Page 115 of Bound

He mattered.

“I do, rather,” she confessed, trying to keep her tone light even if she did not feel it inside.

Braum hummed, trying to hide just how pleased he was by her admission. “Fortunate, then. For I rather like it, too.”

He didn’t press for more. Didn’t push and rush and frighten her with talk.

Just held her hand.

And let things settle as they rocked.

And watched as even Merryweather’s ears relaxed as she slipped into a real sleep.

???

Braum hadn’t visited that day. Which was fine—she had planted the early-spring garden and desperately needed the privacy of a bath to soak away the last of the dirt that clung fiercely to every crevice it could find. The water from the pump was icy as she did her best to make do, but there was nothing for it. A proper bath with hot water.

The winds were growing louder, but that was all right. The animals were tucked in, and Merryweather was prowling about the edges of the house, checking the shuttered windows and watching as the flue didn’t quite take the smoke out of the house as it should.

Already she knew Braum was right about her hallway. When she could take kettles of steaming water to the bath without being blown about in the process.

Cold water from the tap. Boiled for the warmth.

Then she climbed inside and felt the tension ease. It was raining. A soft pattering at first, then harder still.

But she was dry when at last she’d finished with her soap and a cloth. When her hair was quickly braided back into its usual precision.

Then a warm nightdress and a wrap. The lantern flame wavered only a little as she passed back into the main house. And she’d finish his present. Truly, she would. Just for the pleasure of not being pelted by the storm after a long, tedious day battling roots and grubs.

He’d been right, and she would make sure he knew she acknowledged it.

It was early yet, but the nights were growing darker. She’d work a little on his gift, just to soothe her conscience, then she’d turn out the lamp and huddle beneath her blankets like when she was little and the storms came. She wasn’t afraid of them any longer, but the habit was an old one. Bettered when Merryweather joined her, her pacing finished for the moment.

She only made it a few rows before her eyes grew heavy. And really, it was better to save the oil. She’d work on it more diligently tomorrow by the hearth, assuming the storm lasted so long.

Sleep came quickly, warm and snug.

And if she thought of Braum when she drifted off, it was just to give another silent thanks that she liked to think this mystical bond of his would let him feel.

???

Wren awoke to a yowl. To the shudder of her house. To cold and wind and wet where there most certainly should not have been any.

It was not the first time a shutter had blown open, but as she blinked and wiped at her eyes, it was not the windows that had succumbed to the storm, but the roof itself. The beams remained, but the thatch had torn loose, leaving a gaping hole at the edge of the loft, threatening her kitchen below.

Merryweather’s tail peeked out from the edge of the bed as Wren hurried out of it. She would be safe there, and dry.

She took the time to fetch her waxed coat and her good boots, although she did not doubt she would be soaked through before she’d finished making any sort of patch.

There was a ladder in the stable. A tarp too, leftover from Braum’s projects. Stolen, really, as Merryweather had dragged it across the yard, and he’d allowed her to keep it rather than take it back again.

She didn’t trust the ladder. It was too long and unwieldy in the wind, and she had no one to hold the base as she climbed.

The storm was bitter and the rain icy as she opened the shutter to her bedroom window and climbed out that way. It was a scramble, made all the more awkward by trying desperately to hold on to the tarp, the winds working hard to rip it away from her grip. She could only imagine Merryweather’s look of betrayal at the open window, tucked away as she was beneath the safety of the bed.

She couldn’t close the shutters behind her, not when she needed her strength to pull herself upward. Her wings did their best to assist her, although they acted more as a shield rather than anything more useful. Her arms wavered from the strain, her feet planted on the windowsill, her boots too slick against the wood as the rain pelted steadily on.

Wren held onto great fistfuls of thatch, hoisting herself up and over until she laid flat upon the roof, allowing herself only a moment to catch her breath before pushing up. She had to move, had to fix this. She’d brought nails and a small hammer, hoping she could secure the tarp to the frame of the roof itself. They poked through the pocket of her coat, a persistent reminder that she had a plan, that this was fixable. That she need only manage through the storm and then help would come in a day or so.

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