Dorian held her gaze a moment longer, jaw set in stone, before turning on his heel and walking out, cursing the town under his breath. Eli, who was following him while looking at his mobile, helpfully volunteered, "I think she asked you to get lost and called you a lamb's willy. Welsh is a very versatile language."
Others also pretended they spoke only Welsh. In shopfronts and cafés, he received polite refusals, cold shoulders, and conversations that stilled when he entered. Even his accommodation became a battlefield. At the café, he ordered a black coffee. The cup arrived with milk, a ton of sugar, and, he was certain, spite. The spoon clinked against the saucer at a crooked angle. Dorian adjusted it once, twice, until Eli leaned over and muttered, "For God's sake, you'll polish the damn thing bald."
At the B&B, the conspiracy deepened. The sheets were crisp but smelled faintly of vinegar, and the bathroom window whined like a dying violin every time he opened it. On the second morning, he discovered the housekeeper had vacuumed in perfect straight lines-except for one jagged diagonal across the carpet. He stared at it with a jaw locked tight while Eli laughed at his distress in the background.
On the second morning, he discovered the room had been "freshly cleaned." The phrase was generous. The sheets were tucked with military precision but faintly damp, and the bathroom smelt of bleach and mildew in equal measure. He scrubbed the taps with a handkerchief until Eli, lounging in the doorway, remarked, "Christ, you'll wear the chrome off."
By the third day, his patience was worn thin. There was a faint brown ring in the teacup provided on his nightstand. Dorian held it at arm's length like biohazard evidence until Tom, stifling a yawn, offered to fetch him bottled water.
"Do they think we're savages?" Dorian muttered, wiping down the cup anyway, before shoving it back onto the tray as if it had personally insulted him. Tom's comfortable room was abruptly swapped "by mistake" for a damp, airless one with floral wallpaper that peeled in the corners. Every other inn in town was suddenly booked solid. Breakfast brought its own insults: burnt toast, cold eggs, a tomato that rolled off his plate and landed, splattering on the floor. The landlady simply shrugged. "That happens."
Dorian set down his knife and fork with surgical precision. "Does it, now?"
"Every morning," she replied cheerfully.
On the fourth morning, his patience was hanging by a thread when he noticed the housekeeper had again vacuumed in perfect lines, except for three crooked diagonals crossing the carpet like a scar. He stared at it with resignation until Eli finally smirked and said, "Yer face is like a thundercloud, over a bit of fluff."
Even the dog from across the way seemed to wait for him that day. It trotted up again when Dorian had attempted another visit to Rune's home, tail wagging, and planted muddy paw prints square across his pressed trousers. The old woman called out from her side of the fence, smiling like a saint. "He likes you!"
Dorian said nothing, though his silence told stories of the impending storm. Four days. No Rune.
And the town, with its sly smiles and deliberate inconveniences, had closed ranks around her.
Chapter nineteen
Chapter 19
While Dorian was recovering from his first run-in with the neighbour's Chihuahua and considering ways of murdering the little rat-dog that had left tooth marks in his trousers and his patience in tatters, an oblivious Rune walked through the front door with sagging shoulders. With a small sigh, she dropped her bag by the door. The midwife had called half an hour ago, her scan was postponed yet again, pushed to next week. She'd hidden her disappointment under a thin smile, but the truth was, it gnawed at her. Ten weeks and still no real proof beyond the faint curve of her belly and the nausea that was rearing its ugly head from time to time at the strangest things. The baby still didn't feel real.
Her mother, as always, had the solution – food. There was already a plate waiting on the kitchen table, thick pumpkin soup, buttered bread, and her mum's famous Victorian sponge cooling on the counter. Rune had barely sat down before her mother was bustling around again, fussing about vitamins and folic acid, ignoring Rune's insistence that she wasn't that hungry.
"You're eating for two now," her mother said firmly, sliding over another plate. "And besides, you're too pale."
Rune managed a laugh. "You said the same when I was seventeen."
Her mother waved the words away. "That's different. You were on a weird diet back then, love. You've got a reason now."
After dinner, her mother leaned across the table, tone brisk, not making eye contact as she ladled more soup into her bowl. "I wasthinking, we should go up to your grandparents' farm for a few days. They'd love to see you. The conveyancing firm is shut down for an audit anyway, and they're painting the offices. Too many fumes for you, not safe when you're pregnant."
Rune blinked. The whole speech sounded like she was reading from a script, as if it had been decided long before she'd walked through the door. A prickle of unease stirred low in her chest.
"Mum, I'll be fine-"
"You'll be better at the farm," her mother cut in quickly. "Fresh air, good food. And your grandpa could use the company."
Her grandpa never talked, probably because her nana never gave him a chance. He usually took his hearing aid off when his Nana started up. Rune frowned. It was all reasonable, logical even, but it didn't stop her feeling like she was being nudged in a certain direction. As though her mom was manoeuvring her in some way.
She rubbed at her temple. "I'm too tired to drive tonight." But before she'd even finished the sentence, her father sprang up from his chair, newspaper falling forgotten to the floor. "I'll take you," he volunteered. He stepped outside first, moving faster than she'd seen him in years, and glanced sharply up and down the street before hurrying her toward the ancient car. Rune, still tired from the day, let herself be steered, but the weird feeling of missing something only deepened. Something strange was afoot.
It began raining halfway through the drive, fat drops streaking the windscreen, the wipers struggling to keep pace. By the time they reached the farm, the air was cool and sharp with the scent of wet earth.
Her nana met her at the door, brisk but beaming. "Your old room's ready, love. Fresh sheets, just for you."
Upstairs, one of the newer dogs, a golden lab called Jenny, trailed after her, tail swishing happily as she padded up the stairs. Rune pushed open the door and was met with the warm familiarity of her childhood. The single bed was tucked into the corner, layered with a handmade quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. A woven lampshade cast soft light over the walls, and shelves were dotted with old trinkets and stuffed animals that her Nana had refused to throw away.
But it was the window that drew her. Gramps had put in a larger one, and it seemed to open the room up to the hills beyond. She could see sheep scattered across the green slopes, their wool glowing pale in the starlight, and the faint glimmer of raindrops clinging to the paddock fence. Jenny gave a soft woof before curling herself up on the rug, head resting on her paws while she'd claimed guard duty.
Rune sank down onto the bed and ran her fingers over the quilt's stitches. An aching sigh escaped her chest, that familiar pain that never really went away. She wished, fiercely and painfully, that things with Dorian had been different. That she hadn't poured so much of herself into a love story that had only ever lived in her imagination.
