“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, slowly slipping my arms from around him.
“See you tomorrow,” Caz echoed, his words as sound as a promise.
I came hometo the sharp scent of body odor and the sour stench of cheap ale. My father was slumped in a chair near the hearth, the amber bottle dangling loosely from his hand. His head hung forward, and his indolent eyes stared blankly ahead, only snapping wider when the bottle nearly slipped from his grip. He didn’t acknowledge my presence as I entered, and I doubted he even had the capacity to see me, let alone speak.
I shook my head, suppressing the familiar wave of disappointment and resentment. Feelings I’d carried for years. And I buried that childish longing for something more, for a family that felt whole.
I started my usual routine, placing the leftovers from the inn in the kitchen for my parents to nibble on whenever they remembered to eat. I shrugged off my cloak and straightened my boots at the front door. As I did, my gaze swept across the room, skimming over the corners, a doorway, and out toward the back. My mother was nowhere to be seen.
Whenever she disappeared, it could’ve meant a number of things.Was she wandering outside, lost in her songs? Was she in some kind of danger, injured somewhere I couldn’t find her? Or perhaps she’d been taken away by the neighboring widower, the one I couldn’t stand.
He was a bastard, and one day he’d pay for his wrongdoings. That day just hadn’t come yet.
I looked over the cottage again, as though a second sweep might uncover some clue I’d missed. My mother had to be around somewhere. That small flicker of hope began to fade as I approached the back door, already unlatched. Her shoes were gone, along with the shawl she always wore, even on warm summer nights like this one.
I knew where she was, but my mind couldn’t rest until I saw her with my own eyes.
The walk to the neighbor’s cottage took about a quarter-chime. As much as the walk home from the inn helped me unwind, this one only wound me up tighter. When I neared the small home, I saw the hearth blazing, smoke curling from the chimney. I crept up to the window and peeked through the curtain. Clothes lay strewn across the floor in disarray. A bottle of wine was emptied. And there was my mother, sprawled out on the couch, our neighbor on top of her.
I tried to block out the image, knowing I couldn’t carry that weight. I nearly charged through the door, ready to storm in and drag her home.
But I was just a girl. A skirtsfolk. Nothing more.
Even in Brier Len, women held little sway. If I tried to fight it, no one would care. If my neighbor made me vanish, not a soul would blink.
So I stormed home, tripping over roots, leaves scraping at my skin, anger and frustration burning inside me. All of it almost too much to bear. Did Mother know what she was doing? Was her madness just an act? Did she realize her choices were putting us both in danger?
Why? Why was she doing this? Had she even noticed my absence at all? There had come a point when she stopped being my mother, but I still couldn’t accept it yet.
When I finally stumbled back home, I collapsed ontomy cot, my face wet with tears. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the fragile roll of parchment, along with the dried wildflower. I unfurled it, holding Caz’s neat handwriting in my hands like it was the only thing keeping me afloat.
I read the words again and again. At first slowly, stumbling through the sounds, then more easily as I found comfort in their rhythm.
I murmured the lines under my breath, over and over, like a lullaby, until everything blurred and sleep pulled me under.
Love forms a bridge,
Stretching through time,
Connecting two hearts,
In rhythm, in rhyme.
Each step, each glance, a story unfolds,
Hand in hand, through moments of gold.
24
The followingweeks passed in a soothing rhythm. Working at the inn, helping Caz in the mornings, and spending evenings with him for reading and writing lessons. Each day, I reminded him to apply Mag’s salve to his arm, and soon the rash had all but disappeared. His shoulder regained full range of motion without much issue.
At home, I chose to ignore my own problems, drowning myself in Caz and his scholarly work. I woke each day with the same need to be near him, as though he was the only thing in my life that felt rooted, while everything else seemed to drift.
Before long, the early mornings spent slipping into Caz’s room turned into late nights, until eventually, I no longer wanted to leave him at all. I returned home only to drop off food and supplies. Still, my father’s tankard seemed bottomless, his presence nearly invisible, and my mother’s visits to the widow next door became more frequent than ever.
Instead of facing the ache, I sought comfort in Caz’s arms. His embrace was gentle and understanding, soothing my tears and quieting my thoughts. And as stories like this often go, I clung to him with everything I had, binding myself to him helplessly, with both body and heart.
We woke in the early mornings, tangled together on his bed, before packing up to take Bellona into the woods. Breakfast was always eaten as the sun rose, and then we’d dive into his books and journals, now carefully stitched with twine and cord to keep them from falling apart. After each spool of surveyor’s metal was unwound and Caz’s meticulous notes were recorded, we’d find a quiet clearing or a secluded nook in the woods to lose ourselves in each other.
