Chapter 19
While Dorian was recovering from his first run-in with the neighbour's Chihuahua and considering ways of murdering the little rat-dog that had left tooth marks in his trousers and his patience in tatters, an oblivious Rune walked through the front door with sagging shoulders.
With a small sigh, she dropped her bag by the door.
The midwife had called half an hour ago, her scan was postponed yet again, pushed to next week.
She'd hidden her disappointment under a thin smile, but the truth was, it gnawed at her.
Ten weeks and still no real proof beyond the faint curve of her belly and the nausea that was rearing its ugly head from time to time at the strangest things. The baby still didn't feel real.
Her mother, as always, had the solution – food.
There was already a plate waiting on the kitchen table, thick pumpkin soup, buttered bread, and her mum's famous Victorian sponge cooling on the counter.
Rune had barely sat down before her mother was bustling around again, fussing about vitamins and folic acid, ignoring Rune's insistence that she wasn't that hungry.
"You're eating for two now," her mother said firmly, sliding over another plate. "And besides, you're too pale."
Rune managed a laugh. "You said the same when I was seventeen."
Her mother waved the words away. "That's different. You were on a weird diet back then, love. You've got a reason now."
After dinner, her mother leaned across the table, tone brisk, not making eye contact as she ladled more soup into her bowl.
"I was thinking, we should go up to your grandparents' farm for a few days.
They'd love to see you. The conveyancing firm is shut down for an audit anyway, and they're painting the offices.
Too many fumes for you, not safe when you're pregnant. "
Rune blinked. The whole speech sounded like she was reading from a script, as if it had been decided long before she'd walked through the door. A prickle of unease stirred low in her chest.
"Mum, I'll be fine-"
"You'll be better at the farm," her mother cut in quickly. "Fresh air, good food. And your grandpa could use the company."
Her grandpa never talked, probably because her nana never gave him a chance.
He usually took his hearing aid off when his Nana started up.
Rune frowned. It was all reasonable, logical even, but it didn't stop her feeling like she was being nudged in a certain direction.
As though her mom was manoeuvring her in some way.
She rubbed at her temple. "I'm too tired to drive tonight.
" But before she'd even finished the sentence, her father sprang up from his chair, newspaper falling forgotten to the floor.
"I'll take you," he volunteered. He stepped outside first, moving faster than she'd seen him in years, and glanced sharply up and down the street before hurrying her toward the ancient car.
Rune, still tired from the day, let herself be steered, but the weird feeling of missing something only deepened. Something strange was afoot.
It began raining halfway through the drive, fat drops streaking the windscreen, the wipers struggling to keep pace. By the time they reached the farm, the air was cool and sharp with the scent of wet earth.
Her nana met her at the door, brisk but beaming. "Your old room's ready, love. Fresh sheets, just for you."
Upstairs, one of the newer dogs, a golden lab called Jenny, trailed after her, tail swishing happily as she padded up the stairs.
Rune pushed open the door and was met with the warm familiarity of her childhood.
The single bed was tucked into the corner, layered with a handmade quilt that smelled faintly of lavender.
A woven lampshade cast soft light over the walls, and shelves were dotted with old trinkets and stuffed animals that her Nana had refused to throw away.
But it was the window that drew her. Gramps had put in a larger one, and it seemed to open the room up to the hills beyond.
She could see sheep scattered across the green slopes, their wool glowing pale in the starlight, and the faint glimmer of raindrops clinging to the paddock fence.
Jenny gave a soft woof before curling herself up on the rug, head resting on her paws while she'd claimed guard duty.
Rune sank down onto the bed and ran her fingers over the quilt's stitches.
An aching sigh escaped her chest, that familiar pain that never really went away.
She wished, fiercely and painfully, that things with Dorian had been different.
That she hadn't poured so much of herself into a love story that had only ever lived in her imagination.
She had her family, her home, her future pressing small and insistent inside her body. She had everyone.
Everyone but him. That truth was a sharp blade through her heart. To Dorian, she had been nothing more than a convenience and the thought killed her even now.
She lay down and pulled the quilt over herself, staring at the ceiling in the half-light.
Jenny shifted closer, resting her chin on the edge of the bed as if she sensed the heaviness in her.
Rune spent the night upset and restless, the rain tapping softly against the glass, the ache of loneliness refusing to let her sleep.
In the morning, her pillow was wet with the tears of knowing that some things were never meant to be.
The rain passed overnight, leaving the hills washed clean, the air sharp with cold.
Rune woke to the sound of her grandfather's boots on the yard stones, the steady rhythm of a life that never paused.
Her nana was already bustling in the kitchen, apron tied, sleeves rolled.
"Up you get, love. You'll be no use lying about.
Pregnancy is not a disease." She slid a mug of tea toward Rune, her tone brisk but not unkind.
"I worked 'til the day each of my six were born.
All home, all healthy. You keep the body strong, the mind distracted, and the baby will come easier. "
So, Rune followed her out, pulling on a borrowed pair of wellies.
There was always something to do. She helped with the feeding, tipping buckets of meal into troughs while the sheep jostled and bleated.
Jenny, the lab, shadowed her at every step, nose twitching, tail wagging as though this were all a grand adventure.
Then came mucking out, fork in hand, with straw and dung cleared from the pens, the air thick with the acrid tang of ammonia.
Rune's arms ached, but she pushed through, telling herself her nana's words were right, strength now would matter later.
At least her mind was blank as she worked.
Fresh bedding followed, clean straw spread thick and golden underfoot until the barn looked like it could cradle the animals through the longest winter night.
She worked slowly but steadily, pausing only to rub her lower back, while her nana carried on as though age had never touched her.
Between tasks, they watched the sheep, scanning for signs of illness or lameness, an ear drooped here, a limp there.
Rune was surprised at how quickly her eyes adjusted, how the rhythm of watching and noticing became second nature.
It was like riding a bike, you never forget.
And then there was the lambing, the quiet anticipation that hung over everything.
Late winter was always busy, and Rune could feel it in the way every task seemed angled toward preparation.
Pens readied, towels folded, disinfectant lined up.
At night she returned to her room exhausted, hands raw, clothes faintly scented with straw and the smell of the horse.
Her grandparents did not let her do certain tasks as she was pregnant.
She would fall into bed, Jenny now curling up on the bed at her feet, and for a little while, her mind would be too tired to ache for what she had lost. And the work meant Rune slept deeply.
On the fifth morning, after milking Butter, her favourite cow, Rune stepped out into the yard.
The mist clung low over the fields, softening the hills into pale shadows.
A flash of colour drew her eye, a lone butterfly, impossibly delicate for the season, drifting on iridescent wings.
She followed its path with a faint, wistful smile, so intent on the fragile creature that she almost didn't notice the movement in the fog ahead.
When the figure resolved, tall and unmistakably familiar, her breath caught. The butterfly vanished into the mist, and Rune startled hard, heart slamming against her ribs.
She hadn't imagined it. Dorian was walking toward her.