Chapter 14
Fourteen
Rooke
Rooke would not outright admit it to himself, but he was seeking out Corabeth’s company.
He was restless without it, bereft. During the hours she slept, Rooke roamed the halls of his manor or the woods, finding excuses to drift closer to her door or window.
Some nights he convinced himself Corabeth had fled.
A cold panic gripped him that only loosened its hold when he heard her soft breathing or the rustle of her bedsheets through her door.
It was early morning. The light still had a faint blue tint to it when Rooke walked from his bedroom all the way to the end of the left wing.
His mother’s room had been there. Now that winter was upon them, Corabeth would need thicker cloaks, fur muffs.
It was nothing but an excuse, of course, to walk past her room.
Silence when he went. Silence when he returned, a heavy burgundy cloak in his arms.
Rooke halted.
The door was closed, but the space beyond it was as lifeless as the woods outside. It wasn’t right. Had she truly left this time?
In a flash, Rooke could imagine himself tearing through the woods, Corabeth’s scent an almost visible thing, guiding him.
Ripping through branches and briars and earth, destroying everything that stood between him and her.
He was bound to these woods but even that wouldn’t stop him.
He’d find a way to break loose, to go after her and when he inevitably found her…
What then? He wanted to believe he’d fall to his knees before her, beg for her to come back. Promise to give her whatever she desired as long as she stayed with him. As long as he didn’t have to be alone once more.
But there was another part of Rooke that painted his thoughts crimson. Filled them with ripping and tearing. With the familiar feeling of having a prey animal escape from him.
No, she couldn’t leave. She wouldn’t.
Rooke forced his rapid breathing to slow. To keep his thoughts from fracturing.
Then, the faint smell of bath oils in the air.
He followed the scent like a bloodhound.
Down the stairs, past the dining room and kitchen, into what used to be the servants’ quarters.
Here, the rooms were plain, devoid of all personality.
In the lightly painted common rooms where benches lined the walls and a large table dominated the room, Rooke found Corabeth sitting by a window, bent over something on her lap.
Her curved back to him, her hand kept working, a needle glinting between her slender fingers.
The relief coursing through his body was so great, he could only watch for a moment and take in the serenity of the scene.
Some loose locks fell on Corabeth’s slender neck, her black hair taking on a blue tint in the morning light. Her breathing was slow, relaxed. In the moments where she was finding her way with the needle, she sat so still she could have been a statue.
At least a statue, Rooke thought, I could keep.
But for now, she had not fled.
Rooke took a few silent steps backward, drawing back into the shadows of the hallway. Then he made his steps purposefully loud as he approached once more.
Corabeth’s head whipped to him as he entered. “Morning,” she greeted before going back to her needlework.
“You’re up early,” he said in lieu of greeting, his voice steady. As if he hadn’t been in a near panic mere moments ago.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said with a shrug without lifting her eyes from her work.
“What are you doing?” Rooke asked and walked closer to her. The unfamiliar fabric in Corabeth’s lap was off-white, unevenly yellowed by time.
Corabeth lifted her head, her gaze distant as she looked out the window. As though the answer was somewhere out there among the barren trees and falling snow.
“I don’t know,” she answered, her voice small. “I used to sew things for people. And I found this shirt, it was torn. I felt like fixing something.”
Her eyes refocused as she returned to herself, looking at Rooke. “It’s silly, I suppose.” Then she noticed the bundle Rooke carried. “What’s that?” she asked.
“A cloak. It’s thicker. For when the weather gets colder,” he said, and placed it on the end of the bench Corabeth was sitting on. The offering carried with it an assumption. It assumed a future in which Corabeth was still there when the temperatures dropped in the dead of winter.
She said nothing of it as she admired the richly colored fabric, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes warm with gratitude. But she did not put the sewing down.
The needle pierced the fabric. Pulled the thread through. Closed the hole a little more.
For a few silent moments, there was only the rhythm of her work.
“You know,” Corabeth said all of a sudden, “I think my mother would have liked you.”
Rooke stood, nailed to his spot, feeling as though his entire body had been doused in ice-cold water.
Corabeth had only mentioned her mother once. When they were still unsure whether they would become predator and prey. And even then, she had mentioned her death, not who she had been in life. The memories of someone’s life were always more precious, more carefully shared.
“What was she like?” Rooke asked.
“She was stubborn,” Corabeth said, her smile filled with warmth. “Whatever they threw at her, she didn’t let it break her.”
The needle pierced the fabric. Pulled the thread through. Closed the hole a little more.
“They?” Rooke asked, “You mean the village?”
Corabeth nodded. “And she was fiercely protective of me. When she was around, no one dared to mock me. It was partly why she was in trouble so much. The night she died…” Here, Corabeth’s voice faltered.
Rooke hung on her every word, feeling as though he was watching the petals of a flower unfurl, revealing its tender insides. He suspected not many had been witness to this. He wanted, needed her to continue.
Corabeth swallowed hard several times before she continued.
“She’d given me some coins to buy myself sweets.
It had been so long since we could afford such a thing.
We couldn’t afford it even then but… Anyway, some village boys took the coins from me.
When she heard, she marched over, punched one of them straight on the nose and took my coins back.
Of course, this got back to the Village Elder and the Marshal, the boy accused my mother of stealing and that’s why she was put in the pillory. Where she was forgotten.”
The needle pierced. Pulled the thread. Closed the hole.
Rooke tried to remember if his own family had ever loved him that much, if he had loved them back with as much fierceness. His father was certainly out of the question. Perhaps his own mother. If he could only remember…
Corabeth cleared her throat which was thick with emotion. “She liked people who were honest and resilient. Like her.”
The sewing stopped.
“Sometimes,” Corabeth said, but hesitated.
She drew in a breath, lips slightly moving but not daring to make a sound.
When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I think she would be ashamed of me.” When she looked up at Rooke, her eyes were round and bright, as though the confession had surprised herself.
Rooke blinked as he let her words sink in. “Why would you think that?” he asked.
Corabeth lowered her gaze to the shirt, inspecting the stitches she had already done. “I could not bear their mocking as well as she did. I did not fight back.”
“Not everyone needs to have teeth and claws, Corabeth,” Rooke said, finding a seat by the large table that occupied the center of the room. He wanted to be closer to her without being too overbearing.
Corabeth shot him a bitter smile. “No, some of us just take the hits and turn the other cheek if one side is beaten badly enough.”
But Rooke shook his head. “There’s a vine called Boquila. It can change its leaves to match whatever tree it’s climbing, sometimes multiple trees at once. It doesn’t fight. It becomes whatever it needs to be.”
Corabeth looked at him, her brows furrowing for a moment. “Why?” she asked.
“It hides in plain sight. It does it to survive.”
She was quiet as she mulled it over in her mind, struggling to see things from this new angle. Perhaps she was considering which shape to take. Rooke suspected he would find them all equally lovely. The only thing he wished for was that she didn’t shape herself after him.
“Do you have books about this?” Corabeth asked after a while.
A barely perceivable smile tugged at Rooke’s lips. This, he could do. He could offer Corabeth a new perspective. Make her see that not everyone needed to fight. That it was okay to let others do the fighting.
“Yes, come,” he said, standing up. “Leave that. Let’s be honest, no one’s wearing that shirt.”
Corabeth huffed a laugh as she tossed the shirt aside and followed Rooke.