“Those “devil worshippers” were one of the biggest source of income for the businesses. How did you vote, Father?”
He did not hide his gaze this time.
“I abstained, Prudence.”
She wanted to say that while he might’ve abstained his opinion on the matter was loud and clear, what with calling the festival-attending tourists “devil worshippers” and surely that influenced the members of the Council.
Pru weighed her options in her mind. Should she argue? Should she leave? She settled for a third choice. Some things were simply more important.
“So, about Margaux Belcourt, Father?”
He took another large gulp of bourbon.
“I’ve not seen her in ages, Prudence. And we weren’t close. I knew her husband, old Jerome. He’s been dead for almost two decades now.”
Pru tugged on her cardigan’s sleeve, her skin chilled, and laid down her last ace card.
“You own three of her sculptures.”
He flinched, and the amber liquid sloshed over the rim and spilled on the carpet. Pru almost gagged, the scent intensifying, filling the room, clinging to the surfaces.
“I do. They are somewhat valuable, from what I understand. They’re not a DeVor, my girl, so you will not be quite that rich once I kick the bucket, but then nobody really is DeVor. Belcourt surely never was. Still the work is good, decent, I’d say. They’re in?—”
“Mom’s old room. I know.”
She knew the sculptures all too well. Abstract interpretations of emotions, something little Prudence could not understand. But she had spent enough time in her mother’s study as a small child, missing her mom during the long summers she stayed with her father and clinging to the things she had left behind in this house.
Still, even back then she knew the sculptures were her father’s and her father’s alone.
She left him in the study to his bourbon. They’d have to talk again, chiefly about the trouble he thought Rhiannon was causing, but that was for another evening. One where Pru had a clearer mind, unclouded by visions of young Rhiannon and a woman for whom she left everything behind: her family, her craft, her heart.
Pru stepped into the room on the opposite side of the mansion and took the three statues in. No, she decidedly knew nothing about art. At least this kind of art, modern, provocative, sharp-edged, and it made her feel foolish, like a country bumpkin.
The careful scroll of the name on the bottom of each of the three wrought iron statues spelled the name. Belcourt. Eight letters. It sounded foreign to little Prudence. Exotic. Mysterious. It sounded painful now. Achy. Bruised. For some reason she did not want to see them. Now or ever again.
She tried to tell herself it had nothing to do with Rhiannon and those forest green eyes that held an ocean of despair that opened like a coffin, like a tomb, when she talked about her dead wife.
Pru turned around to catch her father in the doorway, watching her. Carefully. Too carefully. The familiar features cagey now.
For the second time this evening, Pru left without saying goodbye. She couldn’t stomach more questions and wasn’tcertain she wanted any answers. She wanted silence. And she wanted the wind. And the burn that every encounter with this particular wind branded on her heart.
Rhiannon’s apartmentwas quiet around her, sighing in relief at her entrance as if it had missed her. She had missed it too. The graceful lines of stone and wood. The soft edges of leather and wool. The scent of petrichor that always lived between these walls.
She had no home. Neither her place nor her father’s filled that hole inside of her, and yet somehow, in just two days spent here caring for Rhiannon, this space felt the closest to belonging than others ever had.
Pru stood still for a moment. She knew it was dangerous. To feel this way. To think this way and to fancy herself belonging here. Like the very wind, Rhiannon could be gone in a blink of an eye. Likely would be. She had said as much. Moreover, Pru couldn’t see someone like Rhiannon settle on the island. It was too small—it could never contain her. Her power, her wild. And Pru knew she was just walking to her own heart’s slaughter by coming here for comfort after a long day. Yet she had come anyway.
Patches lifted her head from a pillow in front of the dormant fireplace and squeaked quietly at her before cuddling closer to Boleyn, who still pretended that the possum did not exist despite immediately wrapping a possessive paw around her.
Pru walked in darkness, leaving a trail of her clothes behind herself like crumbs she’d collect before the morning arrived to find her way back. Searching for succor here was one thing, spending the night, another.
Naked, she slipped under the covers, where soft, silky skin met hers and willowy arms immediately pulled her closer. There was no recrimination, no accusation, no acrimony. Just welcome. And this welcome broke Pru’s heart. It cracked in pieces, like the glass Rhiannon had shattered yesterday.
“I was waiting for you.”
The voice that had launched a thousand desires rasped in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. Pru trembled unashamed. The darkness hid everything, the anonymity of it making her bold.
She lifted her chin, giving the seeking mouth better access.
