Evenings were an odd thing. They could be peaceful and calming, with the promise of respite from the day’s toil, the cooling of the hot, afternoon sun, and the quieting of the clamoring world. Or they could be oppressive, an unstoppable cocoon of darkness against which only a pitiful candle or lamp might be lit, leaving a soul trembling in a tiny pool of light while the maw of the night yawned just beyond.
As Brynleigh hurried through the twilit wheat field, she did not know which sort of evening would choose to descend. Her pulse had not stopped its nauseating pounding since departing from his house. The tall grass hissed and pulled at the skirt of her dress, while the messy plait of her hair bounced erratically against her spine, its tendrils having come loose during their time together. A dull sting of thick, iron-like fingers lingered on her arm.
So vividly did her mind replay the events of the evening that her eyes ceased to see the world immediately in front of her. Her shoe caught on an old, broken fence post jutting out of the soil, sending her hurtling forward, arms wheeling. She caught herself against the fence itself a moment later, sagging heavily as her feet scrambled to keep her upright. The start did not serve to calm her fluttering heart, but it helped pull her back to the present. She straightened up, brushing her hands over her front, and continued on towards the south-gate of Snowbourn.
The faces of the guards had become familiar to her during her months in the city, and hers to them. A nod and a grim smile were offered to her as she hastened past, bowing her head. Could they sense her awkwardness? Was there some stench of shame and confusion that followed her, lingering on the balmy air?
The street lamps had already been lit. Moths fluttered about the tiny, glass panes, bumping eagerly against that which protected them from a certain death. The narrow street that led to the south-gate stable was empty and quiet, for which she was thankful. In the lowering gloom, she could see the small, dark shape of the cottage, pressed up against the high stone wall that bordered the city. She made for it like a ship seeking a harbor. Curiously, she was convinced that she would not be able to stop and have a proper think until she was safely inside. Her pace quickened. Somewhere nearby, a mother called for her child to come in for supper, a dog barked, a door slammed.
She could hear herself panting for air as her fingers descended on the door latch. It was a repulsive sound to her ears. The sound of panic, of an irrational mind. Of weakness. The door was wrenched open, she stepped into the shadowy space beyond, and slammed it shut again.
The strength seeped out from her legs all at once, and her knees buckled. She stumbled to the bed in the corner and crumpled onto it, sinking her head into her hands.
The events of the past several hours began jostling for a place in her thoughts, the images and sounds and sensations jumbling together into a cacophony that overwhelmed her. How could a person be so utterly perplexing and unpredictable? Quiet and companionable one moment, then violent and raging the next? Carefully polite, and then shockingly lascivious? Flashes of his face passed through her mind; smiling, scowling, sheepish, frustrated. In the end, it was the terrifying glare that won. The moment that shouldered all the others aside, and stood out to her. The painful crushing of his fingers on her arm rushed back with alarming clarity, making her gasp for breath.
She had never felt so frightened of a man. The abrupt turn of his demeanor had caught her utterly off guard, and fractured the tentative trust that had been building between them. She could feel it all again, the terrible panic that exploded within her breast when he would not let go, holding her captive and at his mercy. Only the sight of her tears and the pleading sound of his name had brought him back to his own humanity. But the damage was done.
Her body was trembling uncontrollably now as she sat there in the deepening darkness of the falling night. She had no thought to get up and light a candle. She could think of nothing but what had happened. She needed to make some kind of sense from it all. Somehow, the tumbled, jagged pieces needed to be put into an order; any order. She could not rest nor think of anything else until it was done.
Beorggar had been right. This revelation dawned on her like a wave crashing against a stone. He had warned her with his grim eyes and his subtle words. She had not listened. It all made sense now; horrible, awful sense. How stubbornly she had defended his nephew, not only in her words, but in her heart. Declaring that he was kind and good. The taste of her own arrogance now turned to bitterness and humility on her tongue.
Not for the first time that day, her throat burned and her eyes stung with impending grief. She bit her lips together, struggling in vain to hold it back, but her chest gave a violent hitch, and the sobs began to pour forth. Such a cascade of emotions could not be withheld, and she surrendered to it, even as she cursed inwardly at her own heart. She wept for her own fear, for the loss of the sweet, careful friendship, for her own conceit becoming like ash in her mouth. And she wept for him, for the conflicted frustration that brooded over him, the brutish awkwardness that he so clearly despised in himself, and the endearing, apologetic smile he had only been able to muster after filling himself with mead after his outburst. She wept because he had tried, in his own boorish way, to fix the rift he had caused, and she pitied him.
But most of all, she wept because a simple request for her to pour drinks had reminded her that she was no longer anyone’s wife.
