Green Lady Preview

Green Lady
Jennifer Julander

Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Julander.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods,
without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the
case of noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover art and design by Emily Julander at EmJ Photography.
Cover modeling by Sasha Cone.
Revisions by Rhonda Helms at Rhonda Edits, LLC.
Printed by Jutland Books
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-9982744-0-9

Acknowledgements
To my Mom, thank you for critically reading every draft I’ve
handed you. Dad, thank you for working hard to support your
family so we could grow up to follow our dreams. Christy and
Shane, thank you for our childhood play, which only encouraged
my imagination; and to my whole family, thank you for spending
time with my children so I could finish this book.
To my husband, Taylor Julander, thank you for indulging my
imagination and supporting my writing habits. Thank you for hours
of silliness and lost sleep, and for being my sounding board and
magnifying glass.
Sasha Cone, my forest girl. This novel holds your spirit within.
Hanna Baerveldt, thank you for proofreading this book from start
to finish—twice. Your input has been as invaluable as your
friendship.
To my dearest friends: Melissa Anderson, Sean Fletcher, Freddy
Hayes, Marta & Taylor Merryweather, Jacom & Megan Franco, and
Lillian Palmer. One page isn’t enough to thank you for your time,
encouragement, and friendship.
To my creative writing professors, Rebecca Lindenberg and
Katherine Cowles, thank you for helping me refine my writing style.
Thank you to my editor, Rhonda Helms, for your in-depth
evaluation and thoughtful suggestions.
Emily Julander, thank you for working around our busy schedules
to create an amazing cover design.
And to my future readers, thank you for becoming a patron. I hope
you enjoy Green Lady.

Prologue
Once, the land was ruled by Seven Patrons, who each governed the primary element of their land.
Three Lords, one for each Forsaken Land:
Ketses, the Desert Prince, absorbed the anger of summer. With feet of leather, he united Earth and Fire.
Daitel, the Ice Baron, withstood the despair of winter. With hands of iron, he united Earth and Wind.
Yama, the Swamp Lord, balanced the discrepancies of drought and flood. With skin of moss, he united Earth and Water.
Four Ladies, one for each Benevolent Realm:
Blodwyn, the Wind Empress, life’s very breath.
Talnar, the Fire Lady, heart of the world.
Ronelle, the Water Duchess, nature’s rushing blood.
And Marian, the Green Lady, the soul of the earth who made them one.
A century ago, in the midst of a great conflict with Darkness, the Green Lady disappeared. The Lords were entombed in a
curse, and the unity of the Seven was lost. The remaining three Ladies went into hiding, dissolving into myth.
Though many believe the Seven are only folklore, some say the Green Lady will return to heal the forest. Some even say that if
you're in the right place in the forest, on a full moon, you'll spot the Green Lady running with the wolves.

Chapter One
A white wolf stalked a party of travelers in the woods, eyes trained on a young lady with red autumn
hair. The air hung thick with the riders’ unease, all but tangible on the wind.
The wolf knew what sort of things these travelers believed.
Vengeful spirits live in the trees.
Red-eyed ghosts roam the woods.
Dryads eat men whole.
A broken holly branch will sap your life force.
The men gripped their sword hilts and searched the trees, innate suspicion in their eyes. He stayed far
enough away to keep their horses from spooking.
They weren’t wrong to be suspicious. Even now, he stalked them in the shelter of shadows. He could
wait until they camped at night, then move in with such muted steps, no one would know the girl was
missing until morning.
But he hadn’t decided what to do with her yet. He’d wait a little while longer until her motives became
clear. For now, he just watched, creeping through the brush, as she whirled around in her saddle and stared
through the trees in his direction. He sank low to the ground, and though she couldn’t see him, his heart
beat faster as he recognized those emerald eyes, eyes he almost knew…
Nymuë had been raised in the woods, but she’d never been in a forest like this one. Next to these regal
giants the road, the trees of her homeland were windblown waifs, pitiful imitations of the real thing. Now
she saw what had been kept from her—this was where she belonged.
The forest was full of sunlight. She reveled in the tall pine columns and oak shade. How could anyone
feel ill at ease in the living wood, under the star-speckle shade of leaves? It was early summer, hot but
breezy. The trees’ breath carried the sounds of tapping leaves and birdsong.
She sat atop a chestnut mare in the midst of a party of riders, her escort, on the way toward a new
home. She resisted at first; betrothal to a king, a stranger, seemed abrasive and stifling. But her uncle, Lord
Drey Mechanian, was too proud of the arrangement, and in the end, she’d had little choice.

