BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hoods had started to build a reputation for helping people, whether finding lost children in the forest, or getting things from one side of town to the other. The one rescue that was changing their lives was that of the mountain hermit, Pierre de Montagne. Pierre had spent practically every day since then teaching the Yellow Hoods everything he knew about mountains, forests, and tracking.
    Elly skipped along, letting out some of her happy, excited energy. “So, is this really your first Solstice celebration?” she asked Pierre as they all walked along together.
    “It is my first,” he said pensively. He’d been raised by hermit parents. “I watched a couple of times from the forest—the celebrations here, and in Minette. Minette’s were my favorite. Here, it’s more of people just singing in the streets or walking around.”
    “Why didn’t you join in?” asked Richy. “It’s not like you need an invitation.”
    “Well—” started Pierre, stroking his beard. It felt odd, being so smooth. That morning, he’d traded for a brush, and had to ask the woman at the trading post how to use it properly. She’d been happy to help. “See, when you get old like me, sometimes you feel you can’t change. You feel like a wheel stuck in the mud. It takes a good push to get you out.”
    “Were we your good push?” asked Tee.
    Pierre chuckled and patted Tee on the head. “Yes, you were. You gave me new purpose in life. Anyway, I want to hear what you think of this Solstice stuff. Is it true that darkness runs away after the celebration?” asked Pierre. “Because that’s what I hear.”
    “Did you hear those screaming kids? If I was darkness, I’d already be running the other way!” said Elly. Everyone laughed.

    Several weeks earlier, Pierre de Montagne’s lungs had been filling up with ice-cold lake water. He’d always feared that one day he’d end up as the hunted, instead of the hunter. The master of the forest felt like a fool—and a soon-to-be dead one.
    The hermit lived in a small log cabin between Minette and Mineau, almost at the base of the mountain. His parents had been hermits, too, but had passed away when he was seventeen. Pierre was raised to dislike “towners,” as his mother called townsfolk, and so whenever he went into town, he traded for what he needed and then left. Despite feeling lonely, and curious about the towners, he lacked the courage to do anything more than a bit of spying.
    That morning, Pierre had walked out of his cabin, into the snow, and looked around. The winter landscape was the same as ever, but he wasn’t—he felt old. While his hair had just touches of gray and white hidden in rich brown, his body ached more with each passing season. His endurance wasn’t what it used to be. He wondered if this might be his last winter.
    After getting dressed, he headed out. He was armed with two homemade javelins; one he kept on his back, and the other ready in hand. Soon, he spotted a full-grown deer and began his hunt. Each time his prey moved, he followed. Each time it slowed or stopped, he would hide, wait, or proceed slowly. Hunger had taught him over the decades that patience, persistence, and alertness were critical.
    Pierre saw the deer’s ears perk up a moment before the noise. Just then, three yellow-hooded kids zoomed through on contraptions that appeared to be strange sailboats. Seconds later, the kids were gone, never having noticed hunter or prey.
    The deer darted away, and Pierre cursed the towners. “I’ll have to start all over again,” he said, huffing and puffing.
    He searched for the deer’s trail for some time. “There we go,” he said to himself. He paused as something else caught his eye. “What’s this?” he said, walking over to inspect another set of tracks, mere feet away. He patted his big hairy beard with a mitt in wonder as he bent down to examine the other tracks.
    “What is this?” he repeated. He took off his right mitt and moved his finger