Chapter 22
It was well into winter, the first snows come and gone, when Imogen came to an enlightening realization.
The pitter-patter she felt in her heart, how it lurched and ached and performed all sorts of acrobatics whenever Balar was near, meant something important. That she was, in fact, in love with him.
She could forgive herself for not knowing so immediately. She’d never been in love before. Imogen had no idea what to do with these unfamiliar, unwieldy, horribly fragile feelings. For long days, all she could do was hold them carefully in her own hands, hoping they wouldn’t break.
Keeping them close to her chest allowed her time to look them over and marvel.
Delicate as they were, these feelings somehow carried their own kind of beauty.
They made the world feel softer, safer. Snowflakes came to look especially pretty and fluffy.
The scent of baking bread carried an extra layer of comfort.
And the blanket he’d gifted her…she snuggled it every chance she got, imagining it was the downy fur of his chest.
Yes, after careful consideration and sitting with the feelings for a while, Imogen could confidently say it—she loved Balar.
Well, say it to herself, at least. Inside her own head.
She’d no idea what to say to him. How did she put into words the bone-deep relief she felt whenever he walked through the door, a load of firewood in his arms and a gentle smile on his face?
How could she truly articulate the way her heart went soft and aching, like a bruise, when he helped her into bed and kissed her forehead goodnight?
The feelings made no rational sense; they sometimes sounded outlandish even to her own ears. She’d never been good with words or feelings, and now she had to contend with both.
It wasn’t that she thought he wouldn’t welcome hearing that she loved him.
Hadn’t he been hoping for such a thing for months?
At least, that’s what she would’ve thought before her fever.
Now, though, even with Balar in her house, keeping her company through the long winter and overseeing her land and animals, she couldn’t help feeling a small wedge of distance between them.
The inkling that something bothered him hadn’t left her.
Like a stubborn nettle, it burrowed beneath her skin to itch and irritate.
She wanted to ask about it, but as the days passed, an easy sort of complacency settled over them both.
Did she dare upset the balance they’d found?
If he left her now…Imogen didn’t know what she’d do.
She’d survived winters on her own before. Her health was quickly returning; by spring, she’d have her strength back, she was sure.
But Imogen…didn’t just want to survive. She didn’t want to spend the rest of winter alone.
She didn’t want to be alone at all.
Balar had changed so much for her. It wasn’t just that he took the utmost care with her—he truly cared. He fussed over her comfort and happiness. He remembered the things she liked. He was always looking for ways to make her laugh or smile.
No one had ever cared about Imogen like that.
Yes, her family wanted her to be happy, in the way that most families hoped kin would be happy.
But Balar didn’t consign that hope to mere thought—he made it a reality.
With his own hands and good nature and indomitable spirit, he ensured that Imogen laughed and smiled and was happy more than she ever thought possible.
How do I ask him to stay with me?
Imogen spent long winter afternoons considering this. Probably too many, given that she hadn’t come to any real answer.
She suspected it wasn’t actually too complicated. It was a simple enough series of words. What kept her from saying anything was…fear.
Scrubbing her hands over her face, Imogen stared moodily into the crackling fire. Although what Neomi had said had hurt, some of her words stuck in Imogen’s mind. Not because of their harm but because of their truth.
So much of Imogen’s life, the decisions she’d made, came down to her birthmark. All her life, people had reacted to it. They’d seen it, not her. And so, after years and years of this, Imogen didn’t bother showing anyone anything of herself. Why provide anything more when all they saw was skin-deep?
It stung to admit it, but in a way, Imogen had given up. On the people around her. On her hopes of having her own family and friends.
She was proud of the life she’d made for herself in her cottage in the forest, but if she was honest, it was the best hiding place of all.
You don’t need to hide. That’s what Neomi had said.
Imogen wasn’t entirely sure she believed it yet, but a dangerous little niggling had taken root low in her belly. Something like hope. Like the seedling of belief.
Pulse fluttering at her throat, Imogen stepped into her bedchamber to look through one of her bureau drawers.
Under a stack of old shirts, she found the single mirror she kept in the cottage.