In fact, Nymuë knew her uncle had never been happy about his responsibility toward her. After her
mother had been killed, it had fallen on him to look after her. But he was afraid of her, the same way other
people were, as if she’d inherited her mother’s witchcraft. Mechanian doubtless was eager to be rid of her
before she brought more mishap upon his family.
Well, she was eager to be gone, too. Her mother hadn’t been a witch, and he knew it as well as she did.
She hated him for never standing up for his sister, for letting her die, for letting people mistreat her and her
mother.
They stopped to water the horses, and Nymuë's escorts were ready to leave before the horses even
touched their noses to the river. They shifted and checked the trees often, grown men who twitched at the
rustle of leaves. Their trepidation made the horses stamp their feet. Nymuë shook her head, unable to
understand their fear. To her, a shadow was just a shadow.
She dismounted and drank from the cool stream with her hands. The water was fresh and crisp. A
guard scoffed under his breath at her impropriety.
“We’re leaving,” Lord Mechanian announced, pretending not to notice her.
She told herself she didn’t care what he thought, or anyone else. She was on the road to a better
chance, a place to start over, where superstitions about red hair meant nothing. Stars! It was good to leave,
to get away from all the scrutiny. Though, she didn’t understand all the fuss over marriage. What did she
care if some king wanted to marry her? She’d rather sit out here alone, nestled on a mossy root-throne, with
a book and river song to lull her to sleep.
Just then, her sharp ears picked up a new sound, an easy melody cutting through the air. She craned her
neck, searching for the source. There—a slight, young woman, barefoot and skipping. Her voice was bird
flight through the trees, its tune weaving around the gurgle of steam water and the brush of leaves.
Nymuë's breath caught; indeed, the entire party held its breath. It was the reaction of those beholding an
otherworldly sight.
“Oh,” the strange woman said, pausing her song at the height of a phrase. She eyed the party and
stilled her gait, motionless save for a pair of small, leather shoes just swaying in her hand. Her toes were
buried deep in the grass. A patch of sunlight illuminated her golden hair. She spotted Nymuë, giving her a
long glance. There it was again, the dreaded scrutiny.
“Nymph!” Lord Mechanian exclaimed. “We seek passage to King Friedrich’s castle.”
Her eyes laughed. “What business have you at my brother’s castle?”
“Your…brother?”
Silence filled the clearing. Nymuë took in the woman’s golden halo of clover-bedecked hair, her bare
feet and travel dress, her light form and careless stance. Was this woman a princess? More like an unkempt

peasant, dirt-smudged and simple. What in the Seven Plains was she doing out here? Look at her messy,
flower-filled braids—and were there actual bits of moss scattered in her hair?
Lord Mechanian dropped to one knee. “My Lady Cleandra, please forgive the confusion. I didn’t
expect—”
“Please, it’s fine. Rise, and I’ll take you to the castle.”
Inside the castle, a man paced the battlements, sighing, studying the treetops. He’d been there since
morning, and now it was mid-afternoon.
Where’s Cleandra? Is she safe? He’d ensure it. He must.
Treetops wavered under gallops of wind. Their heads nodded to him, great, bobbing, sentinel flowers.
Below was a returning scout, a little speck of a man growing nearer as his horse pounded along the road.
Without pause, Friedrich bounded down the rampart stairs.
The crowd in the courtyard was a company of anticipation. He almost beat the scout to the castle gate,
so great was his desire for good news, or any news…
“They crossed the border not half an hour hence,” the man reported, scarce of breath. “It won’t be
long now.”
“And my sister?”
“Your Majesty…forgive me. She doesn’t want to be found.”
Friedrich nodded. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Did Cleandra know what she did to
people, what it felt like to think of her out there, alone in the very wilderness that had killed their parents?
Oh, he still burned inside to think of it—their bodies mangled, unrecognizable. Whatever killed them had
taken more than their lives. It had taken the very image of who they were, had taken their peace and love,
had even taken a bit of his sanity.
He knew it was wildly ridiculous to send scouts into the woods in search of the smallest dangers. His
hunters eliminated predators and petty vagrants alike until they were all but extinct. Yes, he was half mad
with obsession. He knew this, as he knew in his soul that life wasn't done with him, that one day this nearmadness
might save them all.
Such actions went against everything Cleandra believed in. “Any idiot can kill a creature,” she told him
once, “but it takes great strength to nurture life.”

