Page 3 of Wateredge

What would she think, what would people think, what would they do⁠—

A gentle hand landed carefully on her arm, and Lark flinched so hard, she thought she’d come out of her skin. Her breathing was suddenly shallow, her heart hammering hard and fast in her chest, her eyes blind with tears, she was equally afraid and ashamed.

Where did they come from? What was happening?

She closed her eyes to avoid them spilling. That would be the final humiliation.

And this island had so far dealt its share of them for Lark. Despite the good omen of seeing two gorgeous women kissing on the pier as she drove off the ferry. Despite Crow’s Nest being perhaps the most picture-perfect town in existence. Despite all of the above, luck had not been on her side for the past few weeks.

And crying in front of this woman would be the last insult to what appeared to be a bloody injury. She touched her temple again, her fingertips coming away with more blood. A slender hand turned her chin slightly, and the voice tsked again, piercing the impending panic.

“I hurt you, honey. I’m sorry.”

The “honey” made Lark’s stomach flip. She could almost feel the word coat her chest, warmly, safely. It felt like an absolution after years of withheld communion. Lark knew how that tasted.

Not that Lark had experienced much in her twenty-seven years. Born in a small parish on the bayou, the oldest daughter of thirteen children, Lark had not seen much affection as a child. But she knew all about communions, punishments, and withheld absolutions.

Her world had been small. Church. Parish. Farm. Her mother had told her that once she turned fifteen, that world would become bigger, much more beautiful, as it did when one’s purpose was achieved. Well, the world only grew smaller, painfully so for a while, narrowing to a pair of eyes that looked nothing like the ones currently staring down at her. A pair of eyes and all of the fear.

And ten years ago, Lark’s world had turned into a never-ending run through backroads and backwaters. Anything to avoid being seen, being noticed, being found.

Crow’s Nest, in all its wintry beauty, was a sight to see. No backwater. No backroad. Dragons Island, the three cliffs, the legendary beasts that guarded the witches—Lark almost got herself in trouble at the bookstore, losing track of time by the fire recounting legends of the place—a place that immediately felt like home.

Though what would Lark know of home? She had excused herself and ran before the perceptive gaze of the bookstore keeper could see more than a lost tourist in her. And Lark had a slight suspicion that the panther-like black cat lounging leisurely by the fire in the shop had seen right through her.

And then, beauty and reality collided. Yes, the island was still beautiful. Yes, the town was picturesque. And yes, as much as her breath caught in her chest when she stood on the Sky Blue Cliff, looking at the expanse of the ocean in front of her, both terrifying and comforting in its constancy, Lark wanted to stay.

For the first time in ten years, Lark wanted to belong. To stay. To never run away again.

The desperation, the desire—things she had not felt in a decade, fear, her primary emotion then—made her clumsy, lulling her senses, and she had almost smacked into the woman who seemed like a dream conjured up by Lark’s fear and cold and hunger. She couldn’t even blame the massive cat. Lark was so tired, she was bound to walk into something anyway.

Her voice suddenly sounded closer. Lark lowered her face, trying to hide it in the ratty scarf that did nothing to keep her protected against the chill of the wind. The voice turned gentle, no longer carrying the teasing lilt.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. Can you look at me? Please?”

It was the “please” that almost undid Lark. It was said in the kindest of tones, the request tender yet firm.

When she opened her eyes, the forest in the green ones was still and tranquil. Not a shade of danger in them, not a speck of alarm. Lark carefully let out a breath. Slender arms helped her up slowly. Lark swayed a little, the wind almost rocking her back down again.

“I apologize…” Her own voice sounded rusty, broken. She was embarrassed all over again. “For running into you. I didn’t mean to.”

Suddenly, it was a matter of complete urgency to push the words out, so maybe she wouldn’t be blamed⁠—

The eyes narrowed, and the mouth formed careful words, interrupting what felt like an immediate panic attack.

“The street is busy, and everyone is rushing, darling, including the ginger menace from Dragons. These things happen. You did nothing wrong.”

The woman was now looking down at her, trying to catch her eye, and for some reason—perhaps it was the height of her, easily half a foot taller than Lark—that turned the anxiety up tenfold. She shivered and bent down, feeling the blood that had left her face return, making her less lightheaded but no less scared.

The hands on her arms were suddenly hot, unnaturally so.

There was no way…

Lark could feel them through the thin layers of her jacket and sweater. And the apples… A scent of apples and fresh earth enveloped her, she breathed it in, certain she was hallucinating.

“Come, darling. Come with me. It’s cold, and you’re shivering and, by the looks of it, having yourself a nice little panic attack. Which is fine, but we should let it have some privacy.”

The gentle pull of those hands was stronger than what she expected and suddenly Lark was hauled closer by the elbow and guided—firmly and resolutely—to a side street, out of the fray of the crowds, and through a tall yellow door into what looked like a high-end kitchen. So high-end, in fact, Lark immediately felt dirty and unkept. Out of place.