Page 7 of Rainshadow

She walked along roads, along the rustic wood fences of sheep fields. A light rain began to fall, but she ignored it, nothing but a dew on her face. She walked toward the blackness at the edge of the island, a blackness that stretched out into the frigidSalish. She walked until she saw a glowing light, a window in a house that might have been a beacon.

She had an idea, then. It was a reckless, stupid idea, but she was feeling reckless and stupid. Maybe she was craving a confrontation, a humiliation. She looked up at the light, Rainshadow, calling her, warning her, taunting her, offering hope in darkness, or the absolute destruction of every hope she’d ever had, of every good memory.

It didn’t matter.

When something feels like destiny, it doesn’t matter if the outcome will be good or bad. She walked.

4

Flora didn’t have a plan.

With every step she grew angrier at the woman, Sylvia, who had sent her away so easily, had taken measure of her in minutes and handed down rejection. With every step the rain seemed to fall a little harder. It wasn’t fair, and felt, more than anything, like she had been mistaken for someone else. She belonged at Lavender Acres, Rainshadow, whatever it was called, and Sylvia was an outsider who barely knew the place, barely knew the island. The unfairness of it was like bile in her mouth that she couldn’t spit out.

As she drew closer to Rainshadow, the foolishness of what she was doing occurred to her. She knew, very likely, that she was about to humiliate herself, and the humiliation was one more log she could toss onto the bonfire of her self-esteem. She didn’t care. She wanted it. She craved the utter pain and release. She jogged up the twisting drive, her boots crunching in the wet gravel, up the path to the main house, and hopped up the steps, skipping a few. It was only after she rang the doorbell that a voice in the back of her mind screamed for her to run, run, run. She stood firm, willing her feet to stay planted on the doorstep. When the door swung open and Sylvia stood gazing at her, sheimmediately regretted her stupid, childish choice. The look on Sylvia’s face was, first, utter, unabashed surprise, but it shifted like clouds drifting in front of the moon. There was anger, obvious and unmistakable, but Flora was certain there was also a shimmer, a little electric current, of fear. She was, thought Flora, a pampered house cat afraid of a wild, feral animal who had darkened her door.

“What are you doing here?” Sylvia hissed, her cold eyes boring into Flora with an unsettling intensity. She stepped forward, over the door’s threshold, almost menacing Flora. Maybe Sylvia wasn’t such a house cat after all.

“I…” Flora tried to take a breath, but it felt like her lungs were too small. She steadied herself, but still couldn’t look at Sylvia when she spoke. “You were wrong about me.”

“You need to leave!” Sylvia snarled, making Flora flinch.

“No,” Flora said, standing up straight, “you have to hear me out. I walked all this way?—”

“Of your own volition! I’m telling you now, for your own good, for your own sake.”

“Who do we have here?”

A friendly, resonant voice from the hall behind Sylvia. A man’s voice, a voice that seemed to have an English accent. There was something soothing about the voice, like whoever it belonged to was, at the very least, polite and considerate.

Sylvia seemed to know it was too late, but she still said, “Nobody, darling. I’ll be back in the dining room in one?—”

A man emerged, peeking over Sylvia’s shoulder, his face pale, striking. His lips pursed in surprise for a moment, then he smirked at Flora, causing her to shudder. “Doesn’t look like nobody, darling. In fact, it looks rather distinctly like a somebody.”

The light, charming kindness in the man’s voice made Flora relax a little. She also hoped, perhaps desperately, that she mighthave an in. When her eyes met his, she felt a sudden jolt. The eyes, his eyes, were a silvery blue.

“Please,” he said, smiling at her, “come inside out of that miserable weather.”

“No,” said Sylvia. “Flora was just leaving.”

Flora was stunned that Sylvia knew her name. She was nearly paralyzed with anxiety, but she forced herself to speak. Her eyes were closed, but her voice was clear. “I’m not leaving. Not until you hear me out.”

“Come back tomorrow, during the day,” Sylvia whispered, and there was a razor in her voice, sharp with meaning.

“No, no, no,” the man said. “I can hear you, Sylvia. Come now, inside, both of you.”

Sylvia looked at her viciously then, a look so hot with threat her face nearly glowed. She didn’t say “You will regret this,” but she might as well have.

The house was so different than it had been when it was Lavender Acres, both familiar and disorienting. It was eerie. Where there had been cozy, overstuffed couches there were now sleek velvet sofas and black leather accent chairs. Where, once, the walls had been hung with framed cross-stitches that said “Bless this mess,” there were now dramatic black-and-white photos and ancient-looking oil paintings in heavy gilt frames.

The man led them to a dining room where, on the black lacquer table as shiny as patent leather, there was an open bottle of wine and one plate, fine china with an intricate floral and gold pattern. There was only one glass of wine, half-drunk, and on the plate there was only cheese, brie, Flora guessed, some dark purple grapes, and a half-loaf of French bread.

“You were eating dinner,” Flora said. “I didn’t mean to?—”

Sylvia sighed and rolled her eyes.

“No, please don’t be sorry,” said the man. “I’m Ethan. Sylvia called you Flora?” He looked at her with those silvery-blueeyes and put his hand out. Flora caught sight of his muscular forearm, peeking out from his rolled sleeve. His skin was as porcelain as the white shirt he wore, so white she could see the delicate blue veins on his solid wrist.

She took his cool hand and he squeezed hers, firm, strong, but gentle.

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