Page 116 of Bound

Braum would come.

It was a buoying thought. She wouldn’t be alone forever. He’d come back, and he’d click his tongue as he surveyed the damage, but she’d also like there to be a shine or pride at her ingenuity. A tarp well secured, a roof that... functioned. Not well. Not until he could fix the thatch—or maybe he’d insist on the thatch being replaced with shingles. To match her porch, so it wouldn’t bother her. Didn’t she know people cared about such things?

There was no point in laying out the tarp all at once. She settled instead for a single edge, her fingers delving into the thatch as she sought some evidence of a batten—even a scrap of wood. Anything she might hammer into.

Her fingers were almost numb with cold, and she wondered why Braum’s weather-tellers could not have mentioned that as well as the apparent wetness of the winter.

It was nearly impossible to see with no moon or stars to help her.

She growled in frustration and brought her hammer down sharply; the tarp supported by her knee as she drove a nail into... something.

She did not know what. Didn’t take the time to question it. It was holding, was enough that she could move on to another section, hammering with as much strength as her arm possessed. Some took well, others slipped and fumbled, the tarp whipping about in defiance of her meagre attempts.

Her frustration grew in steady, impotent pulses that lodged in her throat and came perilously close to peals of desperate laughter.

A final corner. That was all. Then she’d be back inside and wouldn’t have to leave again until the storm passed. Braum had made sure of that. She’d seen the little things that needed tending. The maintenance that a home required after years of use. He’d seen what it could be, with effort and skill and the will to change it for the better.

She’d had that once, hadn’t she? When it was shared and motivation flowed between Mama and herself. When chores became a joy, when they’d save up their coins for wood for new shelves, a better hinge for the cupboard, hooks for the wall because Mama was tired of finding Wren’s shift on her bedroom floor.

Wren had lost that along the way. She’d kept herself alive—and her animals, too. But she’d stopped striving for anything better. Anything more.

Don’t make trouble.

Don’t make anyone take notice.

Don’t question Da too much or else he’d leave for good.

She wiped at her eyes and had she started crying? She couldn’t be sure. Didn’t make much difference when she was soaked to her skin and shivering fiercely as her body fought to keep her warm.

Two more nails for good measure. Strong ones. The tarp gave only a little in the middle, the excess at the edges billowing and rippling, but holding. It would have to do. She felt only one more nail in her pocket, and she added that one too, for good measure.

The hammer went back in her pocket, and she stood, squinting into the dim to make out if she’d done well enough. She couldn’t tell. Wouldn’t. Not until she was back in the house and could see if the water was streaming steadily inward or was merely a residual drip that a bucket or cook-pot could handle.

Her steps were measured and careful. Back up toward the highest point of the roof. Then to lie down again so she could ease her foot onto the sill again. Simple. No need for her heart to beat so quickly. No need for her to feel almost dizzy as she reached the edge and eased herself downward. She was fine. Would be fine. Once she was inside again and had built a fire and towelled up the worst of the water from the floor and her person.

Reverse that. Her person first. Or else she’d drip all what progress she made with the floor.

She eased over the edge of the roof, her eyes closed tightly. She felt her wings attempting to help, to balance her out, to take some of the burden away from her arms and her scrabbling legs, but they were too small to help in the effort.

The tip of her boot touched the sill and she could have sobbed in relief as she stretched down further, her fingers tangled in the thatch, gripping so tightly pieces of it pulled away in her grasp.

She wasn’t ready. Her other foot came down too hastily, and a puddle of water had formed, slicking the way and causing her to reach out blindly for something else to hold on to.

Her wings worked furiously to propel her forward, to push her into the warmth and safety her room promised.

But instead, she fell.

The chill and the shock of it so brutal that she could not even force a sound from her throat as she suddenly...

Horribly...

Hit the ground.

18. Broken

It was stupid to fly in a storm.

That was one of the first lessons a young fledgling received. Well. Braum had.