Page 27 of Bound

She did not stand too close to him, but it was near enough that she did not have to raise her voice to be heard. “Or if you don’t, I can bring you a mug from the house.”

He didn’t quite look at her, but he paused in his labours.

It was a warm day, and they were away from the bulk of the trees that offered shade to this field. “I have water enough, but I thank you.”

He went back to inspecting the hole where he’d plucked out the loosened post. It looked so shallow now that it was empty, but she could not recall who had first placed it. Her father, perhaps? Back when this was his home as well. Or maybe her mother, a tiny Wren placed inside a basket as she worked on it alone.

He had tools with him. A spade, a great saw, a hammer.

Wren sighed, certain the strain between them was not simply conjured by her imagination. An apology could smooth much, but she was not entirely sure what she should apologise for. Thinking poorly of him? Hopefully she had not been so obvious with the turn of her thoughts.

It wasn’t him, exactly, anyway. It was... anyone.

He didn’t know that. Couldn’t know that.

Wasn’t particularly his business, either. She owed him nothing... yet. But she would, if he had his way and worked as hard as he insisted he would.

“Braum,” she began, fiddling with the handle of the bucket. The one that belonged in the barn and would need to be taken back in there. He paused, but still did not look at her. “I’m not... used to people working around here. Or people... helping, for that matter. So I’m sorry that I’m... not handling it with all the grace I should.” She offered a dim sort of smile, hoping he might turn his head enough to see it. An apology and yet... not. A glimmer into her life here without delving into the whole of it. Not that he would care to hear any of it at all.

He did turn. Face so grave it was almost stern.

She did not allow herself to fidget, although the impulse was strong.

“And why is that?”

Her fingers moved of their own accord, pulling at her braid once. Maybe twice. “To which part? Why I’m not used to it, or why I’m not handling it so well?”

“The former.”

She sighed. A personal query. Not the little niceties she might have shared with Firen at the market. “You know what I am,” she reminded him with a shrug, pretending it didn’t hurt. Pretending it didn’t cost something to discuss it at all. “They... that is... your kind...” His brows raised, and her cheeks flushed. “They liked my mother well enough when she could hide what I was. They turned on her pretty quickly afterwards.” She cleared her throat, hoping he would realise she did not want to discuss the subject further. “So forgive me if I am... unused to anyone being here. It is not personal.” Another smile. Dim and lacking in anything he could consider warmth, but the most she could manage at the moment.

Her attention turned to the other pasture, where Thorn was giving Temperance a displeased look as she meandered through the flock. They’d sort it out. Intervening would only make things worse.

“And the latter?” Braum pressed.

Wren blinked. Frowned.

“Experience,” she gave in answer, going back toward the house before he could ask her to elaborate further. “I will let you know when the food is ready.”

Then she disappeared inside and bolted the door. Just because she could.

???

She did not hide for long. Just until her heart stopped hammering away in her chest. When her hands stopped trembling and she had some measure of control over herself.

Long enough for the bread to be shaped. And maybe baked.

To be sliced and piled with slices of meat and a few vegetables from the garden, the easier for him to eat out of doors and without utensils.

Because she wasn’t going to invite him in.

She peered about the room, trying to imagine it. Failed utterly.

This house was for family. The one time she had bent those rules before...

She set everything on a plate. Debating eating her own, but it was already later than she’d hoped and she did not want him going hungry. Not when she’d heard the persistent sounds of progress being made about the pasture.

She still felt a trickle of anxiety as she peered out the window to watch him at work. That she should be helping. That it was a trick. That...

---