Slowly, she washed the blood from her hands, gathered her things, and left the silent bedroom. Drust was nowhere to be seen as she came out. Caderyn stood in front of the fire, his arms clasped behind his back. He looked up when he heard her footsteps.
Aveta knew that he wished to engage her in a conversation, but she was still too upset over all that had transpired. She moved to the chair near the fire, where her cloak had been spread to dry.
“I would like to speak to you,” he stated, looking down his long, hawkish nose at her.
“There is very little to say,” Aveta returned, settling the cloak on her shoulders and pinning the garment together at her neck.
“Perhaps for you. But I have a great deal to say.”
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely and lifting a brow. “Do you? Then you should say the words to Drust.”
Caderyn frowned at her. “What nonsense are you spouting?”
“You should apologize to Drust for the death of his wife and much-longed for son,” she answered baldly.
The healer drew up in obvious affront. “It is not I who should apologize.”
Aveta took a single step toward him. Though he towered over her, the village healer paled at her advance. Despite his loathing of her, Caderyn understood exactly what Aveta was capable of accomplishing if she so wished. He had only witnessed it on a single occasion, but he had never forgotten.
“I told you that Branwen was too weak and the child too large. I explained that I should be sent for immediately when her labor began. Yet you convinced Drust to wait over a day. All to protect your pride and your station in this village.” Aveta’s eyes moved over his fine and expensive tunic and trousers. “You imply thatIam the one who has reason to apologize. It is you who should be shamed.”
“You dare to speak to me this way?” he hissed.
“I dare,” she replied.
“You forget what you are, Aveta. A widow, outcast, and mere female. One well-spoken word and you will be destroyed.”
Aveta smiled at the threat and Caderyn’s jaw tightened at her unexpected reaction.
“You seem to also forget what I am, Caderyn,” she said. “Because a few well-spoken words of my own can destroy you as well.”
His mouth thinned at her response. “You dare to threaten me?”
Aveta sighed, recognizing that the situation was deteriorating. “I dare, Caderyn,” she repeated. “For those who paid the price of your loathing of me are the two dead beneath this roof.”
Her words found their mark and Caderyn flinched.
Aveta gathered her things and left, blinking at the bright sky. She had not noticed when the storm ended. The air was noticeably cooler as she wove her way through the village, intent upon returning home. She yearned for the peace of her cottage and her garden.
She needed to be alone to mourn the loss of Branwen and her son. Though it had been likely that Branwen would not survive the birth regardless, Aveta was furious that she had not had a chance to try. There was a slim chance that she could have saved both the mother and child.
If Aveta had not been so lost in her thoughts, she would have noticed Rhiannon watching her and taken measures to avoid the other woman.
“Good afternoon, Aveta.”
Surprised, Aveta lifted her eyes to her side and found Rhiannon’s cold black gaze pinned on her.
“Greetings, Rhiannon,” she replied, not breaking her stride.
“What brings you to the village today?” the other woman asked.
Aveta’s steps faltered briefly. “Branwen gave birth this afternoon.”
“I heard she was in labor. How are mother and babe?”
Aveta did not respond, only glanced at Rhiannon, which said it all.
“How sad.”
