Eason’s wool glove grazes my chin before he bends to give me a soft kiss. “I love you, Allette.”
I care for Eason and enjoy his company more than I enjoy anything else in this forsaken place. But love? I no longer have the capacity for love. If the little I have left to give is enough for him, then he can have it.
“Be safe,” I say, kissing him once more.
He grabs his sword, steals a final kiss, and leaves me all alone.
I ease onto one of the dining chairs to finish the mending but end up staring at the marks on the wall instead. My grief is like a leaden weight tied to my limbs, dragging me to the bottom of the sea, waiting for me to drown.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Four.
Years in the human realm.
My fingers idly swipe at my scarred palm.
Four years without my mate.
I can’t keep counting. Can’t keep holding on when there is nothing left to cling to. Rising to my feet, I snag the damp cloth next to our breakfast dishes and scrub those marks until they’re no more.
Perhaps this is what I need to move on. A clean slate. Some time alone to learn how to live again.
And that begins with leaving this house. The day looks fine, and these four walls are doing nothing to help clear my head. Plus, I need hair dye. Tugging on my mop cap and cloak, I fish out a few coins from our stash beneath the mattress and throw open the door?—
Only to find my stooped neighbor on the other side.
This woman has the worst possible timing.
I step aside and usher Widow Mae into our home. Her brown cloak reeking of pickling spices and cloves. Instead of continuingto the rocking chair where she usually sits, Mae squints up at me through milky eyes, her ever-present plaid scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and chin. “Where are you off to?”
“Just bringing in more wood for the fire,” I lie.
Her crinkled lips flatten. “It’ll be dark soon. Best to stay inside and get it in the morning.”
She can’t be serious. It’s barely past lunch. Still, I know better than to get into an argument with the woman. I’ll have to slip out when she is taking one of her many naps.
After two hours and three cups of tea, it’s clear Mae has no intention of sleeping. All she wants to do is talk about how wonderful Eason is and knit another scarf. Her own son passed away a long time ago, and she thinks of my partner as a surrogate child. Which is sweet…until she starts giving out to me because I have yet to give him children.
“You should give him sons. At least three,” Mae says, the large knitting needles clicking and clacking as she churns out another perfect row of tight loops.
I used to dream of children once—little ones with raven hair and silver eyes. Senan would’ve made such a wonderful father.
My throat constricts, making it almost impossible to swallow. Mae continues on, but I can’t handle her underhanded slights about not being good enough for Eason.
I already know I’m not good enough.
That’s why I’ve turned down every one of his four proposals.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I excuse myself and escape into the privy. The moment I step inside, that smudge on the floor reminds me of the hair dye. It’s the perfect excuse to leave, only the thought of having to explain anything to Mae sounds too exhausting.
My gaze catches on the murky gray light streaming through the pane of glass.
A smile touches my lips.
Looks like I’m going to climb out the window.
Beatinghooves drum behind me as a horse and cart tear up the lane. I barely get out of the way before the driver blows past, splattering my cloak with muck. I want to shout and rail at him, to tell him to slow the hell down before he kills someone. Instead, I bite my lip and keep quiet.