Spun Read Free Page B

picked one up, ran a finger over the faded label marked “Ferrum.” She opened the jar and peered at the smooth, dark chunks of iron packed within. There were other jars marked “Cuprum” and “Zink” and “Nickel,” filled with jagged red nuggets of copper and the bluish-white chunks of zinc and nickel.
    She stared at the table as a sort of mad giggle bubble up in her throat. Chemists, philosophers, and charlatans alike had searched for the secret of alchemy for centuries, and so far no one had discovered how to transmute one element into another. And yet Werner believed Anja, a poor miller’s daughter from a small village buried in the Hessian woods, had succeeded where countless others had failed, and would turn his jars of metal into gold. Except she couldn’t, and when the morning came and Werner saw that his jars of copper, zinc, and nickel were still just that, he would vent his rage on her and her father.
    Anja shivered. The night was cold, and her dress was still damp. She needed to start the fire, and when she was warm, when she could think clearly again, she would formulate a plan. She would escape the cottage and then she would find a way to free her father and herself from Werner’s grasp forever.
    Anja lit the fire and knelt before it. Slowly warmth returned to her limbs. She was utterly exhausted—from the long day spent at the mill, from the panicked realization that her father had squandered all their funds, from the terrifying encounter with Werner, and the utter despair at the impossible situation in which she now found herself. She lay down, telling herself she would only rest for a few minutes, just until she was fully warmed and her head had cleared a little, and then she would think what to do. “Just a few minutes to rest,” she murmured to herself as she slowly drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 2
    Tillz pulled his hat lower on his face, his fingers brushing the scar that ran a jagged line from temple to jaw. He walked along in the shadows of the street, as was his habit, although it was hardly necessary on such a night. It was still raining, the sky inky black, except for the occasional flash of lightning, and few people were about. He imagined them home, warm, and cozy by their fires, their children on their lap. He shook the mental image from his head, told himself to focus on his business, and continued on his way.
    Tillz hated coming into the village, hated leaving his secluded hut in the woods and venturing out among the people. He had become accustomed to his solitude and found the presence of others disconcerting. Thankfully, he needed to travel to the village only rarely, having become mostly self-sufficient over the years. Still, there were a few items he could not make, a few food staples he could not kill or trap for himself, and so venture into the village he must a few times each year. On these visits, he conducted his business as efficiently as possible, dealt only with a few trusted merchants, and returned to his forest sanctuary as quickly as he could.
    He crossed the main road, now reduced to a slowly moving river of mud, and passed two men coming in the opposite direction. With his usual uncanny perceptiveness, he determined after only a quick glance they were a father and adolescent son.
    Tillz had just passed the duo when he heard the older man whisper from behind him, “It’s ’im. It’s the rumpelstilzchen .”
    Tillz scowled.
    “Nonsense, Father,” the son replied. “The rumpelstilzchen is just a legend, he doesn’t exist.”
    If Tillz were given to such action, he would have smiled at the son’s tone—like a patient adult enduring the whims of the extremely senile or the very young. He glanced behind him and saw the son take his father’s arm and hurry him along the street, likely pulling him away from the object of his fancy before he engaged in any more embarrassing pronouncements. Tillz breathed a sigh of relief for the skepticism of the younger