The girl’s cloak slipped from her golden hair as the first flakes of snow kissed her nose. For a moment, she wondered if she could simply disappear into the woods for eternity. With the embrace of the snowfall, the scent of pine, and the chorus of the wind, what else could she ask for? What else could she want except for the one thing she’d come to ask the Huntsman for?

Moss crawled across the surface of the wishing well, making homes in its nooks and grooves. Snowflakes drifted through the air. Not quickly enough to dance, yet not gradually enough to appear suspended. They greeted the moss with a timeless hesitation. They knew her fate better than she did. They had the wisdom to fear it. Her breath crystallized in the air as she removed a silver coin from her pink cloak and dropped it inside the well. 

The moment she did, a voice sent a chill through her bones.

“Miss Ophelia, is it?” His voice was darker than shadows. “How may I be of service?”

Ophelia swallowed before plastering on her best smile. Her mother always said her smile was quite charming. “I need your help, great sorcerer. The boy I love ran away with another, and I can’t live with this pain any longer. Take my love from me.” She let her eyelids droop and straightened her spine. “Take my heart.”

His lips twisted into a crooked mimicry of a smile. “As you wish.”

A grin spread across Ophelia’s face as she twirled her hair between her fingers. She’d always believed the legendary sorcerer in the woods wasn’t as horrific as everyone said. See, Mother? She thought, It wasn’t just me being naive. “What must I do?”

The waxing shadows of early morning crept across the Huntsman’s pale face, elongating the curve of his jaw and cheekbones. The only thing darker than these shadows were his tufts of midnight hair. “Meet me each morning by the wildflower pond.”

So this is exactly what Ophelia did. When the sun dipped into the horizon and the chirping crickets replaced the singing birds, she reclaimed her cloak and braved the snow. She made the trek even when the villagers’ gazes turned to admonishing glares. She did it even when the days shortened and nocturnal beasts ruled the earth. She did it even when frostbite claimed the tips of her fingers. It would be worth it, wouldn’t it? What men made deals they didn’t intend to keep?

And so Ophelia would perch  on an overturned log each dawn. She would weave wildflowers into her hair while waiting for the Huntsman by the pond. He materialized everyday wearing a cape of morning mist. The first morning he appeared, he taught her which petals were poisonous. The next, he showed her how best to braid them into her hair. She found his hands to be nimble and patient, much like his voice when he spoke to her. One day, she found herself singing to the blossoms. The next thing she knew, a flawless baritone voice harmonized with hers. In that very instant, she decided that no one’s duet could compare to his and hers. Surely no two voices are as perfectly suited. 

Their meetings became routine. He would collect blossoms, she would sing, and occasionally, they would switch. She even told him the name of the boy who’d stolen her heart. The Huntsman listened attentively as she spilled every detail of her heartbreak. Sometimes she swore she spotted sympathy in his gold-flecked eyes. 

Eventually, the girl withdrew from the company of others. If his shoulder was there for her to lean on, why were any others necessary?

“Ophelia?” He asked one morning as the first rays of daylight streaked across a field of snow. 

She drummed her fingers on her cotton skirt. “Yes?”

“Are you happy?” 

A giggle escaped her lips. “What do you mean?”

“Answer the question.” The daisy he’d been fiddling with fluttered to his feet.

She rolled her eyes fondly. “Of course I am,” she replied, “I haven’t felt this relaxed in months.”

That pulled his lips into a grin, and he slowly brought his hand to cup her shoulder. Ophelia thought the gesture to be affectionate until his hand lowered. His eyebrows furrowed, as if he’d lost sight of something barely out of reach. As if he was searching for her heartbeat. “That boy. Do you still love him?”

Ophelia bit back a knowing smile. “I don’t even remember his name.”

His eyes darkened, and before she took her next breath, his nails plunged into her collarbone. “Then your love is mine.”

She sputtered, gasping from the pain. “What are you doing?”

“Deals go both ways,” he snarled, the warmth in his eyes turning sour. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Your love for him is gone. Your heart is mine.”

Take my love from me, she’d begged him. Take my heart. She’d given her love to this cunning sorcerer. While clawing for a path away from love, its blood-flecked fingernails had clutched onto her once again. “I understand why they call you the Huntsman—”

He ripped her beating heart from her chest.