Wild heart of the storm, p.2
Wild Heart of the Storm, page 2
“Thank you.” She slipped the coin into her shirt pocket—their transaction completed. But Carrick didn’t seem the least bit interested in leaving.
His unhurried gaze continued to survey every detail of her land.
“This is quite a world you’ve created here.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Ffion looked longingly down at her hand trowel, half buried in freshly turned soil.
Doesn’t he have somewhere to be? A shop to run?
“Don’t be so modest.” He focused another of his brilliant smiles on her. “This land, this garden…it’s completely remarkable. I understand now why I’ve never seen you in town for a midday meal. Have you always grown your own food?”
“Mostly.” Ffion clasped her hands behind her back to hide her clenched fists. “I worked on the Dogherty Farm for a few months before I came to Debarrow. I learned a lot from them.” She shrugged, uncomfortable with any topic relating to her past. Their encounters at Hawthorn’s had never gone beyond the happenings around town or the weather. But the quicker she answered, the sooner he’d leave.
“Ah, yes. The Doghertys drop off a delivery every month. Lovely family.” His smile widened. Ffion cocked her head to the side, wondering if he smiled even when there was no one to bestow it upon.
“Since I’m here,” Carrick said as he took a step, closing the distance between them, “I thought I might persuade you to accompany me into town for a bite to eat.”
“I’m afraid I already ate.” Ffion pressed her hand to her stomach, praying to the gods it wouldn’t grumble with hunger.
“Ah. Then tomorrow? We could ride out east, toward the lake just past Edriya. Have a picnic.”
“I haven’t a horse.”
“That’s no trouble, mine seats two.”
Ffion opened her mouth to decline, but Carrick took another step—humor glinting in his eyes.
“Or better yet, let’s hop on a coach and head to the coast. I hear there’s a man there who juggles turnips.”
A laugh escaped Ffion’s lips. “Turnips? I was expecting you to say something dangerous…like daggers.”
“Daggers?” He furrowed his brow. “Those have been juggled to death. Now, turnip juggling”—Ffion grinned and shook her head—“that’s something to see.”
“I’m sure it is,” Ffion conceded. “And yet…”
“You’re a difficult woman to entice. But I swear it, Ffion,” he said, his voice caressing her name, “I’ll think of something.”
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A crack of thunder shook the house. Ffion jolted upright in bed—drenched in cold sweat and gasping for breath, her hands gripping the sheets. Her nightdress was stuck to her chest and stomach.
Her breathing steadied as her awareness slowly found its way back to the darkened loft. Only a dream, she told herself as rain tapped the windowpane, slowing in time with her heartbeat until it eventually let up.
She’d dreamt of the morning she’d woken on a fishing boat in Rhoswen Harbor, along Periwen’s southern shore. Only she hadn’t realized where she was at the time. Hadn’t even been sure how she’d ended up on a boat—her body aching and shivering beneath heavy layers of sodden clothes and Cadwyn’s midnight blue cloak.
Ffion could still feel the swell of confusion in her mind when a stout man with a weathered face and a floppy-brimmed hat resting above gray eyebrows had clambered up from below deck and helped her ashore.
The man had found Ffion sprawled across a floating panel of wood. Her boat hadn’t fared well in a storm, he’d said.
Not once had the memory of her passage across the sea surfaced in her mind. The only detail that mattered was that she’d arrived alone. Without Cadwyn. Her dear friend hadn’t survived the journey.
Ffion had been unable to speak that morning, baffled not only by the man’s unusual appearance, but by the look of the buildings edging the harbor. The structures had seemed so fragile, temporary—built not of stone, but with panels of wood washed in white, with sloping crimson roofs.
It wasn’t until the man had found an innkeeper to take her in that Ffion had understood where she was. Alone in a back room, pulling on dry clothes the woman had scrounged up, Ffion had caught a glimpse of herself in a small mirror hanging beside the door. She’d gaped at her reflection for several minutes, lips parted, trying to make sense of the young woman staring back.
