Page 8 of Song of the Dawn
A shudder went down my spine. I was in a remote location with strangers, far, far away from everything I knew. The sound increased, and my heart kicked until it faded. When I climbed into the tub, I let out the breath I’d been holding. As the warm water covered me, I blamed that moment on exhaustion. My mind was merely playing tricks on me. Besides, old homes made strange noises. Once I got used to the Dawn, everything would be fine.
Mila
Rachelle nudged me awake. “Your turn to collect the eggs,” she announced.
“Eggs?” I asked, rolling out of bed.
Slowly I was settling in to the rhythm of the Dawn, and two days had passed in a blur. Rachelle was friendly, talkative, and more than willing to train me.
“Every Tuesday,” Rachelle confirmed. “Follow the path down toward the gardens. There’s an old barn there, painted red on one side. Giselle is peculiar, but she’ll have a basket of eggs waiting for you.”
The sky was still a pale pink as I dressed. “This early?”
“Yes, so Moses can use them for breakfast. I’ll go see who wants breakfast in bed, and hurry.”
“I’m going,” I told her, hopping on one foot as I put on my shoes.
The morning air was refreshing, slightly damp with a promise of heat as the sun fully rose. Light streamed about me as I took the path that led downhill to the gardens. Still, my eyes were drawn to the tower that perched on the rise just above the inn. It didn’t look habitable but more like a ruin covered in vines. Part of the top was crumbling away, and I found it hard to believe anyone lived there, especially the owner of the inn. Wouldn’t he be happier in the inn itself?
But then I recalled the chatter of the guests, the creaking of the floors, and the constant sounds of merriment. Even in my room, I heard faint bumps and muted voices, indistinguishable but there. I was used to it, for it reminded me of the flat I’d grown up in. It was an inn, not home, nor a grand estate, although once it might have been.
Wild grass grew alongside the footpath, coming as tall as my waist, bowing before me as though I was a queen. I imagined, for a moment, that I was a sun queen, at home among the plants and the faint scent of lilacs. The path dipped, and the kingdom spread out before me in all its brilliance. The vegetable garden lay on my right, enclosed by a fence, but on the swell of a hill was the vineyard, winding back toward the road.
To the left was the barn and, in the distance, a tiny log cottage with smoke curling out of its chimney. My heart twisted at the enchantment of it, as if I was walking into an illustration from a storybook. The bleating of animals drifted to my ears before I saw them. An assortment of sheep and goats trotted up the hill, carrying the scent of wool and animal musk. A man holding a staff herded them, and a black dog dashed behind, barking as it drove them uphill to trim the unruly grass alongside the path.
“Morning!” the man called, touching a hand to his gray cap.
“Morning.” I waved back.
“Are you looking for my wife?”
“If she has the eggs, then yes.”
“You’ll find her in the barn,” he said cheerfully.
“Thank you.”
“My name’s Dusty.”
“Mila.”
“Good morning, then!”
When I reached the bottom of the hill, a sense of awe stole over me. A lake lay to my left, a glistening body of blue-green shimmering in the early light. In the distance was a blur of green. Maybe an island? Light cut over the water, sending the arc of a rainbow across the cornflower sky. Clasping my hands to my heart, I inhaled, moved by the majesty of nature. Nothing like this could be seen in Solynn, not with the buildings, which blocked out all greenery. I felt as though a wish had been granted to me, a promise that something life-changing would happen during my sojourn in the foothills of Lagoda.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” a voice called, low and smooth and slow like honey.
Pivoting, I acknowledged the women walking toward me. She carried a basket in her arms, and the sunlight highlighted her golden-brown skin. A yellow scarf held back her bouncy red curls. She had a flat nose, big brown eyes, and a mouth that looked like mischief.
“It’s gorgeous,” I agreed, my eyes going to the little house with smoke coming from the chimney. “Do you live here?”
“That I do,” the woman confirmed, “and I count myself lucky every day to walk out with this loveliness on my doorstep.”
“I’ve seen nothing like it,” I admitted.
“You must be the new girl,” the woman said. “I’m Giselle.”
“Mila.”
