She’s gone to Bremen City,
To the land beyond the sea…
I hear my younger self.Mama. Mama! Don’t go. Please…stay with me this time.
Oh, when will I see her again?
The one who meant so much to me.
She moves on a song, swaying and twirling each step before the glowing hearth. Past the hooks, where she flips off her cloak. She sparkles—this humble cottage cannot contain her. The woman bends near, lifting my chin, and her voice wraps aroundme.I’ll be back, Merryn love. Watch for me at the window.A building pressure, then a plunging sense of loss as her fingers slide along my jaw and float away.
My mind’s eye is full
Of the girl I left behind me,
The one I loved so dearly,
And who I’ll see again…
“Don’t leave,” I whisper.
A hand settles on my shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.” I shiver and turn—AJ.
I look up into his face and at last I offer him something concrete, after all he’s given me. “This is my home.Wasmy home.” At last, we have a roof over our heads.
“And?”
I turn from the expectant face of the man who’s desperately hoping I recall everything now, hoping I can return and live a normal life with him. I inhale. “I don’t know.” I stare into the dank, abandoned space until it seeps into me and loosens the muscles I didn’t even realize had been tense. “Yet.”
His hand slides off my shoulder, and I dare not turn and risk seeing disappointment on his face.
My stomach growls. “I suppose we should see about food.”
“I shall attend to it, my lady.” He gives a shadowed smile. “I suppose you’ll want to bed here tonight?”
I nod. “It’ll do, won’t it?”
“It’s quite the bargain.”
I force a smile. Surely this is where the story turns for us—yet I cannot unhinge my mind from worry. “Dunn Cottage it is.”
“A fine cottage it is, too.” He takes a quick turn about the room. “Suppose we can get the fire lit? Looks rather wet.”
“The roof is leaking.”
“How grand!”
I sigh as I place a bucket beneath one of the drips. His jolly nature is like a balloon that won’t puncture. At times I wish he’d give me one good row now and then, let me feel the heat of righteous indignation, but it’s not in him. Perhaps then things wouldn’t feel so off-kilter.
He slings his dusty suitcoat over his shoulder and gives me a jaunty salute. “I’ll be back. With food. Stay put and rest, will you?” Then he sails out the door, banging it shut behind him.
I haven’t a habit of doing what I’m told, especially when the order includes rest. One question plagues me, making me restless—if Anwen Dunn is my mother,who is Isabella de Montfort?
Chapter 19
IfDunnCottageishome, St. Ives will remember me.
I descend the cliff into town and find a robust old fishing village, with blacksmiths pounding, fishmongers yelling, farmers wiping sweaty brows with brawny, bare arms as they wheel their market carts down the road without time to glance at a stranger.
