Page 19 of Bound

“We had not,” he said at last, but with a sigh of reluctance that suggested... she did not know what.

It was her turn to frown, her arms crossing over her chest as she tried to push down the sudden urge for defence. “Really?”

“No,” he affirmed, nodding his head absently. “Since you would not apply to the Proctor, then you have received no restitution for the mishap. My mishap. Therefore, I feel it is only right to offer any to you directly.”

She huffed out a breath. This again. “I need nothing of you, woodcutter. I am not as destitute as that.”

He glanced around her home, and there was that prickle again. The one that spoke of embarrassment, of judgement, and she could not bear it. Not about the home she took such pride in.

“I release you from this perceived obligation,” she insisted, if only to have him fly away from her doorstep. To leave her be. “You must have taken a loss as well. I doubt that cart you hired had coin enough to cover the damages, either.”

“Yes. Well.” For the first time, she felt she had discomfited him as he reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck. “It is possible that the cart was hired as a favour. And that I am quite regretful for having ever agreed to it in the first place.”

She softened, if only a little. She had often done favours for her neighbours at the market with the hope of them warming to her. It had worked a little too well, in Firen’s case. She shifted her stance ever so slightly, her arms loosening as they fell back to her sides. “It will sort itself out,” she hedged, not wanting to speak of her father. She did not know if he had made any enquiries about her—if he knew she was a half-blood. Her father had never forbidden her to mention his name. It was her own reticence that kept her quiet when people stared. For all that she resented of him, she did not truly want his life to be any more difficult than it already was.

The woodcutter grunted. “Regardless.”

He stared. Waited.

And she did huff then, shifting her weight onto her other leg, easing back to lean against the door. She could well imagine Merryweather perched in the front window, assessing the strangeness of a man situated before their home.

She shook her head, irritated with his reluctance to speak plainly. “I’ve chores, as I said before. So if you’re here to make some sort of offer, I’d prefer you to simply be done with it.”

He grunted. “What are these chores?” He squinted at her, and she blinked at him once in surprise.

“Chores,” she repeated. “The little dailies that keep all this from falling apart.” She gestured about her to the pastures beyond. The kitchen garden to the right of her home.

He drew in a great breath and released it slowly. As if... as if he was trying very hard to be patient with her. As if she was being the difficult one.

“I am well acquainted with the concept.” His mouth tightened into a firm line. “I wish to know which of them I might offer... assistance.”

It was her turn for her brow to furrow. To feel defensive and uncertain as she leaned forward just slightly so she might stare at him better. “Do you know what I am?” she asked, as if... as if that was the issue. He thought her just a slighted woman. Or perhaps he felt guilty for calling her a fledgling.

No. Worse than a fledgling.

And he wanted to assuage his guilt by action rather than simply offering an actual apology.

He glanced down the length of her once more, as if trying to ascertain if he had missed something obvious. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Do you know about my birth?” she clarified, and his eyes darted up to meet hers.

Careful. Wary.

Before he gave one solemn nod.

Maybe she was grateful he didn’t speak the words aloud. Or maybe that was worse. But she wondered who had told him. How many salacious details had they included? If they had slighted her mother as thoroughly as they could, no matter that she was dead and could not defend herself.

She swallowed thickly, pushing down the worry, the anger. This was her home, and he was on her stoop.

Wanting her list of chores.

She heard a yowl from beyond the door. It would follow with a persistent set of scratches to the wood if she left it unanswered. So she undid the latch and allowed Merryweather to rush out—a plume of unshed winter coat and fierce indignation as she pushed into the yard.

She kept her long tail held high as she noted the woodcutter, and she approached him with all the suspicion that a predator had entered her domain. Her nose twitched and her tail swayed at the tip, considering.

As he stared and regarded her in turn. “You keep a wild animal in your home?”

It was true that Merryweather was not precisely domesticated. She had appeared one day. Small and wet and determined as she pushed through the doorway and insisted that their home was now shared.

And Wren had needed her. More badly than she cared to admit to anyone, let alone the strange man before her.