Page 7 of A Kingdom's Heart
She flinched slightly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak.
I straightened from the wall as the decision formed before I could think to weigh it. “You should stay here tonight,” I said quietly. “It is far too dangerous for a lady to be wandering alone in weather like this.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, the firelight caught in them. For a moment she did not speak. The storm groaned around the walls. Then she nodded once, slow and grateful. “If you are sure I will not be a bother.”
“You won’t,” I said. “The storm will pass by morning. You’ll be safe here until then.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she turned back toward the fire. Fora
long moment, she didn’t move. Her gaze stayed fixed on the flames, lost somewhere far beyond them.
I found myself watching her again. Something about the way she sat: straight-backed, quiet, perfectly still. It felt almost unearthly. Too composed for someone soaked and cold, too calm for the storm that battered the walls. The world outside raged, yet she seemed untouched by it, as if chaos itself could not reach her. She was too beautiful to belong to anything as small as this place.
The thought unsettled me. I looked away and pushed from the wall. The floor creaked beneath my boots as I walked toward the back of the house. One of the doors stood half open, its hinges old but strong. I stepped inside.
The room was small, with low ceilings and walls of dark wood. It had once belonged to my parents. My father built the bed himself, solid oak with carvings along the frame. My mother had sewn the curtains that hung at the window, though they had faded with time. The air carried a faint scent of lavender and pine, something that always reminded me of her.
I pulled an old blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and shook the dust from it. Then I straightened the sheets, smoothing them until they lay neat. I fluffed the pillows, letting the air fill them again. For the first time in years, the room felt lived in.
A small wardrobe stood beside the wall. I hesitated before opening it. Inside hung a few of my mother’s things. Among themwas a simple kirtle, pale pink, the color softened by age but still gentle to the touch. She had worn it often, back when the fields outside were full of wildflowers and laughter still filled these walls.
I lifted it carefully, folding it over my arm. It was the only thing I had that might suit the girl sitting by my fire.
When I stepped back into the main room, she was still there, her gaze still fixed on the flames. The firelight painted her face in shades of gold and amber. Her cloak had stopped dripping, but her hair was still damp, clinging to her shoulders in damp curls.
“I found something that might be more comfortable,” I said,
holding out the kirtle. “It belonged to my mother.”
She turned, her eyes softening as she looked at the fabric. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she reached out and brushed her fingers across it, careful, almost reverent. “Thank you. It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“It’s dry,” I said with a faint smile. “That’s what matters.”
A small yawn escaped her lips before she could stop it. She covered her mouth quickly, embarrassed, and I could not help the quiet laugh that slipped from me.
“You must be exhausted,” I said. “Take the room at the end of the hall. It is warm now. You’ll rest better there than by the fire.”
She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the kirtle. “I would not want to take your bed.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “There’s more space there, and I’m used to sleeping by the hearth when the storms come. Go on.”
For a moment, she seemed ready to argue, but then her shoulders eased, and she nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly.
She rose, the firelight catching in her hair as she turned toward the hall. I watched her take a few slow steps, the fabric of her cloak whispering against the floorboards.
Before she disappeared from view, I said. “Do you need anything to eat or drink?”
She looked back over her shoulder, offering a small, tired smile.
“No, thank you. You’ve already done more than enough.”
I nodded, though part of me wished she had said yes. “Rest well then, Elara.”
Her smile lingered for a heartbeat before she vanished into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
For a time I stood there, listening to the rain tapping against the roof. The sound mixed with the steady crackle of the fire until it seemed to fill every corner of the house. The air smelled of wet wood and warmth.
The house felt strangely full now, as though her presence had woken something long asleep. I let out a slow breath and turned toward the hearth.
