She exited the kitchen swiftly to see Prudence standing in the doorway.
“I saw it open and it’s late and I thought… We take care of our own in the Nest…”
The rambling was endearing, Rhiannon realized, and so was the woman. The one who came to her in dreams and took care of her, kept her fears at bay. This strange, beautiful creature, who challenged her and never backed down and yet who at times couldn’t string two words together in her presence. And that was alluring in and of itself. A strong woman unraveling. For you.
Rhiannon took a step closer, her skin immediately warming up in undeniable recognition. In connection. She wanted to rage against it. To throw a fit and shake her fist at the sky, at how unfair and illogical all of this was. She was forty years old, she had lived a life, buried her wife, had loved and lost. And not once during those years had there been a pull, an awakening of senses like this one.
Oh, she’d fight it. Not everything that was fated would come to pass. But it was a bittersweet realization that no matter how far she ran, Crow’s Nest held something just for her anyway.
“And am I?” She lowered her voice and watched Prudence stand a touch taller. Rhiannon smiled, challenge accepted, and took a few steps closer. The fresh scent of linen and the outdoors enveloped her again. When had she become addicted to something so simple?
“Are you what?” Pru lifted her chin a notch and Rhiannon smile turned into a smirk. This would be so much fun.
“Your own?” She was aware that she was playing a dangerous game. With herself more so than with Prudence. And yet she couldn’t stop. Her blood sang in the presence of this woman, the answering call of it, like a siren’s, luring her to places she should never venture.
Prudence gulped and Rhiannon’s smile grew wider. Another step closer.
“You live on the island, that makes you our own.”
“And what if I don’t want that collective pronoun, Prudence Ophelia? Ours sounds so very…nonexclusive.” Her thoughts spun, heady and dizzying, as Prudence’s treacherous blush snuck up from her low-cut dress and up her long neck. Rhiannon could almost taste the salt of her, the scent of her. She’d leave a mark and Pru would have to hide it for days, Rhiannon reveling in it, obscured but still there. Still hers.
The bell tower ringing in ten times shook her out of her insanity. What was she thinking? What was she doing? She was halfway across the floor and just a few feet away from Prudence, who stood motionless, like a lamb brought to slaughter under Rhiannon’s ready knife.
Rhiannon turned around. This had been a close call. Too close. Control was a multifaceted beast, more of a three-headed dragon. She had to keep that in mind. Her power wasn’t the only head that needed to be kept quiet.
But the steps behind her were relentless, and in a heartbeat she was joined by Prudence, innocent, guileless Prudence, whohad no idea how close she was coming to perdition, at the counter.
“I’ve heard of this book.” A slim finger peeked from under the long sleeve of the cardigan carelessly draped over her shoulders and left unbuttoned at her front. Before Rhiannon could say something, or snatch the hand away, Prudence touched the cover, tracing the uneven black letters on the tattered cowhide binding. “So much death and it’s just a book. An evil, hateful man wrote it, and more evil, hateful people got inspired by it, and women and children died because of it.”
“Were all of them evil? Or were they simply part of the braying crowd, doing what everyone else did, merely to get by?”
Prudence shook her head then spoke quietly, eyes lowered, long lashes trembling on her cheeks.
“You can’t watch the burning of a woman at a stake, you can’t cheer for it, ‘Burn the witch!’ and then go home and milk your cows and make your cheese and go to church on Sunday and think yourself pious. You can’t hate women that much and believe you’re a decent person. I’m not as quick to absolve people, I guess.”
Rhiannon’s delight faded. Dammit, she liked this woman. She liked her too much.
“We agree. And yes, this is the famed Hammer of Witches. First edition, 1486.”
Prudence opened the cover, and the dusty, torn pages gaped at her like a wound.
“Will you restore it?”
“No.” The word came out of her mouth so fast and so final it surprised her. And yet, despite carrying it around for years, in all of their moves, new shops, and newer richer, bigger houses, Rhiannon suddenly knew for a fact she’d never touch the book. Hell, if it wasn’t a book, she’d probably burn it. But that was aline that brought her too close to those who wrote it, and one line she couldn’t cross.
She licked her lips, her mouth dry. The moment stretched and she wanted to say something, whether to keep Prudence with her for a few more moments or to push her away, she had no idea. The latter would be wiser. The former, more pleasurable.
Selfish woman that she was, she chose pleasure.
“It was a gift, believe it or not.”
Prudence’s expressive eyes widened, and Rhiannon enjoyed the way the late-evening light played on the planes of the beautiful face. The flush was still there, dusting the high cheekbones. Rhiannon’s fingers itched for paper. Prudence would look amazing in that very charcoal.
“From someone who hated you?”
Like a stone thrown through a windowpane, the effects of Prudence’s words were devastating. Rhiannon braced a hand on the counter, for purchase, for balance, for strength to not scream“Yes, yes, it was my wife and she despised what I am every single minute of every day!”
“It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.” She breathed slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth, the nausea threatening to spill at any moment.
