Page 45 of Changelings
Between that, his omnipresence, and the heated way he watched her, as if he was stripping her bare with his gaze, of course Imogen had fled into her bedchamber. She’d never wished for a door before, but she halfheartedly did now.
Not because she was afraid of him, but so that she couldthink.
It seemed impossible to do with himright there. She could see his precious triangular ears, twitching every so often. If she held her breath and listened hard, she could hear his steady breathing beneath the soft crackle of the banked fire.
It was difficult not to be soaware—it was the first time anyone but her and Shadow had spent the night within the cottage. Not even Neomi had slept here, too afraid of the sounds of the forest at night.
Imogen wished she could focus on those forest sounds, but nothing filtered through. All she could do was roll to her other side to stare at her bureau, willing herself to sleep.
Just close your eyes and try not to think of him,she told herself.It’ll be morning soon enough, and you can think aboutwhat to do with him then.
Except, that’s not what happened. Imogen still tossed and turned most of the night, coming wide awake whenever Balar so much as sniffed.
Although, she must have drifted off by sheer will or exhaustion at some point, for when she next opened her eyes, it was to find the room brightening with the weak light of a gray morning.
Imogen lay there for a long while, unsure what to do. She wasn’t one to linger in bed, her mind always too full of things she could be doing. The animals would also start bleating for their breakfast if she tarried too long.
Still, she couldn’t quite make herself get up and face him. She needed to stoke the fire, start boiling her oats, and feed the animals. From the sound of it, the rain had abated for now—she couldn’t discern anything about her overnight guest.
Finally, there was nothing for it but to get up. Before leaving her bedchamber, she pulled out one of her mother’s old shawls, gathering the edges together beneath her throat and pinning it there. She was covered from neck to toe but still felt exposed when she poked her head through the threshold.
Imogen blinked in astonishment to find the living area empty. The blanket he’d used had been neatly folded and left upon the far cushion, and all the pillows were arranged correctly.
A noise from the front of the cottage caught her ear, and she turned her head to behold Balar by the front door, wiping down his legs. He’d redressed in his shirt and kilt, although his mane was again frizzed by the damp air outside.
Noticing her standing there, Balar smiled wide. “Good morning,urisá.How did you sleep?”
“All right,” she lied, her voice thick with embarrassment. “Yourself?”
“Very cozy.” Sticking a thumb over his shoulder, he told her, “I’m just back from feeding the animals. I figured it was a good way to earn their trust.”
Imogen stared in surprise. “Oh…thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“It was no trouble.”
They lapsed into silence, Imogen unsure how to fill it.
So she did the only thing she could think of—she stuck to routine. Turning away, she scurried into the kitchen, pulling out everything she’d need to make them a hearty oat mash for their breakfast. As the water began to boil, she cut up thick pieces of dried meat for Shadow. When she bent down to give him his full dish, she took the opportunity to peek at what Balar was up to.
From between the table and chair legs, she spied him working away at the fireplace, rekindling the coals into flames.
Straightening, Imogen turned back to the stove. She wanted to think her heated cheeks were from the boiling water, but she knew that wasn’t true.
He was being…helpful. Not acting like a guest.
He only worsened her awkward consternation when, the fire stoked, Balar came into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, sat at the table, and watched her expectantly. Fates, she could feel his probing gaze along her back.
Her nightgown wasn’t see-through, was it? She didn’t think so, but the fabric was old and worn; she hadn’t ever had to worry about it before.
She found herself chewing on the strange, foreign thought that she wished her nightgown was prettier. Her mother’s shawl was a lovely pink, but the nightgown itself was plain, serviceable. No romantic billowy sleeves or lace details. Just simple tubular sleeves that hugged her arms and a bare hem.
Wishing she appeared prettier for the benefit of a man’s gaze was a disconcerting thought, and Imogen didn’t exactly like it.
She also wasn’t sure she liked just how…intimate it felt to be before him in her nightgown, plain as it was, even covered as she was in a shawl. No one but family had ever seen her in her nightclothes. Family, and now Balar.
Every time she glanced his way, she found him staring at her, hope and pleasure obvious in his expression. He smiled at her, winked, and offered to help, but Imogen didn’t think she could bear having him stand alongside her right then.
She hated her embarrassment—this is my home, after all—and resented her shyness—I’m a grown woman, after all—but couldn’t help either. Although he’d made himself smaller by sitting down, his continued presence overwhelmed her and the cottage.
