Page 78 of Bound

She gave Merryweather another squeeze and was rewarded with the feel of a raspy tongue tickling at her neck. Wren sighed deeply. “We’ll be all right,” she promised her.

And maybe it was a promise for herself as well.

???

She couldn’t relax. Not when her eyes scanned the skies. Not when her attention drifted to the tree where he’d rested. To the kitchen pump where he’d washed.

It was the not knowing, she decided. Not the want of him to come back. Whether her days would be spent alone and at peace, or if she needed to be anxious for another confrontation.

She bolted the door more often than she ever had.

And when she saw the first flutter of wings against the skyline, she was not disappointed when she made out her father’s figure instead of Braum’s.

She was in the kitchen garden, her basket nearly full. She should invite him to take lunch with her, and yet her stomach gave an uneasy pull at the prospect.

He found her easily. He always did.

His smile was warm because... he did not know that anything was wrong. That was good—it meant she had not made such a fool of herself at the market that gossip had reached him of her behaviour.

“Da,” she greeted, pulling another fruit from its vine and tucking it beside its brethren. Would he be able to tell? She was not of a naturally cheerful disposition, so surely it would not be such a difference if her smiles were forced, if her welcome was lacklustre.

“Need any help?”

She opened her mouth to say no, but hesitated. Braum had niggled in too deeply with his chastisements regarding her staunch determination at self-sufficiency. “You know anything about gardens?”

She hated she had to ask, but she did. It had been so long since he’d lived here, she could not remember which aspects had been her mother’s domain and which were his.

He laughed. Nudged at her shoulder, and began picking beside her. “I planted this first garden. No, you wouldn’t remember. Your mother was still carrying you.”

He spoke of it with such fondness, as if, even now, the memory was a sweet one.

Her throat burned, and she couldn’t look at him. Just picked. Ignored the berries that were still tinged yellow, looking instead for the deep reds, the vibrant purples.

“I miss your mother’s jam. I’ve tried to make it since, but it isn’t the same.”

Wren took a shallow breath, although she aimed for a deep one. “She used a sprinkle of herbs from home. To coax the flavours out, she said.”

“Ah. That garden was all her own. Wouldn’t even let me help her tend it. Said my wings got in the way and would bruise everything.” He grunted. “I think she just liked having something that was hers. Had to share everything else—even you.”

“Poor Mama,” Wren countered, with something nearer to a smile than she thought she’d be able to manage.

She’d meant it in jest, but as she watched the corners of her father’s mouth pull downward, he clearly did not take it with the levity she had intended. But then there was the forced brightness that followed. A quality she had never considered might have come from him. “No, poor Da? Made to feel guilty?”

Her stomach twisted, and it was a little too near an old wound to jest in return. “No. Not that.”

She tucked the basket under her arm. “Are you staying for a while?”

He watched her carefully. “If you’ll have me.”

She shrugged. She didn’t not particularly want him while she was still raw and uncertain of herself, but she wasn’t certain the solitude was any better.

“Wren.” He grasped her arm lightly as she turned to walk back into the house. “Are you all right?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Made her throat close and her eyes itch and yes, there was anger, too. At Firen, and Braum, and that wretched bit that was always there for her father.

She didn’t want it. Wished she could simply cut it out and forgive him for all of it—most especially the parts that were outside his control.

But she couldn’t.