The bathing room had a cool stone floor, a fireplace, a wood stove for heating water, and a grand claw-foot tub. When she’d first come to this house, she had refused to use it. How wasteful, to fill such a large tub for just one person. But after a grueling day of wrestling sheep and falling off horses, Arion’s elderly grandmother had finally coaxed her into the steamy water.
Alone in that quiet room, surrounded by candlelight, submerged in hot, flower-scented water, she had been so at peace she’d fallen asleep with her head resting on the side of the tub.
Dragonfly left Arion in the sitting room and quickly trotted down the long hallway. She slipped into her bedroom and shut the door behind her.
The weight of the morning crashed over her in that instant. Her room was warm from the afternoon sun, but she still shivered. She pulled the curtains closed, unbuttoned what remained of her torn blouse, and draped it over the back of a chair.
She gently touched her face and arms. The welts, bruises, and scratches stung beneath her fingertips. Minor injuries, but undeniable proof that it had really happened.
Fatigue sank deep into her bones. It wasn’t just tiredness—it was a collapse of spirit, a wilting from the inside out.
She crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head, trying to shut out the world, but sleep refused to come.
After a long time, she peeked out from beneath the blanket and looked out the window. She longed to see tall, comforting trees, but the flat, empty fields stretched endlessly to the horizon.
She reached under her pillow and pulled out the folded piece of yellowed sketch paper Lekyi had given her. She carefully unfolded it—like opening the lid of a treasure chest. She gazed at the charcoal drawing of the treehouse.
She could almost hear the leaves rustling, almost feel the rough rope ladder under her hands, almost smell the freshly cut timber.
Quickly, before tears could rise, she shoved the drawing back beneath her pillow and hid again under the covers.
She liked riding the horses. She liked working with the sheep and cattle. She was surprisingly good at shearing the sheep, even though she’d never done it before. But she had only been in White Wood for a month, and already, she wanted to go home.She missed walking in her forest. She missed her lake. She even missed the bossy squirrels that used to scold her from the trees.
She had requested the transfer. She had needed the distance. Working alongsidehimevery day—by the lake, under the trees—it was all too much. She had needed to get away from her feelings. But distance hadn’t helped. It had only made them worse.
Unlike the fleeting crushes she’d once known, this was something deeper. The way Collin looked at her—it terrified her more than being ambushed in the woods.
When she finally forced herself out of bed, she chose a fresh blouse from the dresser and slowly combed the knots and leaves from her hair.
She picked up the book she had been reading—a tale from Crimisa’s ancient lore, one of her favorites. The story told of the gods at war, their battles spilling over into the mortal world. A woman named Genevieve had been caught in the divine storm, swept away from everything she loved.
Dragonfly had just reached the part where, after years of torment, Genevieve finally made her way home—but would her lover still love her? Dragonfly’s heart should have been racing, but she couldn’t hold the thread of the story. She was too restless. Too raw.
With a frustrated huff, she tossed the book aside, grabbed her torn blouse, and quietly made her way back to the sitting room.
Arion was slouched in an overstuffed armchair, feet propped on the adjoining seat, appearing to be in a lazy doze.
Dragonfly quietly slid into a rocking chair across from him. She rolled up her sleeves and, as softly as she could, dragged a wooden sewing box from beneath the cluttered table. Shesearched for a needle and thread and a few extra buttons. She bent over her lap, but the bright sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows made the fine thread difficult to see.
“What happened to your arm?”
She flinched so hard the sewing box rattled. Her heart jolted into her throat. “I’m sorry”—she clutched the sewing kit tightly—“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Arion poured a cup of tea and handed it to her. “I was only resting my eyes.”
She clung to the warm cup with both hands. The weight and heat helped to steady her. She was safe. She was safe.
“You’re terrible at threading needles,” Arion said with a playful smile, effortlessly plucking the needle from her lap.
“It’s just very bright in here,” she muttered, taking a sip of the tea—and grimaced. “I might be bad at threading needles, but you make the worst tea I’ve ever tasted.”
He laughed, ignoring the jab as he expertly threaded the needle and began sewing the torn blouse. “Andrew stopped by earlier.”
She finished the bitter tea. “What did he want this time?”
“He was looking for you. Didn’t say why. I didn’t ask.”
She sighed heavily. Not Andrew. Not today. If only the day would end already.
