Page 30 of Rainshadow

“Sylvia,” Flora said, insistent, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I think you need?—”

“You don’t know what’s wrong, and you can assume anything you want, I don’t care.” Sylvia breathed, gathered herself. “I’m sorry. I… are the horses alright? Did you feed them and?—”

“And let them out, yes, I did. They’re fine.”

Sylvia nodded. Her eyes were still closed. She drank the last of the water and held the cup out for more. Flora refilled it and Sylvia drank. She seemed to be gaining strength. Her breathing, which had been so soft it was nearly imperceptible, was becoming ragged and intentional, like she was trying to breathe life back into herself by sheer force of will.

“What are you doing here, Flora?” she finally asked, opening her eyes. “Why are you in my bedroom?”

“I found the horses unfed and the hose running. I didn’t know if I should call the police, or just come check on you…”

“You did the right thing,” Sylvia said, leaning over and putting her head in her hands like she might be dizzy. “Thank you. I’m just really dehydrated. If you hadn’t come…” Sylvia let the words drift away into the stuffy air of the bedroom.

“Do you want more water?”

“I think if I have more I’ll throw up.”

“Ok,” Flora said. “But, Sylvia, you’re really sick. You can’t?—”

Sylvia laughed a sad, rueful laugh. “I’m the only one who can get myself out of this situation, Flora. Not a doctor. Not you.Especiallynot you.”

Then it clicked. The hypodermic needles, the ups and downs, the vicious mood swings all swam across Flora’s vision. Sylvia was an addict of some sort. Flora didn’t know enough about drugs to guess what it was that she was addicted to, but all the cliché signs were there. A wave of something fluttering between pity and disgust passed over Flora, and she wanted to recoil from Sylvia and flee from the room.

Sylvia was looking at Flora, and there was an inexplicable smirk on her face.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” she said, her voice throaty, “you’re wrong.”

Flora only smiled at Sylvia, pitying her.

15

For the next few days, without ever discussing it, Flora checked on Sylvia before starting her day. She seemed to be improving, but she also seemed changed. Sylvia wasn’t especially nice to her, but neither was she cruel, and Flora felt an unusual feeling, like now that she had seen Sylvia at her worst, had witnessed the woman in a moment of abject humiliation, the power dynamic between them had changed. Sylvia needed her, couldn’t care for her horses if Flora hadn’t come, and might have died without her.

Ethan was completely absent, but the more she thought about it, the more it was obvious that he couldn’t stand to see a woman he’d once loved in the depths of addiction. Maybe, Flora thought, he couldn’t take it anymore, had given her enough chances. She couldn’t blame him. She felt sorry for him, sympathized.

Still, it was odd.

So it was left to Flora to get Sylvia water, bring her food, cook meals, and even, at one point, strip the musty, stale sheets from her bed as the other woman sat wrapped in a velvety black robe downstairs on the couch. Flora knew, of course, exactly where the laundry was, and was surprised to find that the Rainshadowlaundry room was unchanged, exactly as it had been as Lavender Acres. She stuffed Sylvia’s bundle of navy sheets into the washing machine and then went to work with Mars and Zeta.

In the time it took to start the laundry, it seemed Sylvia had gone upstairs, gotten dressed, and was walking with an excruciating slowness toward the stable when Flora trotted outside.

“Sylvia,” she said, “you shouldn’t be out here.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Sylvia said, laughing and waving her off. “I want to watch my horses.”

Flora felt a start, an old anxiety returning. Whatever new agreement had bloomed between them, it couldn’t survive a training session in the arena.

Sylvia though, bundled in scarves and her black wool coat, sat watching from the arena seating, barely saying a word. Sometimes, in her creaking voice, she called out suggestions, but that’s all they were, suggestions, more helpful than critical. Flora listened, nodded, and moved the whip or pressed her shoulders into Zeta’s flank to get her to move sideways in the correct, prancing gait. Sylvia, looking on, would nod approvingly any acid or cruelty.

On the fifth day, Sylvia was walking normally, and color had returned to her face. She was calling out instructions with the same vigor, but none of the venom, and even smiling when her horses, with Flora in the saddle, performed especially well. As they practiced, the wind picked up outside and a light rain started to fall.

“Good job today, Flora. Thank you,” Sylvia said, nodding to her as she walked with Flora and Mars, almost as briskly as she had before, back to the barn. They pushed up the hoods of their coats against the rising rain and it was already so dark, they didn’t notice that the sun had set, slipping away like a thief.

They put the horse away, and Sylvia even helped rehang the tack. When they both emerged from the barn though, Sylvia froze beside her. Flora felt him before she saw him, the solid figure in black, coatless and oblivious to the weather. The wind was howling and his thin, silky hair whipped around his face and neck.

He was breathtaking.

“Sylvia,” Ethan said, his voice like an echo of itself. “You’re up, and looking well.”

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