked by the front door--and stepped out into the cool evening.

“... You are afraid.”

I swallowed. “Y-Yes.”

She smiled at me, squeezed my hand again, and all I felt was cold. You are not required to be. I will safeguard you. My sister has always been kind to others. Soft as poisoned sweetbread.