Realization had been slow to sink in, but as she’d pulled the snarled mess of her hair aside and trailed a finger across her cheek, then up over the rounded shell of her ear, she couldn’t deny the truth of the situation.
She was in Periwen.
Alone.
Across the sea.
With no way of returning home.
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The storm had been quite destructive. Ffion pulled her damp hair back as she stepped outside, plaiting it before it could dry into an unruly mess. She’d severed the long mass of tangles shortly after her traumatic arrival in Periwen, knowing she’d never be able to tame it on her own.
After spending the morning collecting fallen twigs and righting fragile plants in her garden, she turned her attention to the large branch hanging precariously close to her fence. She propped her tallest ladder against the massive trunk, then tied a rope around the end of the branch to angle it away from the fence. Saw in hand, she climbed the ladder, mindful of the aging rungs. When she reached the splintered juncture, she rested her hand on the trunk just above the break and began sawing through the connecting strips.
Her muscles burned after only a few minutes, though she made quick work sawing through the soft wood flesh. But she couldn’t reach far enough to finish the cut.
Leaning over, she balanced on one foot. Peering down at her dangling leg, Ffion tightened her grip, realizing she was nearly fifteen feet off the ground. Although she’d spent much of her childhood climbing trees, there was usually a branch or toehold beneath her feet. She reached over carefully and resumed her sawing with smooth, measured strokes.
Ffion’s breath shuddered, her muscles protesting. But the branch, heavy and swaying, held strong. Its final shreds seemed impossible to sever. Leaning farther, Ffion gained another inch of leverage. Dry wood groaned, then fractured.
“Shit.” The word escaped her lips as the rung beneath her snapped.
The saw fell, her hands grasping at nothing. She twisted, trying to right herself before hitting the ground. All she managed to do was squeeze her eyes shut, dreading the impending impact.
She collided with something soft and leafy.
Ffion’s eyes shot open. She was cradled safely in the arms of a massive branch. She hadn’t crashed.
But relief was fleeting as her mind began reeling with myriad conjectures as the branch lowered her steadily to the ground.
Ffion rolled off and stumbled back, watching as the bough lifted and pulled back behind the wide trunk to resume its previously stoic height.
She gaped at the tree—its broken limb still hanging above her.
But the previously animated tree stood still.
“It can’t be,” she breathed. “Not here.”
Magic didn’t exist in Periwen.
Chapter Three
FFION STOOD STARING at the tree for what seemed like hours. It refused to move. Not even a lick of wind ruffled its leaves.
Another memory flashed in her mind—the day she’d fallen from one of the tall sycamores that circled the great lawn back home. Ffion had only been seven years or so, and thankfully her mother had been near. She could still feel the cushion of air her mother had summoned, pillowing beneath her as it lowered her gently to the grass.
Ffion angled her head, eying the branch that had reached out to catch her.
It can’t be magic, she vowed with a shake of her head. It simply couldn’t. She hadn’t felt anything when she’d fallen. Hadn’t directed the tree with any sort of innate power. Though she’d never felt magic working through her before—never would in Periwen—certainly one felt that sort of thing. The fog of glamour she’d crossed on the Sea of Muirín had prevented her magic from manifesting. At least, that’s what she’d reasoned. Magic awakened in her kind by the age of twenty, at the latest. And Ffion was already into her twenty-fourth year.
She glanced down at her hands and rubbed them together, but all she felt was the familiar sensation of warmth.
“It just isn’t possible.” She told the tree firmly.
But what other explanation is there? The question slipped through her mind, unbidden. Ffion swallowed past the tightness in her throat, then finally turned her back to the tree.
She hastened through the garden, tripping up the steps to her back door. Slamming it shut behind her, she pressed her back against the solid wood, then slid to the floor.
