But when she squinted at the low light of her stove, it was Prudence setting down two bowls on the floor, Patches, clearly the least finicky of the two creatures, almost stuffing her entire head into the bowl with Boleyn taking a few suspicious sniffs first.
Something shifted inside her. Something that had been sprained had righted. As if Prudence, by standing there watching the animals eat, bathed in the pale light of Rhiannon’s kitchen lamp, reached into her and set the joint. Straightened the crooked bone. It snapped into place with a low groan, leaving Rhiannon breathless.
A breeze caressed her face, gone in a second, and she felt tears sting the back of her eyes.
“You stayed.”
Prudence turned, gasping silently, clearly surprised by Rhiannon’s quiet entrance, and the worry in her eyes almost made Rhiannon’s tears spill. Had anyone ever looked at her like this? Like she was precious? Like she mattered? Like she mattered more than the world itself?
“You’re awake.” Pru’s smile was bashful. “Well, duh. Of course you’re awake. How do you feel? You’ve been out of it for a bit.”
Rhiannon frowned.
“How long?”
Prudence came closer, and the palm she laid on her cheek was warm. Rhiannon was grateful for her fatigue, because the magic that accompanied their touches when she was unguarded like this did not bring more than a gentle hum to her skin. She was so open, so broken, one look, one touch would tear her apart.
“Two days.”
Rhiannon lifted her face so fast her head spun.
“Two days? But…” She looked around herself, the words eluding her.
“Lachlan took care of the Atelier, he chose some smaller tasks as to not make too much noise and let you rest. I stayed with you. Well, and they did too.”
Patches and Boleyn sat next to each other looking at their humans, the possum’s expression cheerful, the cat’s pensive.
“I made sure they were fed. If I gave Boleyn something she wasn’t supposed to eat, I guess we will know soon enough. I never had cats, so…”
The rambling was adorable. The sincerity, the touching concern. Rhiannon’s heart thudded in her chest. She closed her eyes and chose the easy way out.
16
PRUDENCE, OLD BOOKS & BROKEN GLASS
Pru went through the last two days as if she was the one sleeping. Nothing seemed real and yet everything was. Between Victoria, Seren, and Ceridwen, her bookstore had stayed open. A steady stream of covered dishes, casseroles, and swaddled loaves of warm bread would periodically appear on the kitchen table, whether she was there or not, whether she ate anything or not. Because the next morning, fresh provisions would spring up as if by magic.
Well, and then there was the actual magic. She sat in the deep and comfortable leather chair by Rhiannon’s bedside and reveled it. Emanating like waves from the prone figure, caught in her own world, Pru drank it by the mouthful. Inhaled by the lungful. And grew addicted to it by the heartful.
What in her waking hours Rhiannon suppressed with a steel hand and ironclad will, her dreams set free. Pru wondered if Rhiannon knew and if the release was due to her exhaustion and her pain.
She tried not to think about the dead crow, the small bones lifeless and broken. And she tried to shy away from the lookon Rhiannon’s face as she buried it. The devastation was so profound, Pru’s tears threatened every time she remembered.
And then there were all the books. Rhiannon’s home, like her workshop, was filled to the brim with old manuscripts, new editions, leather spines, and torn-apart pages that gentle hands were carefully gluing back together. Pru marveled at the patience and the skill that it took to slowly and meticulously bring back to life ink and paper, teasing out words where none would show anymore, breathing meaning into tomes old and new again.
She leafed through several left open in Rhiannon’s study, attentive not to misalign edges. The ancient ones seemed to be history books. One in particular stood out. A Compendium on Dragons Island by Elizabeth Crowhart.
Printed and drawn pages interspersed with handwritten notes on the margins that Rhiannon’s careful hands were halfway through restoring. Some wore ashes, others glue and mold. And yet Gwendolyn’s sufferings stood in sharp relief to all the debris that cluttered the battered pages. Pru, heart in her throat, read the last page that Rhiannon worked on.
The hunters of and the bird-catcher found her, bringing the law and the damnation. Among dark brick they held her trial. “Hang the witch,” they screamed. Hang the witch they did.
When Mother was gone, I was alone. Waiting. My cell small, the basement moldy. Fear choked me and hunger ate at me. Above all, I knew the men would come for me, like they did for Mother. The men always came.
Prudence dropped the magnifying glass and clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sob. For the woman who died, for the daughter who watched. For all the Crowharts who had been followed by the curse for ages.
For Rhiannon, who was carrying hers in silence.
And above all, Pru felt the tug of recognition. The woman from her dreams, so like Rhiannon, yet not. Scared and alone. Helpless. Her head spun and she left the study, shutting the door tightly behind herself. She was grateful the dreams didn’t follow her that night.
