Page 7 of Changelings
“It’s all in good fun,”Neomi said, “just a little teasing.”Well, she would say that. She’d gone and married Imogen’s main tormentor.
When their parents had passed, they left the great farm toboth daughters, but Imogen couldn’t bear to live with Neomi and Collin. So she took her share and bought her own little bit of forest. There, amongst the trees, she knew peace.
The trees didn’t care what she looked like. Neither did the goats, the squirrels, the deer.
Over the past three years, she’d made a good life for herself out in her cottage, on land she owned. Oh, she still visited—Neomi insisted on it. Imogen had her businesses, too, to keep her busy. When she wasn’t leading goats to clear unwanted fauna, she was making soaps from their milk and gathering their wool, foraging for mushrooms, processing herbs and spices, and more.
It kept her busy. Fulfilled.
She grinned down at Shadow when he bumped her hand with his cold nose. Yes, she enjoyed her little life out in the wilderness with her animals for company. She took in runts and strays. She kept a tidy home and did her part to manage the forest. She’d made friends with the deer herds that passed through her land and even a truce with the black bears who roamed in the autumn—she left them berries and salmon and they left her ducks alone.
All in all, it was a good life. One she’d made herself. There was happiness in solitude, and when she had to leave it, she found ways to manage.
She supposed there wasn’t much point anymore in taking such pains to hide her birthmark—everyone in the Darrowlands knew her by her mark. No one remarked on it anymore, really. A few might stare. But most got on with it. The mark was just…there.
Imogen supposed that was all right. Except, for a very long time, she’d been made to feel it was theonlything remarkable about her. The red that covered her face was all people saw, all people remembered about her. They might have moved past it, forgotten, or not cared anymore, but Imogen…didn’t. She had tocare—it was her face.
And so she fussed about with her hair, ensuring it was covering as much of her as possible. It wasn’t just Aoife or Sorcha Bradaigh she saw when she went to the estate—theirs was a busy, working estate, packed with grooms, cadets, farmhands, and their large, growing family. Imogen wouldn’t normally agree to take on work at such a bustling place, but Sorcha Brádaigh had always been kind to her.
“We have to behave,” she reminded Shadow. “No matter what that raccoon does, you can’t chase him. It’s bad for business.”
Shadow whined and harrumphed as if he knew exactly what she said.
Imogen had cared for her fair share of animals, but never a raccoon. It’d been quite the surprise to not only meet Sorcha’s new husband, a half-orc, but also the young raccoon they’d taken in. Darrah was quite the rotund thing, always finding ways of getting into places he shouldn’t—usually where there was food.
Should I tell them about the manticore?She remembered Neomi telling her that when the otherlies first arrived in the Darrowlands, they’d spent their first winter encamped on the Brádaigh estate. Sorcha’s husband Orek and Lord Hakon, the heiress’s half-orc husband, often visited the otherlies, helping build their new village.
Honestly, if Neomi spent half as much time working as she did in Granach gossiping, our parents’ farm might not be on the brink of failing.
“Fair maid, I beg you! Your name!”
Imogen’s stomach dropped. A quick peek over her shoulder confirmed—yes, the manticore was bounding down the lane after them.
Dammit.
Using her stick to tap the goat in front of her, she whistled for Chestnut to pick up the pace.
3
If Balar didn’t know better, he might’ve thought the strange maiden from the forest was trying to avoid him. He’d never seen goats jog before, but that’s most certainly what they did as the little herd passed over the boundary onto Brádaigh land.
Balar hustled to catch them up—valiantly ignoring how his head and stomach sloshed. He’d already had to retch back in the forest; he didn’t need to do it again in front of the mysterious maiden.Kud, he needed to get another good look at her. To be sure.
True, he clutched his own feather in his hand, crumpling the speckled golden barbs, which would normally be sign enough for a manticore. But last night’s alcohol still burned in his belly, and his head was still sluggishly trying to catch all of them up.
After all this time—to finally find her—likethat.
Ugh, hisamathad raised a better son.
What must his mysterious maiden think of him?
If he wasn’t mistaken, every time he neared her, the herd’s pace picked up. Balar would’ve put on a little more speed—hecouldn’t have her thinking he was unfit—had his stomach not revolted. Before a turn in the lane, he had to concede and empty his stomach of its final contents.
Hacking and spitting, Balar cursed. Not another drop of alcohol would pass his lips—at least not until he knew everything about her.
When the nausea abated, he resumed at a more moderate pace. Rounding the bend, he could just spot her and the herd closing in on the outbuildings that made up the rather vast complex of the Brádaigh estate. The great house, several other homes, cottages, barracks, silos, paddocks, pens, outhouses, sheds, and barns all congregated around enormous stables.
Did she know the Brádaighs? Why hadn’t he ever seen her before if so?
