Page 82 of Monsters in Love

BELFRY

DEE J. HOLMES

Fallen 1:09

Fall Harvest

Isabelle DuNorde crept quietly down the steps of her family’s cottage, careful to avoid the middle stair that creaked. Silly to be sneaking out of her own home, but she’d promised her love that she’d meet him in the fields that morning, and her mother did not approve—she wanted more for her daughter than a ‘simple farmer.’ Ridiculous. Who could be a better fit for the daughter of a baker than one who tended the grain in their fields?

Yet if Isabelle was caught, she’d be put to work and told to cast her eye in more suitable directions.

Directions she had no desire to pursue.

Her heart was spoken for—and as far as she was concerned, there wasn’t a better man than Thomas. It had been too long since she’d seen him, and she refused to wait another day. After all, today was the harvest feast. The time when the remains of the old year were stored and seeds were laid for the new.

It was also when the men of Windhaven made promises to their loves.

Today, he’ll ask me to marry him. Her heart swelled with certainty, and she crept down another step.

The scent of baking bread filled the small building, and her mother’s voice melded with the clatter of cooking trays and rattle of wooden spoons against bowls. It used to warm her toes and invite her to ease into the small space and help prepare the morning’s orders.

But those days had faded.

Her father had disappeared, and so had the family she’d known.

More and more, she felt as if she’d lost her mama as well that cold winter’s day. Only instead of vanishing into the dark forest surrounding the town of Windhaven, her mama was slowly eroding into flour and benedictions.

She glanced into the kitchen at the figure bent over their iron stove and pressed a fist to her stomach.

They used to laugh over sweet buns.

Now, Mama chastised her while kneading the Chastry-approved loaves—and their revered bishop claimed daily sugar consumption led to sin. And sin fed the demons beneath the Chastry, instead of filling the bellies of Windhaven’s workers. So sweet buns were saved for special occasions, and their bread had to be made with solemnity of mind and body.

No more smiling over raisins or leaving treats for the mice.

Isabelle reached the bottom step and hesitated.

Had she given up too soon? They’d already lost her father—and her sister deserved to know their mother as she’d been. Warm and always ready with a hearty laugh, not this woman with her hair scraped into a tight bun and her mouth pinched at the corners.

Letting out a breath, she started toward the kitchen—

“Don’t you dare,” a voice hissed at her.

Isabelle spun around to find her younger sister, Emmanuella, crouched among the cloaks hung beside their front door. “Emmi,” she whispered, keeping her voice as quiet as possible. “What are you doing?”

“Stopping you from guilting yourself into working another day.” Emmi smirked.

Isabelle gaped at her sister.

“Don't pretend, Belle. You’ve worked every day with Mama for the past fortnight.” Chin tilting uptight, Emmi held out Isabelle’s cloak. “It is my turn to make those damn rolls—”

“Mind your words.” Isabelle sent a worried glance at the kitchen.

Her mother would tan their hides if she heard Emmi cursing in their home, or anywhere, truth be told. And then neither of them would have a break from the kitchen for a month.

“She can’t hear us over her chanting.” Her sister rolled her eyes. “Go, Belle. You deserve a break. See Thomas, enjoy the fields…just make sure you’re back in time to get ready for the ball. If Mama does my hair, she’ll pull it so tight my eyebrows will mate with my hairline.”

Belle shook her head. “Whose child are you?”

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