How he wished he could maintain such innocent optimism. But all her adamant convictions, all the
years she spent safe under the forest's vaulted ceilings, couldn’t stop him from seeing his parents' horrid,
mangled deaths every time he closed his eyes.
“You're making that face again.” A warm hand fell on his shoulder. Friedrich turned, already knowing
he’d see the rugged face of his closest friend, Wulfram. A broad smile greeted him, spreading slow and lazy
on a face that hadn't been shaved in days. His friend had dark brown hair and amber eyes. Wulfram put a
confidential arm around Friedrich's shoulders, steering him away from the gates and away from the crowd.
“Frowning will age you,” Wulfram said. “Remember, a woman arrives exactly when she means to, never a
moment before.”
“Is that what you tell yourself when you stare out the window every morning? I’m not blind; we grew
up together. I think I knew you loved her before you knew it yourself.”
Wulfram tensed, frowning.
“And for what? Have you asked her to stay? She won't listen to family. But perhaps, if you ask her.”
“I can't ask her to change who she is. You know that.”
“But what sort of marriage could you hope for? And you do intend to marry her, don't you?”
Of course he did. But their conversation was cut short by a commotion at the gates. Friedrich took a
deep breath and paused to adjust his shirt and cloak before heading back to the gate; this gesture elicited a
facetious snicker from his friend.
Searching the gathered crowd, Friedrich spotted a surprising mess of red curls. Yes, this must be her,
the girl whose face was porcelain, her lips soft and pink; her green eyes fell on him, vibrant, honest. Ah, she
was lovely. She reminded him somewhat of his sister—forest eyes, hair untamed—a spirit that simply
wished to bolt. Were all the women he loved destined to be wild things? He wasn't certain he could handle
another forest girl.
From the corner of his eye, Friedrich saw a familiar wave of blond hair, and he forgot everything else.
Cleandra was everything remarkable in Wulfram’s life. What extraordinary disregard she had for
expectations; what an amazing ability to exude fullness and happiness. It wasn't that she was untouched by
tragedy—gods knew, she'd never been the same after her parents' deaths—but rather, she let the forest fill
her with presence and life.

Wulfram had never learned how to do this. He’d grown up in a plain chateau, with predictable wealth,
funded by peasant taxes; his predictable parents had sent him to foster with the king, as tradition dictated.
He earned himself an education and just the kind of skill with a sword that was anticipated for a man of his
station. The very thought that he’d fallen in love with a princess was laughable; of course she’d marry a
prince. No matter her rebellious nature or her strange habits. People assumed such habits would cease
when she was no longer a girl.
Well, Wulfram could see she was no longer a girl. He gazed at her from across the courtyard and
caught her eye. She was a forest maiden, dressed in simple linen. She filled him with evening breath, a fresh,
secret breeze on his cheek. Her hair gleamed golden in the fading sunlight, and she smiled at him with
nymph eyes and a tiny mischief nick at the corner of her mouth. She was still for a moment, caught in his
stare, and then she broke through the crowd to meet him.
“Wulfram!”
“Welcome home, love!” He held out his arms, and when she embraced him, he spun her in a wide
circle.
“I missed you, Wulf.” She kissed him on the forehead, but as soon as her feet touched the ground, she
raced off to greet Friedrich. Wulfram was left with a mouthful of words he couldn't say. He watched her
disappear into the fold of her brother's strong embrace.
Now they moved, the crowd walking as a single entity, drawn by the prospect of food and eminence. It
wasn't often they saw the princess anymore. Wulfram allowed the bustle of satin to shepherd him down the
paved path and through the keep's large doors. He listened to the clack of heels on cobblestone, the chafe
of billow-skirts pressing together, and hundreds of voices—every voice but hers.
A small hand surprised his shoulder. “Don’t disappear on me. Why, it wouldn't be a feast without you.”
A slow smile spread across his lips as her small fingers slipped into his hand. His heart turned into a
hummingbird within his rib cage—frantic, beating against its confines—
And if I ask her to marry me, what will she say?
Friedrich walked ahead of them as they entered the dining hall. The place was dressed in lush tablecloth
and extravagant lights dancing with the trick of candle and glass, a dozen chandeliers in the ceiling, goblets
glimmering at every place setting, and wildflowers donning tables and chairs. All the walls were lined in
tapestry, depicting warm murals of their ancestry and the Great Hunts of legend. The air hummed with
anticipation.
Lord Mechanian approached the head of the table, kneeling before the king. “Your Majesty. Let me
present my niece, Nymuë, daughter of Vienne of the House of Lamlay.”
“Your Majesty.” Nymuë gave a deep curtsy, her eyes trained on the tablecloth.
“My Lady, you’re as beautiful as a spring lily. Welcome to Elodria.”

