Fifteen minutes later, I stepped outside to witness my father carrying a large basket of corn.
I had called it.
Approaching, I eased the overflowing basket from his hands. “Mother said the kitchen sink is clogged again.” A lie. The kitchen sink was working just fine; I had fixed it myself last night. If there just so happened to be a fresh glass of lemonade sitting on the counter nearby? I knew nothing of it.
My father, a man with deep-set crow’s feet set at the corners of his blue eyes and blonde hair that had been bleached by the sun, groaned in either relief or frustration.
“That damn sink again? If that confounded woman would stop dumping everything under the sun down the drain…” His words faded off into cranky grumbles.
His hands shook slightly from overexertion as he reached up to grab his cap with patches stitched into the fabric to cover up wear and tear. Removing it, he wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead before tucking it into the back pocket of his work pants.
With weariness and exhaustion evident on his face, no matter how much he tried to mask it, his eyes met mine. “Do me a favor, son. When you find a woman? Make sure she’s worth burning for. Give her the match and pray to the old gods. If she burns you? Be the smoke in her lungs.”
Both my brows popped up high at the rare and unsolicited advice.
“And if she doesn’t?” I asked.
My father stood there pondering his response before speaking with the weight of generations settling into his voice. “If she doesn’t… Let the flame die at her fingertips.”
Each word was spoken with a heavy and solemn tone. Which was promptly ruined when he added, “And make sure she doesn’t clog the damn sink every other week.”
I chuckled under my breath as I watched him continue to gripe to himself on his way inside to fix the properly functioning sink. Carrying the basket of corn to the shed to be loaded up and brought into town this afternoon, I stopped short in my tracks on my way to grab the next batch.
On the ground, my father’s flat-brimmed cap lay there. It must have fallen from his pocket. Picking it up, I looked it over in my hands. With a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth, I decisively secured it on my head. For safekeeping.
My eyes blinked open as I stared up at the ceiling of the living room. The fan lazily spun above us. Harlow still clung to my side, passed the hell out. Corbin had slumped over to awkwardly lie against the arm of the sofa, still keeping contact with our girl’s legs with a possessive hold on her, even while unconscious.
A sense of pride tugged at me that we had worn her out. If having us like that tuckered her out this much, the corn maze hunt would probably knock her out cold for a week.
Assuming she makes it out.
That predatory voice in my head was feeling cocky. We always won the annual chase. Why wouldn’t we be confident?
The other part of me, the part that I hadn’t listened to in a long time, hoped it would be a season of change.
Stretching to look at the clock on the wall behind me, it was much later in the morning than I wanted. If I were going to look into this so-called crazy bitch in the basement of the library, I needed to get going.
If anybody was going to inject a little fear into my kitten, it would be me. Not some mentally unstable hag.
Getting untangled from both Corbin and Harlow without disturbing them both was trickier than keeping straw out of the house after spending time out in the fields.
Each movement was a concentrated effort until finally I was able to pry myself free from them without disturbing either of their slumbering forms.
The most I got out of Corbin was a whiny snort, and Harlow burrowed into the warmth of the cushions where I had lain.
After several steps away, I clenched my fists in frustration as I turned back and snagged the handknit blue-and-white blanket from the back of the sofa. I draped itover Harlow’s body. It wasn’t much, but it would provide another layer of comfort in my absence.
Less than half an hour later, I was out of the cottage and making my way toward the library.
Heading down the sidewalk, my hands buried in my jacket pockets, I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. Whoever had unnerved Harlow was going to answer to me.
Before reaching the far corner of Main Street, I noticed the Council approachingFull of It, a little later than normal for their typical fare of hot bean water and bland pastries.
I caught the tail end of their conversation. Fascinating was the piece where Ms. Kiln said, “He could be inducted tonight if we wanted.”
“No, we wait until after the hunt. Lure him in with promises of making change,” Sheriff Hawkins sharply responded.
Bitch.
