Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 120974 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120974 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
I’m wary of it at first. Anything that’s this obviously made of magic, can’t be good. It must be a kind of trap. I should probably steer clear of it and I’m certainly not going to eat any of it—not after what happened after I ate the bramble berries.
But then I hear it—a low, growling sound. I whirl around and see a huge white wolf snarling at me. Where did it come from? My heart leaps into my throat—Oh Goddess, is there nowhere safe in these woods?
The wolf advances stiffly, its ears laid back and its lips curled in a snarl. Its eyes gleam red, and its teeth are long and sharp—as white as its shaggy coat.
There’s nothing for it—I have to try the candy house. I turn and run for the door, aware that if it’s locked I’ll probably get my throat ripped out in the next five seconds. My sweaty palm finds the peppermint doorknob and I twist fiercely, willing it to open.
To my incredulous joy, the knob turns and the door swings inward. I push inside and then slam it shut behind me. I look for a latch and find one—luckily made of iron instead of candy. I shut the door, praying that the wolf won’t throw its weight against it. Who knows how much force a brittle piece of candy can absorb before it breaks?
But the moment I latch the door, the growling sound from outside stops. It’s as though the wolf has abruptly lost interest in me as soon as I was hidden from his view. Could that be true? Could I be so lucky?
Breathing hard, I take a step back from the door. I wait a while longer, but there are no more sounds from the outside. Nothing but a soft, humming silence and a feeling like magic buzzing in the air.
I decide I’ll stay here but only for a little while. I don’t trust this place, which looks like a normal home except everything is made of candy. I’m not going to eat any of it, no matter how hungry I get. But my palm is sticky from the peppermint doorknob—I lick it clean as I explore my new surroundings. The sharp, minty flavor makes my lips and tongue tingle.
The sitting room across from the front door has a couch and two chairs that appear to be made of huge, puffy pink marshmallows. The end tables are made of dark chocolate—I know, because I lean down to sniff one—and the china hutch is too.
I take a step closer to look through the crystal-clear sugar panes of the hutch and see many beautiful, intricate little figures—all made of old-fashioned hard candy. The artist has used it almost like blown glass—crafting whimsical creatures like dragons and fairies and unicorns in shiny, bright colors.
In any other house, these magical curiosities would melt—along with the furniture. But here they are perfectly maintained without any dust or grime, just like the building that houses them.
I wonder who lives here. Someone with magic, obviously. How else could they keep this house in such perfect order—or build it in the first place, for that matter?
“Hello?” I call softly, as I move from the sitting room, further into the candy house. “Hello, is anyone here?”
I’m in the dining room now—it’s quite grand for a cottage. A vast oval table made entirely of milk chocolate is set with white-chocolate napkins and marzipan plates. The crystal goblets are clear sugar, and the silverware are chocolate dipped biscuits cunningly carved to resemble forks, knives, and spoons. The chandelier above tinkles with colored candy crystals.
“Oh, hello,” a soft, sweet voice says, startling me.
I whirl around and see a girl about my age or maybe a little younger. She has long blonde hair and chocolate brown eyes and she’s wearing a simple white cotton dress without a single stain on it.
Her neat, clean appearance makes me self-conscious of my own ragged, blood-stained attire.
“Oh, excuse me,” I say quickly, taking a step back from her. “I’m so sorry to come in without permission. It’s just, there was this huge white wolf and he—”
“Oh, that’s only Harvey,” she says, with a dismissive wave of one slim, graceful hand.
“Harvey?” I ask doubtfully. It seems an innocuous name for such a fierce creature.
“Yes, Harvey. He’s the guardian of my cottage—my parents left him here to keep me safe.” Her big brown eyes widen. “I’m most dreadfully sorry if he frightened you. He’s awfully protective of me, you see. But he wouldn’t really hurt anyone—he’s only meant to scare them off.”
“Well, he certainly scared me.” I try to laugh and don’t quite manage it—the sound from my throat sounds more like a croak.
“Dear me, you sound thirsty—and you look rather a mess if you don’t mind me saying so.” The girl looks me up and down critically but not unkindly.