An heirloom from her mother’s side of the family, it was an ornately tooled silver hand mirror that she only brought out when she had to trim her hair.
The reflective face had tarnished somewhat, but when Imogen held it up, she could still see her image in it. Imogen flinched to see her reflection, but it was more habit than surprise or dislike. Drawing in a deep breath, Imogen held the mirror in both hands and made herself look.
She turned her face this way and that, looking at every edge, every reddish hue.
The longer she looked, the closer Imogen came to another realization.
The mark was worse in her mind. There, it could be grotesque, dominating, all-powerful.
If she’d been asked to detail her birthmark from memory, how she described it wouldn’t have been entirely accurate.
The borders weren’t quite so far out on her cheek.
Her left eye wasn’t so hidden as she’d imagined.
What stared back at Imogen in the mirror was…a face. A human face.
Nothing more, nothing less.
The longer she looked, the less strange it seemed.
Neomi had been right—but also wrong. It wasn’t about her birthmark. It was about the fear that lurked behind it. Fear of rejection, humiliation, pain.
They were lessons Imogen learned early, to hide, to be ashamed.
While her family had tried to tell her, to coax her back from her fear, it wasn’t their voices she listened to.
It was easier to give into the doubt and hurt.
There was a sort of comfort, of safety to shutting out the world.
Giving up on others before they could hurt her.
But in creating her own buffer against the world, she’d isolated herself.
She hadn’t allowed anyone in and no one had bothered to push past her defenses.
Not until Balar.
Kurun-inanda. That’s what he’d called her mark. Goddess-blessed.
You don’t need to hide.
Not from him. Not from the life she wanted to live.
Try not to be afraid, she told herself. The fear might not leave all at once, too deep inside her, but that was all right. Seeds took time to grow.
Start with one thing. Just one thing.
She could do that. She could tell him.
Heart in her throat, Imogen replaced the mirror in its drawer—atop the shirts this time—and hastily shoved her socked feet into boots and her arms into the sleeves of her coat. She winced at the blast of cold air when she opened the door, but she made herself hurry outside into the wintry day.
Her feet crunched the frozen ground loudly, although she could hardly hear over her own hammering heart. Could she really do it? Did she dare?
How was it she didn’t fear Balar, yet he of all people was the most terrifying?
She found him around the side of the house, hard at work chopping firewood. Shadow watched on lazily, as did Chestnut and the goats from the pen, all crowded round with their heads poking through the rails to see.
Imogen stopped in her tracks, immediately an eager spectator herself.
Balar’s big body steamed in the cold, his breaths puffing from his mouth.
His coat had been thrown over the top rail of the pen, and he’d shoved his sleeves up to his elbows.
Even with the dusting of snow on the ground, he hadn’t bothered with shoes, he and his brothers preferring to modify wool socks by cutting off the foot portion.
The axe swung over his head, his thick arms bulging as he wielded the blade. Down it came, sinking into the wood and splitting the log in half.
As the halves fell away, Balar looked up. Golden brows arching, he said, “Hello, urisá. Is everything all right? You shouldn’t be out in the cold.”
Imogen shook her head—but quickly realized she couldn’t stop.
Balar’s expression grew worried, and he set the axe down to come stand before her. Grasping her by the shoulders, he studied her expression—as much as he could as she continued shaking her head.
To her horror, not only did the words come—all the words came. One after the other, in a relentless cascade.
“I’m no good at this, I don’t know what to say or how to ask you. I don’t know how to do any of it, I never thought I’d get the chance. I didn’t think—not until you came.”
His look of concern only deepening, Balar asked, “Think what, Imogen?”
“That I could fall in love. That I could love anyone as much as I love you.”
Balar’s ears fell flat against his head, and his eyes grew wide, but Imogen didn’t let him speak.
“I do, I love you, Balar. I know I’m not friendly. I’m not like you at all. But when I’m with you, everything feels…better. I never thought something like this would happen to me. I’ve tried to push you away. But you didn’t give up—you haven’t given up on me.”
“Never, Imogen. I never will,” he murmured, his voice deep and thick.
Pitter-patter went her heart. Hearing him say it gave her a little more courage.