again.
Widow Miller leaned into him for a moment, taking comfort in his warmth and solidness. Ren Blacksmith, the kindest, brawniest man in all Dapple Vale. “I fell in a stream,” she said, and blushed for her lie, and for her love of the blacksmith.
“I’ll carry you home,” Ren said.
“Oh, no!” the widow said, drawing away from him. She clutched the basket to her chest. Keep sleeping, little one . “It’s only a few steps.”
“It’s halfway across the common, and you’re done in. Come, let me carry you.” Ren’s donkey ambled up and gazed at Widow Miller with dark, patient eyes.
The widow shrank back and shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said again.
“If you won’t let me carry you, then Githa shall,” Ren said, and he cast the bundled firewood from the donkey’s back.
“Oh, but—”
Ren took the basket from her and placed it on the ground. He lifted Widow Miller as if she weighed no more than thistledown and settled her on Githa’s back.
“My basket,” the widow said, a note of alarm in her voice. Keep sleeping, little one .
“I’ll carry it.”
And so, Widow Miller crossed the village common on the blacksmith’s donkey, with the blacksmith striding alongside, carrying her basket. Her chest was tight with anxiety. If Ren knew what was in the basket he carried, he’d want to help, and she could not allow that. The Fey were dangerous, deathly dangerous, and Ren’s wife was in her grave and he had a young son.
Don’t wake, little one, she prayed silently. Please don’t wake .
Widow Miller’s cottage was small, but the thatching was plump on the roof and a cheerful plume of smoke rose from the little chimney. Two large red-brown hounds lay one on either side of the doorstep.
Both hounds lifted their heads. One sat up and gave a single loud bark; the other surged to his feet and bounded towards them, tail wagging.
The cottage door swung open. The widow’s middle daughter burst from it and ran across the meadow to greet them. “Ren, what’s happened?”
“Your mother’s had a soaking.” Ren handed her the basket. “Take this, Hazel. I’ll carry her in.”
“Oh, no,” Widow Miller protested, but Ren gathered her in his arms and lifted her from the donkey.
“Mother!” the widow’s youngest daughter cried, spilling from the cottage and hurrying towards them, her pale hair bright in the low sunlight. “Are you all right?”
“She’s wet through,” Ren told her. “And exhausted.” He carried the widow as easily as if she were a child, and she felt ashamed of her feeble, crippled body and ashamed of her hopeless, hidden love for him.
They crossed the meadow, the blacksmith and the widow and her anxious daughters. One red-brown hound bounded around them like a puppy, rearing up on his hind legs to sniff the basket; the other stood at the doorstep, tail wagging, uttering yipping, anxious barks, not moving from her guard post.
“Keep that basket from Bartlemay!” the widow said. Merciful gods, please don’t let the babe wake now .
A shadow filled the doorway and her eldest daughter stood there, leaning on her crutch. “Ren? What’s wrong?”
“Your mother fell in the water.”
The widow’s eldest daughter stepped aside, and Ren Blacksmith ducked his head and entered the cottage and set Widow Miller carefully on her feet. Exhaustion almost made her legs crumple. He steadied her. “Larkspur, give her your arm.”
The widow’s youngest daughter hastened to do so, and the middle daughter placed the basket on the trestle table and drew up a stool for her mother.
Widow Miller gratefully sat.
“Thank you, Ren,” the eldest daughter said. “You may be certain we’ll look after her.”
The blacksmith nodded, and gazed down at the widow. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”
Widow Miller glanced fearfully at the basket on the table. “No, thank you, Ren.”
“I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you do.”
“There’s no
Widow Miller leaned into him for a moment, taking comfort in his warmth and solidness. Ren Blacksmith, the kindest, brawniest man in all Dapple Vale. “I fell in a stream,” she said, and blushed for her lie, and for her love of the blacksmith.
“I’ll carry you home,” Ren said.
“Oh, no!” the widow said, drawing away from him. She clutched the basket to her chest. Keep sleeping, little one . “It’s only a few steps.”
“It’s halfway across the common, and you’re done in. Come, let me carry you.” Ren’s donkey ambled up and gazed at Widow Miller with dark, patient eyes.
The widow shrank back and shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said again.
“If you won’t let me carry you, then Githa shall,” Ren said, and he cast the bundled firewood from the donkey’s back.
“Oh, but—”
Ren took the basket from her and placed it on the ground. He lifted Widow Miller as if she weighed no more than thistledown and settled her on Githa’s back.
“My basket,” the widow said, a note of alarm in her voice. Keep sleeping, little one .
“I’ll carry it.”
And so, Widow Miller crossed the village common on the blacksmith’s donkey, with the blacksmith striding alongside, carrying her basket. Her chest was tight with anxiety. If Ren knew what was in the basket he carried, he’d want to help, and she could not allow that. The Fey were dangerous, deathly dangerous, and Ren’s wife was in her grave and he had a young son.
Don’t wake, little one, she prayed silently. Please don’t wake .
Widow Miller’s cottage was small, but the thatching was plump on the roof and a cheerful plume of smoke rose from the little chimney. Two large red-brown hounds lay one on either side of the doorstep.
Both hounds lifted their heads. One sat up and gave a single loud bark; the other surged to his feet and bounded towards them, tail wagging.
The cottage door swung open. The widow’s middle daughter burst from it and ran across the meadow to greet them. “Ren, what’s happened?”
“Your mother’s had a soaking.” Ren handed her the basket. “Take this, Hazel. I’ll carry her in.”
“Oh, no,” Widow Miller protested, but Ren gathered her in his arms and lifted her from the donkey.
“Mother!” the widow’s youngest daughter cried, spilling from the cottage and hurrying towards them, her pale hair bright in the low sunlight. “Are you all right?”
“She’s wet through,” Ren told her. “And exhausted.” He carried the widow as easily as if she were a child, and she felt ashamed of her feeble, crippled body and ashamed of her hopeless, hidden love for him.
They crossed the meadow, the blacksmith and the widow and her anxious daughters. One red-brown hound bounded around them like a puppy, rearing up on his hind legs to sniff the basket; the other stood at the doorstep, tail wagging, uttering yipping, anxious barks, not moving from her guard post.
“Keep that basket from Bartlemay!” the widow said. Merciful gods, please don’t let the babe wake now .
A shadow filled the doorway and her eldest daughter stood there, leaning on her crutch. “Ren? What’s wrong?”
“Your mother fell in the water.”
The widow’s eldest daughter stepped aside, and Ren Blacksmith ducked his head and entered the cottage and set Widow Miller carefully on her feet. Exhaustion almost made her legs crumple. He steadied her. “Larkspur, give her your arm.”
The widow’s youngest daughter hastened to do so, and the middle daughter placed the basket on the trestle table and drew up a stool for her mother.
Widow Miller gratefully sat.
“Thank you, Ren,” the eldest daughter said. “You may be certain we’ll look after her.”
The blacksmith nodded, and gazed down at the widow. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”
Widow Miller glanced fearfully at the basket on the table. “No, thank you, Ren.”
“I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you do.”
“There’s no
Similar Books
Castle of Secrets
Amanda Grange
Recovering Charles
Jason F. Wright
Until Proven Guilty
J. A. Jance
Convoy
Dudley Pope
SafetyInNumbers-Final
Jessie G
X-Calibur: The Trial
R. Jackson-Lawrence
The Pleasure Bot (Planet Desire Book 4)
Delilah Devlin