“And what else did you quit when you turned twenty-five, Ophelia.”
“How do you know this name? I never gave it to you.” Pru’s words were barely a whisper. Rhiannon was too close. Crowding her. Making her forget things, questions. But not her dreams. The woman who surely was Rhiannon, addressed her by this name there as well. In a tender voice of someone who cared. Who had no agenda.
“You haven’t?” Rhiannon’s tongue peeked from behind the rows of white teeth. If she was surprised to be called out for using the middle name she must’ve asked Victoria or Ceridwen for, Rhiannon played it off with ease, clearly a better actress than Pru would ever think herself of being. Pru, who only presently thought about running away. Rhiannon fingered a spine of the book closest to her and Pru nearly fainted.
“I must’ve heard it somewhere, my aunt or my meddlesome sister surely,” was all she said in that lower than necessary tone of hers. And the fake note was back.
Pru closed her eyes and counted to three. When she opened them, Rhiannon was no longer near her.
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
The bracelets jingled again, and Rhiannon spoke without facing her.
“Do what?”
“Pretend. You don’t need to pretend with me.”
She felt the waves of something powerful radiate from the taut shoulder blades, partially hidden by the green silk. Then the shoulders dropped, and Rhiannon turned back around.
“I came to apologize.”
Pru started, then set her cold coffee mug on the shelf next to the book Rhiannon touched earlier.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“Oh, I do. You’re young and you might not realize?—”
Pru laughed without putting any heart into it.
“I live on the island, Rhiannon. You Crowharts love to pretend that people are entirely oblivious to things around us, and while most indeed are, some of us are more observant. And to be honest, none of you are very good at hiding it.”
Rhiannon’s gaze turned sharp, the danger Pru kept sensing lurking just under the surface rearing its head.
“Some have things to hide, Prudence. And some have left all of that brouhaha in the past. You’d do well not to listen to Ceridwen as much.”
“Or Victoria?” Pru parried, and Rhiannon’s lips twitched.
“Feel free to listen to her. She might impart a ton of gossip, a ton of innuendo, and even more fairy tales. She’s a wonderfully unreliable narrator, though. So be warned.”
Rhiannon took a few steps forward and Pru found herself face-to-face with her neighbor. Not the one from last night. And not even the one who carried trash to her door, gorgeous and indignant. This was the neighbor she was used to: distant, detached, slightly disappointed to be breathing the same air as all these townies.
“I came to apologize, and so I did. And I hope you understand that I will not be indulging whatever imaginary scenarios you have conjured up in your head.”
Even the choice of words was curious, and Pru allowed herself to smile. And lay down the gauntlet.
“Well, in that case, I shall have to conjure up said scenarios by asking Ceridwen to indulge me and my questions.”
And now thunder came. Distant, quiet, as if a mere reminder that it was always there to begin with, almost sly in its deceptiveness and the whisper of presence. Rhiannon’s face remained inscrutable for a moment, and then she turned around and left the shop. As she crossed the threshold, Pru murmured, “And you never really did say you’re sorry.”
Her first indication that her words had reached their target was a slight hitch in Rhiannon’s long, graceful stride. Her second was a light warm breeze suddenly ruffling her messy hair, untangling her already falling apart bun. As apologies went, this one needed work.
9
RHIANNON, TOMBSTONES & WATER’S EDGE
CROW’S BREW TO HOLD BANNED BOOKS WEEK!
Come with a banned book, get free coffee.
