She was Crow. She had her nest, and it was protected by beings larger than life. Surrounding her island, three stone giants rose like soldiers, like guardians, like dragons. Her Three Dragons. She was home.
2
PRUDENCE, LISTS & UNREQUITED INFATUATION (OF A POSSUM)
Crow’s Nest… Present Day
THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER RETURNS!
Rhiannon Crowhart, the disgraced scion of the illustrious town mainstay family, has bestowed her presence on Crow’s Nest once again, more than twenty years after departing in a cloud of acrimony and mystery.
She has taken over the abandoned Atelier on Market Square, and clouds of construction dust attest to her intent of restoring the landmark.
Watch this space. And Market Square.
—Crow’s Caw
Prudence Fowler rolledher eyes at the ridiculous shenanigans of the town’s newspaper and as always wondered who was behind the gossip rag. It was entertaining—she’d give the writerthat much. Even if it was, on occasion, over the top. Still, in this one instance, Pru figured the-all caps headline was warranted.
Rhiannon Crowhart had to be the most fascinating woman in the world. Never one for exaggeration, and trying to have facts on her side, Pru had a list to back up her assertion. She had, after all, done her research, and Crow’s Caw was no match for her resourcefulness. Granted, Pru had something the newspaper couldn’t claim. She had proximity, as her bookstore shared a wall with the aforementioned landmark the prodigal daughter took possession of just a month ago.
But back to the list. Not that Pru put anything on paper, but the points were clear in her mind.
Number 1. Rhiannon Crowhart was not a morning person. The dark green eyes, narrowed and disdainful, took in the bright skies above her with an alarming sharpness for someone clearly displeased to be awake this early. The withering light in those depths was indication enough.
Number 2. Rhiannon Crowhart had a coffee addiction that was both concerning and impressive. She was never without a to-go cup in her hand, no matter whether it was one of those ridiculously early mornings or late afternoons.
Number 3. Rhiannon Crowhart was polite but rigidly distant with the construction crew who were putting the finishing touches on what was once a broken-down and abandoned eyesore on the otherwise idyllic, if rustic, Market Square. She spoke little, despite supervising most of the process herself, her monosyllabic answers delivered in a clipped, low voice. A voice that was most definitely illegal in the Bible Belt states. There surely were regulations against the employment of said weapon of mass seduction. The unfairness of having such a voice, velvet glove over deadly steel, had to be studied. Still, at least she spoke to the architect and the construction crew, since the other townsfolk were yet to be deemed worthy of a conversation.
Number 4. Per the previous point, Rhiannon Crowhart was not into introducing herself to the neighborhood or neighbors. Not that she needed to. Obviously, that lack of necessity came with being a Crowhart. Even one who had left the island in a torrent of scandal twenty-some years ago if the Caw was to be believed.
Number 5. Rhiannon Crowhart clearly cared very little about what people thought of her back then, and certainly these days. She moved through town decidedly unencumbered by the remnants of said scandal that followed her along with the gossipy whispers of the townies.
Number 6. Despite all the fascinating evidence and days of observation, one thing was abundantly clear. Rhiannon Crowhart had no idea Prudence Fowler kept glancing her way from her very busy bookshop next door. Or that Pru Fowler was running a list of the conclusions drawn, based on the aforementioned glancing.
And in all honesty, Pru only glanced periodically. Very rarely. Just enough to notice that the coffees were always scalding hot as the second-oldest Crowhart sister moved the cups from one hand to the other, caressing the paper sleeve with those long, slender fingers, generously adorned with thin silver rings.
But not the finger that mattered. No, that one was suspiciously bare, even though Pru had heard—in passing, thank you very much—that Rhiannon Crowhart had skipped town all those years ago in the midst of a scandalous affair with someone who was already attached. Even more scandalously, this someone had been a woman.
So yes, Pru’s attention darted over to the brick building next door only occasionally. Very occasionally. When her own busy schedule permitted. She was extremely busy. And otherwise engaged in business. And cared very little for her new neighbor, the famous and scandalous Rhiannon Crowhart.
What didn’t make it on the list, and only because Pru had no idea how to even begin to properly articulate it, was the fact that Rhiannon Crowhart came to her every night in her dreams.
Pru couldn’t remember much by the time she woke up, but she was always exhausted, wrecked by memories she could never place, as if they didn’t belong in her own life yet were unquestionably connected to her. And above all, a woman looked at her with those Rhiannon Crowhart forest-green eyes and there was no trace of indifference. In her dreams, the woman knew her. Saw her. In ways that made Prudence shiver despite wearing her favorite sweater and the day on Dragons promising nothing but sunshine and warmth. In those dreams, the eyes were sad, scared, almost desperate, and they made Pru want to break down walls to wipe away the fear from them.
“Will you return?” The woman always asked as the dreams would come to an end.
“I won’t leave you!” Prudence would promise before waking up.
Pru shook her head, trying to forget the feeling of powerlessness as she drew the feather duster through the few shelves situated closer to the entrance of the store, forcing herself to note the gaps in her inventory and make mental notes to push her regular restock forward by a few days.
She had no time for fanciful visions or silliness. Fall on Crow’s Nest, a tiny town on the drop of land off the coast of Massachusetts, was spectacular and by far the season that drew the most tourists. The foliage and the craftsmanship of the local artisans attracted folks who had a day to kill and money to spare.
The island’s lore and the Nest’s quirky mysteries helped as well, even though Pru, coming from a long line of Nesters, rarely thought too deeply about it. Her family had a storied past, at times virtuous and other times rather sullied by their political allegiances. The following generations of Fowlers had tried todistance themselves from the later as much as possible either by becoming upstanding citizens and public servants, or by leading a quiet, unobjectionable life. Pru counted herself among the latter. Lore was important; it paid to remember it, and it certainly paid to preserve it. She was a merchant, and she was savvy enough not to look the gift horse in the mouth. If people wanted to buy literature on the history of the town or about its founder, they were more than welcome.
A Crowhart had resided in the Crow’s Nest since its founding. At least, that’s what Pru’s books said. And now there was one more. But who was counting? Certainly not Pru.
Next to her, the fuzzy creature occupying a pillow in the sunlight snorted theatrically.
