Nay,not everything, she corrected herself. She should not allow her younger brother to distress her so.
A smile flickered across her face as she remembered the secret nickname she and Tristan had once used for Jonah.The Scowler.It was still apt.
Frida carefully closed the door of the store and set off towards the herb garden, before abruptly changing course and walking with new purpose towards the standing stones. Mayhap there she would be able to think more clearly.
Two winters ago, she might have run. Certainly she would have lengthened her stride and revelled in her youth and strength. Now it took all of that same strength to walk at a moderate pace without limping. And when her foot twisted on a sharp stone, she couldn’t help a yelp of pain.
Hot tears filled her eyes and she allowed them to fall, knowing that she was unlikely to be observed.
Once a day, and no more, Frida allowed her carefully controlled emotions to surface.
But on this morn, the combination of salty tears and heavy mist was disorienting and she had to stop and look about her to recover her bearings. Thankfully, the way to the standing stoneswas as familiar as the back of her hand. She had been drawn to them ever since her parents first brought her to Ember Hall at the age of seven. Frida gazed from left to right until she made out the familiar crooked tree which marked the start of the faint rabbit path she must follow. Half-way up the hill was where she usually paused to glance at the sparkling waves breaking onto the small cove below, but today she could not see that far. All about her was quiet and still, suspended in the mist. Frida was the only thing that moved; her breathing the only sound in her ears. Her pulse picked up speed. Mayhap the magic was coming back to her?
Not real magic, the kind that could cast spells and enchantments. But the magic Frida had grown up with: an energy which helped her sense the future and feel connected to the world, both past and present. Losing her Sight had been like losing a limb. It troubled her more than her damaged ankle; more than she would ever tell. No one would understand anyway. This feeling of not being whole wasn’t something she could easily explain.
Frida dashed away her tears. She had jibed at Jonah’s self-pity and now was indulging in the same.
Seven tall granite stones loomed out of the mist towards her. On a sunny day, these stones exuded a golden hue, but now they were shrouded in white.
White. The colour of my fall.
Gritting her teeth, Frida stepped towards the nearest stone and placed a hand on its rough surface. Years earlier, her whole being could sense the vibrating energy emanating from the ancient site. Standing here she had felt both powerful and humbled; part of something far bigger than herself.
Now, she was just a tired woman touching a cold stone.
Her connection to the spiritual world had been severed.
She hung her head forward, allowing the surge of grief to pass. Her thick white hair fell forward like a cascading waterfall. Impossible to ignore.
Frida had never been vain. Since childhood, she’d known that her sister, Isabella, was the beauty in the family. Consequently, the loss of her honey-blonde curls struck Frida as more of an inconvenience than a tragedy. But there were times when she mourned their loss. Times when the whiteness of her hair stood as a symbol for the colour that had gone from her life, ever since her accident.
My fall.
She always thought of it as her fall. Because accidents were, well, accidental. And with the benefit of hindsight, Frida could see that her own actions had set that terrible sequence of events in motion.
She had been blinded by love. Or by something. For a man she hardly knew.
Sir Callum Baine. A friend of Tristan’s. Just the thought of his name was enough to set her heart fluttering. Even now, when she had sworn to live her life free of men.
All men.
But most especially that one.
Wiping away her tears, she straightened her shoulders and tucked her wilful hair back behind her ears. She should tie it in a plait and hide it beneath a bonnet—both for propriety’s sake and to save herself the embarrassment of curious stares. But out here, Frida knew she was unlikely to be stared out by anything other than a frightened rabbit. And moreover, she baulked at moulding herself to society’s whims. Hadn’t she moved to Ember Hall to get away from such rules and restrictions?
Aye.She had moved here for peace. And because Ember Hall was where she had always been most content, comfortable and able to be freely herself. None of that had changed; even thoughher ankle ached and her senses remained stubbornly ill-attuned to the spiritual.
Frida breathed deeply, dispelling her loss and grief; determined to be positive. Though her ankle pained her, she could still walk. She had the chance of a new, happy life and she was determined to grasp it.
Life.She had so nearly lost it with one fall from her spirited horse. For three days she had lain unconscious, while her devastated parents summoned the best physicians and barber surgeons in the land to Wolvesley Castle. They had shaved off her hair, perforated her skull, applied healing unguents and prayed on their knees. When the sun began to set on the third day, the healers had all but given up, but then her eyes had opened. Eyes that were still bright and cornflower blue, even though her hair, when it grew back, had changed from gold to white.
All she needed now was peace and time.
Time to make peace with what had happened.
Frida smoothed down her skirts and straightened her cloak. She would return to the litany of tasks which now formed the fabric of her days at Ember Hall. Quiet, predictable days which she cherished.
“Frida, come quickly.”