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Ffion’s hands ached. She looked down at her white-knuckled grip on the corners of her basket, then set it down, flexing her hands. Her gaze wandered to the maples beside the lane. They stood tall, unmoving. A single rust-colored leaf floated down to the ground. But there wasn’t a whisper of wind to carry it one way or another.
If only she could convince herself that the wind had swayed the branch into her path the day before.
Ffion retrieved her basket of pastries, settling it against her hip. Even wrapped in parchment, she could still smell the spiced apples baked between layers of golden crust. She breathed in deeply, letting the scent calm her frayed nerves as she strode toward town.
She stumbled mid-step as the throngs of villagers came into focus. Shifting the basket on her hip, she shielded her eyes and looked up at the noonday sun. Ffion only ventured into town during the early morning hours, when the town was still rising and the roads were quiet and empty.
I’ve pastries to deliver, she affirmed, then cast a final glance back down the curved road, toward her small cottage and the giant tree that had defied logic. But the trees were long out of sight. She forced her chin up, and tried to welcome the distraction ahead.
People flowed past one another, weaving around handcarts. Delivery women had sacks slung over their shoulders, men hefted barrels and crates. A young boy darted so close he kicked the toes of Ffion’s boot. He didn’t seem to notice. Ffion shook out her skirts, but her eyes were fixed on the sight of the small child. Six more followed. Running home for lunch, she guessed.
Ffion watched them a moment longer as people brushed by. It didn’t matter how long she’d been on the continent, seeing so many children in one place remained a curious sight. It reminded her how short life could be, how quickly generations came and went in Periwen. It seemed to instill urgency, purpose.
“Mortality,” she murmured.
Her mind snagged on the word. She tried to shove it aside, but the thought conjured another possibility she refused to consider.
Ffion tightened her hands on the basket as the weightless sensation of falling returned to her. Branches cradling her body. Catching her. Protecting her.
What would it mean if magic existed there, in Periwen?
No, she scolded herself, unwilling to dwell on the possibility. Magic didn’t exist in that world. It simply…wasn’t possible.
But the tree…
Ffion ducked into Hawthorn’s, nearly knocking into a couple as they left. She mumbled an apology and wandered the aisles aimlessly. She wasn’t in need of anything, but her mind was too scattered for her to speak with Carrick.
Vaguely, she heard his voice at the front, and that of an elderly man. The shop was otherwise empty. Strange, Ffion considered, trailing her fingers along the ribbons that dangled tauntingly from their spools.
“I was just about to close up,” Carrick called over.
Ffion spun around. “Oh…” She gave another cursory glance around the shop. Indeed empty.
“Just for an hour or so,” Carrick assured as she approached. “It’s not like you to stop by in the middle of the day.” He raised his eyebrows, though Ffion knew he could well surmise the reason for her visit given the basket of pastries she’d brought.
“I only wanted to drop these by.” She carefully stacked the small parcels on the counter.
“I’m delighted to see you again…” Carrick began, but his voice faded into the background as Ffion focused on the task before her.
When she aligned the last pastry, Carrick lowered his head to catch her eye, saying her name in a way that indicated he’d called it more than once.
Her head snapped up and Carrick straightened. He seemed to be waiting for an answer. But to what?
“I…Yes. Of course,” she replied with a nod that felt far too forced.
Carrick’s smile spread until tiny creases formed at the corners of his eyes—bright with something that gave Ffion pause.
What had she agreed to?
“Wonderful,” he proclaimed, rounding the counter. Ffion watched, bewildered, as he took the basket from her hands. “It’ll be safe here.” He winked.
“Safe?” she repeated.
“I’ll lock up while we’re out.” He cocked his head to the side, looking at her like she was utterly adorable.
Dumbfounded was more like. Out? He’d said out? As in…
“Shall we?” He kicked the stop to the side, then held the door open for her.
Ffion blinked as her mind struggled to find an excuse, but Carrick was already ushering her out the door and across the crowded square.
