Page 50 of Changelings
Balar frowned. He didn’t remember Imogen saying that.Kud, had Soren paid more attention to the things Imogen said than he had? Balar could admit, when she talked, he sometimes got lost in the tantalizing curve and movement of her pretty lips.
Ibás,he was a stupid male.
I’ll do better, kigara,he vowed.You’ll have nothing but my patience until you ask for more.
Resuming his digging, Balar decided he’d give his Imogentwomore days. And maybe one gift. Maybe two? No, one. One for now.
Two days, sah-zenda, then you’re mine again.
18
After a day of being cooped up with her embarrassment and the feeling of wanting to come out of her skin, Imogen decided to take the goats and Chestnut to the family farm. The goats seemed just as eager for the chance to stretch their legs, and so, with the ground almost dried out from the storm, they made their way toward Granach.
The sun was especially bright, reflected in all the pools and puddles left by the rain. Their path was nearly obscured by the thick mat of fallen leaves, the storm having knocked down most of the remaining autumnal foliage. Her boots squelched over the layer of leaves and snapped the occasional twig.
Shadow had his choice of sticks, although Chestnut didn’t let him fully enjoy the assortment. Perhaps sensing her mistress’s disquiet, Chestnut was especially nippy and bossy along their journey, keeping everyone in line.
It was for the best, really, as Imogen could hardly pay attention to the few steps in front of her. She walked homeward by rote, trusting that Chestnut would keep everything undercontrol.
Even with the bright sunshine on her face and a fresh breeze teasing her cheeks, Imogen couldn’t get out of her own head.
Usually she was perfectly content with her own company, but lately…her mind was its own kind of prison, one she wished to break free of. She’d heard of people losing themselves to feelings—topleasure—and Imogen wanted to know what that felt like.
But what if I can’t? What if I’ve been alone in my head too long?
She’d never doubted or regretted moving to her cottage, enjoyed the peace and quiet, found fulfillment in her work and caring for her animals. Why, then, had she had this sucking feeling just below her heart lately? Like there was an emptiness there that needed filling?
She wished she could press a finger inside it, stopper the ache, but nothing she did made it feel any better.
Frustrated tears stung her eyes as they skirted the edge of Granach.This is his doing.While she’d had her moments of loneliness before, never had Imogen so keenly felt her own isolation. Never had she questioned her decision to live away from others or eschew company.
Now, she questioned all of it, and she didn’t like the feeling.
A quagmire had opened up beneath her feet where it’d been solid bedrock before, and she couldn’t help resenting that.
I didn’t ask for this.
All this courting business had done was shove her face in her own lacking. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.
Taking a deep breath of fresh, clean air, Imogen did her best to put away the worst of her hurts. She brought them to Neomi, yes, but that didn’t mean she needed to show up moodier than a thundercloud. When she’d closed the gate behind Chestnut and the goats, giving them use of the lower pasture, Imogen hiked up the slope to the house.
She didn’t see Collin anywhere, and when she entered the house, she didn’t initially find Neomi, either. It took a bit of searching, Shadow dogging her heels, to finally find her sister in the back washroom.
Up to her elbows in suds, an array of washing was already strung up around Neomi. Her color was high, and her forehead was damp with sweat and steam.
“Here you are,” said Imogen.
Neomi blew out a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s all right. Wash day?”
Neomi shook her head. “Worse. Collin’s parents are coming tomorrow for luncheon.”
“Ah.” As Imogen understood it, Collin and Neomi were usually summoned to his parents’ home for a weekly dinner. She hadn’t heard of his parents deigning to visit the farm before.
Looking about, she realized that what’d gotten washed and scrubbed were the nicest set of table linens. Every tablecloth, runner, placemat, napkin, and doily had been washed and starched, the lace hems making the smaller linens look like snowflakes hanging on the line.
“So everything had to get washed?” She couldn’t imagine it was that dirty from sitting in the cupboard.
