Pru, who had not developed a taste for herbal teas no matter how hard she tried, watched her avidly. Books were amazing, but this? Priceless. The wisdom, the sheer amount of information this woman possessed. Her cozy cottage on the outskirts of town, just under the Sky Blue Cliff’s footsteps, was filled with plants and books. Walls and walls of them.
It reminded Pru of the Atelier that was coming together now that most of the interior work was finished and Rhiannon was filling the shelves with old manuscripts. The antique spines and leathery covers kept drawing Pru in. The secrets they held. Like the woman herself. She shook her head at herself, at her mind that kept wandering back to Rhiannon no matter where Pru found herself and no matter what the conversation was about.
“Rhiannon had always had the knack of research, deeper and more extensive than my own curiosity had ever been. She can talk your ear off about the medieval times, the crones, and the herbalists. The midwives and the village rejects. She can write a thesis on the burnings and the hangings. And she can probablyteach on the current trends and development directions of the magic-adjacent cults. Like Wicca and the others. I never cared much for the academic bent of the issue.”
Ceridwen took another sip of her tea and caressed the petals that unfurled more under her touch, their bright yellow turning more vibrant, sparkling with life and magic.
Pru gave her a furtive sideways glance, then sighed when she saw the nonchalance. Too much nonchalance.
“You know she’s restoring the old Crowhart Compendium. Does that count for something?”
Ceridwen hummed a disbelieving note.
“I’ve been waiting for her to get to it for years. But I suppose it’s a step in the right direction. As I said, she is more knowledgeable in craft history than I am. You really should?—”
Pru just shook her head and Ceridwen gave her a mirthless smile.
“Ceri, I know you’re trying to get me to speak to her again. About the craft.”
“Smart girl. Two birds, one research subject. And it’s for everyone’s good. Hers. Yours. And you, my dear, have been pining. Yearning. Longing. A veritable gothic heroine on the marshes.”
“We don’t have those, Ceri. I have not been pining. Or yearning. Or longing. I’ve not been doing any of that. We talked, you know. And I’ve seen her every day these past weeks. Heck, my possum almost lives at her place.”
Ceridwen’s laughter was pure schadenfreude.
“I bet she must love that! Her pristine Persian rugs and her highly curated furniture. And there’s Patches bringing in trash for Boleyn. Priceless.”
Pru pursed her lips.
“She’s mostly over it. I mean, Patches is. The courtship has been successful. So there’s only the occasional piece of trash,something shiny usually, that she brings in. She’s like a crow, I swear.”
Ceridwen kept laughing, tears shining on her lashes.
“You can’t tell me this isn’t hilarious. And the cat?”
Pru bit the corner of her mouth to restrain her smile. It would not do to laugh at the budding romance between the two critters.
“Boleyn has allowed Patches into her sanctum.”
“If this is some kind of euphemism?—”
“Ceri!” Pru lifted her hands and covered her ears. “I do not want to hear a word about this anymore.”
Ceridwen’s eyes were brimming with merry tears, and she was holding on to the table in front of her, her delight overflowing.
Pru watched her with a sense of envy she had not expected to feel. She’d have to think about where the feeling originated and why was it so acute in her. Was it Ceridwen herself? Or was it her unbridled freedom, her joy, that was contagious and that was so easily given? A pair of eyes just a shade darker speared in her memory and tugged at her heart strings. She’d give a lot to see those particular eyes be filled with this much simple happiness.
But then Rhiannon would probably dismiss the entire thought as fanciful and change the subject. She had been doing a lot of that lately. It felt like a careful retreat. Too careful. Word by word. Day by day. Rhiannon was slowly laying the foundation of her own disappearance from Pru’s life, despite having told her about her wife and their marriage. Or maybe because of it? Had Pru pushed too hard? Had she wanted too much again? Pru thought that if she asked Rhiannon about how careful she was with her, how tentative lately, she’d say it was for her own good. That she was just walking a thin line between overwhelming her with the past and not promising anything in terms of a future. A very narrow path, paved with good intentions, no doubt.
Or maybe she was indeed being fanciful and there were no intentions to speak of? They had good sex. They had their businesses next to each other. Pru’s heart was her own issue, and Rhiannon wasn’t responsible for it being this foolish.
She placed the chrysanthemum gently on the worktable and stood up. Ceridwen’s gaze followed her. When she reached the end of the small orchard where they preferred to have their lessons, Pru turned around to see Ceridwen much closer than where she left her. A hand on her cheek forced her to look up.
“You deserve the world, Prudence. Its entirety. Not a slice, not a piece, and certainly not crumbs.”
The fingertips on her skin caressed her jaw, and a tracing her dimple before angling her face up. In the distance, a rumble of thunder made her shiver.
Pru closed her eyes and surrendered to the touch, for just one moment. It was warm and soft and easy. Too bad none of those held her captive and refused to let her go without so much as acknowledging of the hold. She leaned in and touched her lips to Ceridwen’s. To see. To feel. To test. Herself mostly, but also Ceridwen. The warmth shimmered once, just under the surface, and was gone the second Pru stepped back. Thunder sounded much closer. As if it had entered the garden and watched them kiss. Judging. Jealous. Yet remarkably contained.