Wulfram saw that despite himself, Friedrich was already taken with her.
“Please, if you’ll honor me with your company tonight?”
As they were about to sit, a hen-faced woman darted forward and whispered in Cleandra’s ear.
The princess stepped back in feigned shock. “Do I really need to dress up for this sort of thing? Of
course—I’m a princess, after all.” There it was again, that mischievous smile. She picked up a garland of
flowers from a high chair back and, with deft fingers, wound it around her brow. “Now I'm wearing a
crown. No? Still not enough? Wulfram, give me your cloak.” He waved her away, but she unhooked the
clasp herself. “Now I look just like Friedrich!”
“My Lady!” The woman fanned herself, wide-eyed. “Please, you’re making a scene in front of our
guests!”
Wulfram excused himself and became immersed in studying a tapestry, where no one would notice his
expression. Friedrich wandered over and told the woman to leave Cleandra alone, reprimanding his sister
for harassing the poor woman.
Cleandra laughed aloud when he said this. “Give me your cloak. Then I really will look just like you!”
When Wulfram returned to take his place next to Cleandra, it was to discover his own cloak draped
over a chair; somehow, she’d won the fight, because Friedrich was now short one velvet cloak. No one else
attempted to address the state of her attire.
Cleandra devoured her food; it was clear she enjoyed every moment of the feast. Despite her
appearance, she was still the most beautiful woman in the room. Her face shone radiant, as if she carried
her own warm, candle glow inside. If she so enjoys herself, why not stay in the castle?
But he kept the thought silent; he knew the look he'd receive if he brought it up. But still, he burned
with the idea, with the need for her to stay, to see her, feel her, touch and love her, hold her near and safe
and lingering.
Once, Cleandra leaned close to Wulfram and fed him a dessert cake. The pad of her delicate fingertip
brushed his lower lip, and the breath caught in his lungs. She smiled, stuffing copious amounts of the same
cake in her mouth, unable to close her lips around it. Her heat and sway were keen on his senses. His skin
burned, so hot he feared she would notice; but he couldn't pull away, nor would he.
He remembered Friedrich's words just then: What kind of marriage could you hope for? Their eyes locked
across the table; Friedrich's blue gaze was imperative, pleading. Yes, Wulfram could see—there was no time
for this conversation between the two siblings. The king inclined his ear toward Nymuë. Tomorrow, the
castle would buzz with assurances that the king was smitten with his bride-to-be. They’d say he was the
perfect image of adoration; but this picture could well be a tapestry, Wulfram thought. It was masterfully
woven, yet behind its colorful thread was a cold, bare wall, a thick layer of stone between Nymuë and his
warmth. His devotion was mere fantasy, fabrication.

