Page 39 of Wateredge
SEREN, SINGED HANDS & FORCED RESPONSIBILITY
Seren watched Lark shift her gaze away and felt like a cad. She wasn’t a cop. She didn’t care where Lark came from.
So what is it about this woman? Why are you pushing her for answers?
Seren turned, allowing Lark to gather her thoughts and decided that heating up the lasagna was something to do. She wasn’t hungry; her stomach in knots since Deryn’s earlier interrogation. But it would be… neighborly. The woman did look like a strong wind could blow her over. And it would perhaps keep her with Seren for a bit longer.
She turned on the stove and decided to give Lark an out from the obviously uncomfortable questions.
“You don’t have to answer that. Family can be complicated.”
Instead of an immediate answer, she heard steps and a meow. A disgruntled one. In a moment, Lark was standing near her, the abandoned cat watching them with a decidedly put-upon expression.
“My father was a preacher. Still is, from what I know. My mother was the venerated spouse of a clergyman. We lived on a sprawling farm, acres and acres and everything that entails. My parents had thirteen children.” Something in Lark’s eyes shifted, became sharp, the edge scoring Seren’s chest.
“I was the first daughter. There are two more girls after me. And we were not encouraged to study. Read and write, yes, to a certain extent. But not much more. Mother homeschooled us girls. The boys got to go to school and college. But a woman? A woman’s place is by her husband’s side.”
Seren felt the words in her stomach, blow after blow.
“I always see you with a book.”
Lark’s smile was sad. She looked back to where her bag lay open on the floor by the now sleeping cat. A tattered copy of Jane Eyre could be seen poking out of the worn canvas.
“It’s a whole new world, in books. A world away from punishments and damnations and atonement on your knees.”
Lark’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if she were retelling a past that did not matter to her, that carried no significance. Her eyes rapidly filling with tears told Seren a different story.
Her gaze on Lark, on those tears trembling on the longest of lashes, Seren tried to diffuse the moment, the tension of it, then remembering about the stove and the leftovers reached for the pot, her hand touching the flame carelessly.
“Shit!” She recoiled, trying to pull her fingers away, her knitted sweater snagging on the iron grates, tethering her to the stove, the pain surprising and shocking as fire always had been for her. Their mother used to admonish her about flames and water never mixing well.
Hell, they did not mix at all. Seren pulled harder, the grate not giving an inch.
“Son of a—”
Lark’s hands were on hers in an instant.
“You need to move forward, not pull.” Her voice was calm itself, despite both their hands now getting singed.
Seren gulped and pushed her hand forward, her body reacting poorly, stubbornly, to being told to put more of herself into the fire. Finally, after what felt like ages, though surely not even a few seconds later, Seren was free, her sleeve now smoldering, her fingers and wrist hot and stinging badly.
Lark’s hand was in a similarly bad shape, angry and red, the blisters already visible.
Seren acted on instinct, her Water coming to the rescue. Fingers turning to ice, quieting the pain and the burning, Seren took Lark’s hand into hers. Gentle chill and then soothing water enveloped them both.
There was a gasp, a whimper, and the tension left the fingers struggling in hers. Seren was afraid to lift her eyes.
“I see what Victoria was talking about now. About you being like water.”
Seren raised her face so quickly that she almost gave herself whiplash.
Lark’s face showed no disgust, no fear.
You should probably send Victoria a thank-you card, or something, for that big mouth of hers.
Seren pushed the thought away and found words. “I don’t really know what to say. I’m sorry I burned you.”
Lark wiggled her fingers still in the confines of Seren’s ice.
