Rooke would not outright admit it to himself, but he was seeking out Corabeth’s company. He was restless without it, bereft. During the hours she slept, Rooke roamed the halls of his manor or the woods, finding excuses to drift closer to her door or window. Some nights he convinced himself Corabeth had fled. A cold panic gripped him that only loosened its hold when he heard her soft breathing or the rustle of her bedsheets through her door.
It was early morning. The light still had a faint blue tint to it when Rooke walked from his bedroom all the way to the end of the left wing. His mother’s room had been there. Now that winter was upon them, Corabeth would need thicker cloaks, fur muffs. It was nothing but an excuse, of course, to walk past her room.
Silence when he went. Silence when he returned, a heavy burgundy cloak in his arms.
Rooke halted.
The door was closed, but the space beyond it was as lifeless as the woods outside. It wasn’t right. Had she truly left this time?
In a flash, Rooke could imagine himself tearing through the woods, Corabeth’s scent an almost visible thing, guiding him. Ripping through branches and briars and earth, destroying everything that stood between him and her. He was bound tothese woods but even that wouldn’t stop him. He’d find a way to break loose, to go after her and when he inevitably found her…
What then? He wanted to believe he’d fall to his knees before her, beg for her to come back. Promise to give her whatever she desired as long as she stayed with him. As long as he didn’t have to be alone once more.
But there was another part of Rooke that painted his thoughts crimson. Filled them with ripping and tearing. With the familiar feeling of having a prey animal escape from him.
No, she couldn’t leave. She wouldn’t.
Rooke forced his rapid breathing to slow. To keep his thoughts from fracturing.
Then, the faint smell of bath oils in the air.
He followed the scent like a bloodhound. Down the stairs, past the dining room and kitchen, into what used to be the servants’ quarters. Here, the rooms were plain, devoid of all personality. In the lightly painted common rooms where benches lined the walls and a large table dominated the room, Rooke found Corabeth sitting by a window, bent over something on her lap. Her curved back to him, her hand kept working, a needle glinting between her slender fingers.
The relief coursing through his body was so great, he could only watch for a moment and take in the serenity of the scene.
Some loose locks fell on Corabeth’s slender neck, her black hair taking on a blue tint in the morning light. Her breathing was slow, relaxed. In the moments where she was finding her way with the needle, she sat so still she could have been a statue.
At least a statue,Rooke thought,I could keep.
But for now, she had not fled.
Rooke took a few silent steps backward, drawing back into the shadows of the hallway. Then he made his steps purposefully loud as he approached once more.
Corabeth’s head whipped to him as he entered. “Morning,” she greeted before going back to her needlework.
“You’re up early,” he said in lieu of greeting, his voice steady. As if he hadn’t been in a near panic mere moments ago.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said with a shrug without lifting her eyes from her work.
“What are you doing?” Rooke asked and walked closer to her. The unfamiliar fabric in Corabeth’s lap was off-white, unevenly yellowed by time.
Corabeth lifted her head, her gaze distant as she looked out the window. As though the answer was somewhere out there among the barren trees and falling snow.
“I don’t know,” she answered, her voice small. “I used to sew things for people. And I found this shirt, it was torn. I felt like fixing something.”
Her eyes refocused as she returned to herself, looking at Rooke. “It’s silly, I suppose.” Then she noticed the bundle Rooke carried. “What’s that?” she asked.
“A cloak. It’s thicker. For when the weather gets colder,” he said, and placed it on the end of the bench Corabeth was sitting on. The offering carried with it an assumption. It assumed a future in which Corabeth was still there when the temperatures dropped in the dead of winter.
She said nothing of it as she admired the richly colored fabric, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes warm with gratitude. But she did not put the sewing down.
The needle pierced the fabric. Pulled the thread through. Closed the hole a little more.
For a few silent moments, there was only the rhythm of her work.
“You know,” Corabeth said all of a sudden, “I think my mother would have liked you.”
Rooke stood, nailed to his spot, feeling as though his entire body had been doused in ice-cold water.
