Page 15 of Bound

The way tears had pooled in her mother’s.

And shame had twisted at her and she’d cursed her tongue and her own wretched temper, left to squirm and wait until her father returned to address her.

He’d knelt before her chair, which was even worse.

He’d cupped her chin to ensure that she looked him in the eye.

“Perhaps I would have hoped for an easier life for you. But you are my daughter, and you were born precisely how you were meant to be. And there is nothing useless about any bit of you. Most especially not your wings.”

He’d touched them so gently. Almost reverently.

And her eyes had burned, and a lump settled in her throat, and she’d flung her arms about him and sobbed that she was sorry, and he’d shushed her. Told her he was sorry too, for a great many things.

But not for having her. Never that.

She believed him, sometimes. Other times it became a murky mire of old resentments and too little time spent together and loyalty for a mother that had deserved a great deal more.

“You know best, I’m sure,” he said at last, although nothing in his tone suggested he believed it. But they were her affairs to manage, and he would respect them—even if a part of her warmed he should wish to fight for her.

“Maybe not best,” she conceded. “Mama knew best.”

His smile was sad. And he reached out then. Laid his hand upon her shoulder and squeezed it, and she found she was glad of it. She had the animals to batter at her, to nuzzle and nudge and to be harassed by Merryweather for every scrap and crumb she could extort.

But it wasn’t quite the same as another person. Of a kind hand, a gentle touch.

“You’re all right?” he pressed.

And she drew a deep breath. Leaned into his hand, and allowed herself to be comforted by it. “I’ve all I need,” she assured him. Perhaps a few coins lighter than she’d hoped. Perhaps with fruits and veg that she had to preserve for herself and shelter from the elements and greedy creatures alike.

He nodded and gave her shoulder another pat. “I suppose I shall be content with that.”

She smiled, a little wistful, a little sad. “I suppose you’ll have to be.”

He grunted.

Said his farewells. Promised to stay longer the next time.

Maybe he would. Or maybe there would be more pressing needs at home than a daughter on the edges of his world.

A few grimblesstartled when he ascended, used to their minders staying firmly on the ground. Thorn raised his enormous head, displeased at their upset. “All is well, Thorn,” she called, and he laid his head down once more with a huff of protest.

All was well. She was home. Her animals were well. And her larder would soon overflow with the season’s stocks.

She walked back toward the garden. The seeds had been planted, the little green shoots pressing up proudly in their neat rows. She had thinned them already, pushing down the brief pangs whenever she weeded out the weakest of the sprouts. They had done their best—their neighbours had simply done better.

The soil was dry when she entered through the small garden gate. It was a dry spring which did not bode well for the summer heats.

She turned to go to the pump instead, then stopped, her heart catching in her throat.

No one came here.

No one would need to.

Yet there was a figure at the front of her house. Tall. Dark. His wings tucked low as he peered about her property.

Wren took a step backward, more afraid than was reasonable. She had neighbours; she reminded herself firmly. There were other farms to supply the city with needed stores.

Perhaps he was a new worker. Had simply got lost.