Page 57 of Changelings
No, he determined, he couldn’t waste his one gift on hoof salve. So, he decided, this would be a gift for Chestnut. Which meant he still needed a gift for Imogen.
He’d just put the stinky salve in his pocket when his own name caught his ear.
Looking around, his gaze landed on another, far nicer stall. Behind the front table stood Emelda, a kind woman who sold fine fabrics. He’d patronized her stall many times now; she had procured him his fine blankets and pillows for his cabin.
Striding over to her stall, he greeted her warmly. “How are you and Harald?”
“Both fit and fine, thank you,” she said. Leaning over her stall, she lowered her voice to a more intimate tone to tell him, “Be wary of whatever Gilda says. She’s rather…unscrupulous.”
Balar bit back his growl. “So she doesn’t know Imogen?”
“No, she does. Imogen Ahearn always seems to deal with Gilda for some reason. I’ve tried to catch her before to warn her, but Imogen’s always so quick to leave.” Lips pursed unhappily, Emelda admitted, “Gilda has been taking her for a song for years. Imogen produces some of the finest goat’s wool and milk in the demesne; she could be getting double the price in Dundúran that Gilda pays her.”
There was no biting back his growl this time. That woman was taking advantage of Imogen, likely knowing how uncomfortable she was in a crowd. From what he knew of hiskigara, Imogen most likely took the quickest option, and that for her was Gilda. And the old woman profited from Imogen’s discomfort.
Unacceptable.
Seeing the outrage on his face, Emelda nodded. “I’m glad Imogen’s got someone looking out for her finally. She’s the quiet sort, but everyone knows what a hard worker she is. That farmwould’ve failed long ago without her.” Cupping her hand around one side of her mouth, Emelda added, “And between you and me, it’s failing without her now. Her sister and brother-in-law don’t know what they’re doing.”
Unhappiness swirled inside Balar to hear it.Ibás, no wonder Imogen had fled into the forest. So much weight placed upon her shoulders and all the thanks she got were whispers behind her back and lies to her face.
That stopped now.
Looking over Emelda’s stall, he said, “I want your finest, softest blanket. Preferably in a sensible color.”
He wouldnotbe showing up with just hoof salve.
Emelda grinned. “I’ve got just the thing.”
It was late morning by the time Balar finally swooped down into Imogen’s meadow. He hadn’t meant to lose so much time in Granach, but at least the visit had been fruitful—he bore gifts and had learned important information about hiskigara.
Information that only made him want to wrap her in her new soft blanket even more.
Human villages weren’t unlike mantii prides and tribes. All had their tightly woven connections and politics. Those at the bottom of the structure often had a harder time of it; they held less power and respect while also facing more chances of ridicule or even harm. It wasn’t fair or just, but it seemed that was how many beings lived.
Knowing just what the connections and politics of Granach had done to Imogen made Balar respect her all the more. He could understand the appeal of getting away.
She’d carved a little bit of peace for herself here. Her own little sanctuary.
Which he’d brazenly invaded.
He didn’t regret it, of course, but he had the courage to feel a little sheepish over it. Perhaps, in his haste and enthusiasm, he hadn’t executed the best strategy for winning over his shykigara.
That changed today.
From now on, he’d be the epitome of the patient lover. All softness, kindness, and understanding. Everything would go at her pace; she’d have her way and say in everything. There was nothing he wouldn’t—
A surprised bleat caught his ear. Balar looked toward the animal pen in surprise.
Two goats wandered around the side of the house, poking around the garden and paddock. Otherwise, the meadow was still and silent. He couldn’t hear Imogen moving about anywhere. In fact, only the loose goats seemed to be home.
Balar crossed to the paddock, herding them toward the gate. The goats baaed gratefully, hustling through the opening.
They were met by the others, several trying to rush out. Balar closed the gate quickly, keeping them inside. His nose wrinkled at the strong scent of droppings. As the goats crowded close to the gate, loudly complaining at him, he was able to see the dirty straw and droppings littering their stalls. Their food and water troughs were empty, and several had what looked to be bandages around a leg, red blotches of dried blood staining the fabric.
Most concerning of all was Chestnut. She lay on her side in her stall, her belly rising with quick, shallow breaths. He didn’t know much about livestock, but even he knew it was dangerous for horses and donkeys to be laying on their sides for too long.
Something is wrong.