Her heart felt lodged in her throat as they entered the tavern. Conversation hushed throughout the darkened room as the door swung shut behind her. Carrick gestured toward the closest bench. He didn’t seem to notice the rapt attention they received, but Ffion could feel everyone’s eyes on her. She sat rigidly on the hard seat, even as lively commotion started up again.
Carrick shot two fingers into the air and, in a matter of minutes, a woman slid a bowl of barley soup in front of each of them, then produced two rolls from her apron pocket.
“Anything else?” she asked, glancing between them.
“That’ll be all. Thank you, Mallory.”
She nodded sharply and left. Ffion stared down at her bowl, wondering if she could avoid speaking if she kept her mouth full. Thankfully, Carrick seemed well aware of her trepidation, keeping the conversation off her. He regaled her with news about town, his family in the east, and how he’d come to own his great-uncle’s shop. Ffion nodded in between spoonfuls, relaxing slightly as the warm soup filled her belly.
After they finished, Ffion forced herself to match Carrick’s leisurely pace as he took the long way back to his shop. The children she’d seen earlier had emerged from their homes, heading back to school, no doubt. A few snuck away to steal wish coins from the shallow pool in the center. A fountain, the townspeople called it. Ffion had seen plenty of fountains in her youth—majestic marble structures that shot water high into the air—and a fountain it was not. The stacked stones held no more than a foot of water, filled by a single rusted pump. But she couldn’t help but smile at the delight it seemed to provide the children.
She’d never had time to appreciate the spirit of the small town. It must have been a midday break that had everyone strolling about. Couples held hands, women laughed together, people young and old seemed to find common ground in the heart of the village.
Ffion exhaled some of the tension she’d been holding. Perhaps she could live a bigger life than she’d previously allowed. Beyond her apple trees, beyond the garden fence that penned in her small world. What had she been afraid of all those years? That someone would learn her true identity, discover what she was capable of? What was the harm in living a full life, immersing herself in the place she’d chosen to call home? At that moment, she could hardly remember why she hadn’t.
Ffion looked around, no longer worried about showing her face. A smile tugged at her lips, but slipped away just as quickly when a man hollered for attention at the edge of the square. Carrick pulled Ffion forward as a crowd gathered around the man. She pressed up onto her toes for a better look.
The man carried a bow, with a quiver slung over his back. But it was the lifeless gray wolf he dragged behind him that was causing the uproar.
Ffion edged closer, her throat tightening as the man yanked the animal another foot before dropping its hind legs. She stared down at the magnificent creature, lying prone in the dirt.
Raising his voice for all to hear, the hunter warned the people of Debarrow that he’d seen the monstrous wolf stalking the border of the village for days, and had killed it to protect the townspeople.
Ffion’s heart ached as she eyed the innocent creature—a senseless death at the hand of a fearful man.
She’d glimpsed a wolf days before. Was it the same?
Her ribs clenched at the thought, and she inched closer.
The crowd pressed against her, wanting to see the beast for themselves. She heard the stifled gasps and whispered remarks as the hunter continued to profess his prowess as savior of the land. Ffion ignored his prepared speech, disgusted, as she took another step.
Carrick touched her elbow and positioned himself between her and the lifeless body of the massive wolf. But with another slide of her boot, Ffion found herself close enough to touch it.
A hum started in her ears, drowning out the hunter’s voice as he droned on about his kill—stalking a semicircle around the wolf as he stirred the collective terror of the crowd.
Her head felt fuzzy, fevered. Pain radiated down her shoulders. Not pain. A strange sensation she couldn’t name, something she hadn’t felt before. It coursed through her veins, slithering down her arms beneath her skin, causing her fingers to tingle and itch. She flexed her hands, but the sensation wouldn’t abate.
Shifting her stance to ease the discomfort, she noticed the arrow jutting out of the wolf’s side directly above his shoulder.
