Hope seemed to spring in her eyes. “Then you haven’t sealed your vows yet.”
“That is none of your concern,” Fawn said firmly.
Her mum rested her hand on Fawn’s arm. “Whatever you do, Fawn, do not consummate your vows. Do not seal this union to him.”
Her mum did something Fawn never saw her do… she pleaded with her.
“Please, Fawn, I beg of you, wait for a few days at least until he reveals his true self.”
Fawn shook her head. “You make no sense. What true self?”
Her mum kept her voice to a whisper. “The evil that lurks within him.”
CHAPTER 13
Snow fell heavier by the time Fawn reached her cottage, the flakes clinging to her cloak and dampening her fiery curls. She slipped inside, closing the door firmly against the storm. Warmth and the familiar scents of herbs, straw, and feathers greeted her.
Sprig wriggled from the pouch, stretched, then padded straight to the hearth, curling up in a patch of warmth as though he owned it.
“Some guard you’d make,” Fawn teased softly, bending to stroke his small head before she straightened and looked around.
The fox in the corner shifted on his blanket, his amber eyes bright despite his recovering injury. She crossed to him, crouching low, and rubbed his ears until his tail thumped once in answer.
“You’re mending well, Ash,” she encouraged, though knew his limp was permanent and a danger to his survival.
She helped him outside to see to his duties, fighting to keep her mind clear of all the difficulties that plagued her. A few moments of peace that was all she wanted, a few moments.
Once inside she settled Ash comfortably in his bed and fed him.
Above, two doves shifted on the rafters, cooing softly as if reminding her they were there. “Aye, Bramble, Willow,” she called up to them, “I hear you and I am glad to see you both.”
The owl only blinked at her from its shadowed perch, solemn and still. “And you, Sage,” she said, shaking her head with a wry smile, “always watching.” She fed him as well.
But it was the raven who drew her next. He rested in the makeshift nest she had crafted from wool scraps and twigs, his dark feathers dull, his bound wing held close. He croaked low as she approached, and her heart tugged at the sound.
Fawn knelt beside him, brushing her fingers lightly over his glossy head. “You’ve spirit, I can tell. It seems only right you should have a name as well.” She thought for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Rook. Yes, that will do.”
The raven clicked his beak, as if in agreement, and settled back into the nest.
Fawn rose slowly, gazing around at the creatures who had made her cottage theirs. Their presence soothed her, yet her mother’s words whispered still,“Do not seal your vows. Evil lurks within him.”
She clenched her hands against her tunic. “You speak of danger but give me no truth,” she said aloud, as if the animals listened. “You fear Rhodes, aye, but what is it you see in him that you won’t tell me? What darkness do you hide from me, Mum?”
Her voice faltered, but then she shook her head, defiance hardening her tone. “I will not run. I will not be turned away by warnings I do not understand. If there is truth to be found, I will find it myself. I gave my word, and I will not break it. Wife I am, and wife I will remain.”
The doves cooed again, Sprig stirred in his sleep, and the raven let out a single croak, as though sealing her vow.
But even as she stood straighter, fire in her chest, unease crept like a shadow beneath her resolve. Her mother’s pleading eyes haunted her still, and though she hated to admit it, fear whispered along her heart… what if the warning was real?
Fawn’s stomach rumbled, loud enough that Sprig lifted his head from his nap to blink at her. She gave a soft laugh and pushed back her curls. “Aye, I hear you,” she told the kitten. “I’m hungry too.”
She gathered what she had from her stored baskets: carrots, turnips, and a small onion, and carried them to the table. As she chopped, the fox lifted his head, ears pricking, while the doves fluttered their wings above as if in approval. The steady scrape of her knife against the board and the earthy scent of the vegetables soothed her.
“You’ll all want some, I know,” she said, dropping the chunks into the pot she had set on the hook above the fire. “But this one’s mine. A wife needs strength if she’s to deal with a husband who thinks he can command her.”
She stretched her arm out to the shelves, reaching into a couple of crocks to scoop up some dried herbs, and sprinkled a mix of sage and thyme into the pot. The fragrance filled the small room, warm and familiar, wrapping around her like a comforting shawl.
“There now,” she said as she stirred. “That’ll see us through the night.”
