She had wanted to wait until Cherise wasn't home. She had wanted to wait until Cherise had skipped off to her first day of her new school, that way she could be totally done by the time she returned home, asking if they could try to find her 'dead bear' again. It was buried at the bottom of one of the boxes still in the back of her car, the second one to the right in the middle row, and she knew specifically because she could see the little awkward doodle of a flower her daughter had put on it to signify that it was hers.
But it couldn't wait. It couldn't wait any longer at all, not after she had dreamed such wonderful things, of a real life with Nigel, of a home in the forest and the fae letting her in as one of them, a warm cottage and cinnamon buns and the rain slowly turning into snow as the animals burrowed away for the winter. It couldn't wait after she had woken to Cherise screaming at her to wake up, her tiny daughter hollering over the ruckus of something beating the house.
No, she realized as she bolted from her bed, scooping the seven-year old into her arms as if her muscular, curvaceous frame and silk nightgown could protect the girl from all harm and danger, it wasn't beating the house. As if Cherise were still an infant, Chantelle held tight to her daughter, hand tangled in her tiny curls to hold her close. The heavy thumping, roaring, thudding was coming from the tiny wooden box she had brought home, where it sat on her desk, as if something inside the box was rattling to let itself free.
“Mommy,” Cherise cried, tears rolling down her little round face. “Make it stop, make it quiet!”
Sleep batted fast from her eyes, and Chantelle stared down the delicate black mulberry box with its lovely little carvings, and she could hear the soft, rasping voice of a man, singing archaically.
“Cherry,” Chantelle whispered, setting her daughter down. “Get ready to run if something happens, okay? You know how to contact daddy if you need to.” As her daughter nodded, Chantelle sucked in a sharp breath of air, moving around her bed to where the box was seated. The voices only grew louder, and she lowered herself, feeling the cold grain of the old wooden floors under her knees. Heart throbbing in her throat, she stopped herself. Maybe she could burn the box instead. Maybe she could just toss it out. Maybe it would be safe to just leave it, to pray over it a few more times, but oh, no, she could already feel the tips of her own fingers sliding over the surface, finding the oddly hot metal of the locks.
And it flicked open, nervous fingers opening up the box.