Wulfram glanced at Cleandra, wondering if the same was true of her. She was laughing, making some
jibe at Friedrich. Was this all a farce? To stave off her brother's entreaties? To prevent him from seeking
her out with dogs and hunters, or holding her there by force? He glanced at her smiling face, that summer
radiance he coveted. His stomach twisted, and he thought of each time they’d parted and how his soul
turned gray in her absence. His heart burned, fluttering too fast. He took a deep breath and sat taller,
willing himself to eat something.
Cleandra nudged him. “Try the duck, it’s astounding.”
Agreeing and obliging, he tried it without tasting. In the back of his mind, he ran through scenarios in
which he asked her to stay. But when he imagined her cooped up in the castle, he cringed—no, she’d lose
something of herself in here. And despite Friedrich's repeated, silent supplications, Wulfram wouldn’t
breathe a word to convince her.
Yes, Wulfram. What could you really hope for? You should’ve known better.
When the feast slowed and people grew sleepy and over-stuffed, Cleandra excused herself from the
table. He followed her, of course, as though a logical extension of her movement.
The sky was rippling velvet and layered pearls, thick, generous drapes of stars, scattered and blinking.
Cleandra raised her face to the jewel lights and spun, laughing, and they shimmered in time with her
intricate footfalls as her ankles crisscrossed, barefoot, leaving nimble toe-prints in the dirt. As she grew
dizzy, she allowed Wulfram to catch her. She held onto him to steady herself, peering at him with deep aloe
eyes. He paused, watching the way the corner of her lips curled in content.
“Friedrich worries about you.”
She deflated with a little sigh. “He shouldn’t. I'd be more at hazard here, where my boredom would get
the better of me.”
Wulfram chuckled, but he knew she heard the sad thrum in his throat, which he couldn't hide, the
catch in his breath when he thought of her leaving again.
“I suppose no one understands. But just look around you, look at this orchard. Perfect rows of trees,
perfect fruit, perfect little chosen flowers. But that's why it isn't perfect. People think it's forest-like simply
because it has trees? They have no idea what a forest is like. Where's the life? If we chase out birds and
nests because they might ruin the fruit, we also take away half the tree's purpose. And is that our choice to
make? If we wanted the forest inside our walls, we'd really let it in, wouldn't we?”
Wulfram let himself drift closer to her. She didn't seem to mind. “When you look at something, you
never see what I'd expect you to.”
“Well, how can I? Do you see what I mean? There—the flower bed’s trampled, and there—some lovestruck
fool's carved names into a trunk. And benches! Has anyone ever tried sitting in a tree, or on the

ground, sensing the earth’s breath, or actually feeling the world with their bare skin, without gloves or shoes
guarding them from experience?”
As if in response to her question, Wulfram brushed his fingers down her bare arm. Her skin was warm
despite the night breeze. He couldn't help but glance at her bare toes. The way she stood, ankles and tender
calves exposed, her feet sure and strong on the naked earth. It was all very beautiful and stirring.
“Wulfram, why is it so important to Friedrich that I remain here?”
He was dispirited now, knowing he'd ruined the evening. And yet, how could they avoid speaking of
this? “He loves you, my dear. And most of all, he misses you.”
She studied his face, seeming to understand it wasn't Friedrich he spoke of, but himself.
“And you?” she whispered. “Do you wish to keep me here?”
He hesitated, watching her eyes flash in the tinsel, moonlight beams. He whispered her name, sacred,
heart, the only thing that matched his spirit.
“Don’t.” She peered at him through her eyelashes. “I’m sorry. I had a lovely evening, and that’s where
I’ll leave it.” Her lips dragged against the scruff of his cheek.
And she was gone.

Chapter Two
In the morning, the great hall bustled with guests and curious servants. Cleandra eyed Wulfram as they
engaged in meaningless conversation, wondering how her departure had affected him last night. She hadn’t
meant to be brusque, but how was she supposed to respond? How could she tell him the forest was
everything to her without wounding him?
“It’s a beautiful morning,” he commented as they exited the great hall.
“Yes,” Cleandra agreed. “Perfect. Will you join me for a walk?” She directed him to the east side of the
castle, into the bright sunshine.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t rather be in the forest?” he questioned. “Even within the castle walls,
you can’t stay away from the trees.” He indicated the orchard, and heat rose in her chest as she
remembered her tirade under the starlight. What useless things words could be when they fell unguarded
from the human tongue.
“You’re right. Let’s go!”
She tugged on his sleeve, and a grin twitched at the corner of his mouth. Allowing her to pull him
along, he said, “You know, this is the first time you’ve asked me to go with you.”
She stopped walking. “I never knew you wanted to.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You know, I’m curious about how you spend your time.”
But her focus was on a huge footprint on the ground. It looked like a dog’s, except it was at least two
handbreadths wide. She frowned, her skin prickling.
Wulfram followed her gaze and spotted it, too. “Did the party from Lamlay bring hunting dogs?”
She smeared the tracks with her foot and grasped his hand, pulling him deeper into the trees. “They
must have.”
They had to, she told herself. Because it couldn’t be a wolf track; they never ventured this close to the
castle. She breathed deep of the fresh pine air, trying to calm herself. Wolves meant trouble, even death. It
had been years since they were last sighted in Elodria.
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