Far From Home #3
Arion’s family lived half the year in Stargazer Creek, in a sprawling cabin by the river, and spent fall and winter here in White Wood.
Arion had grown up in both places, shuttled between privilege and open sky.
He’d never gone without—but he’d also spent his childhood knee-deep in mud, bottle-feeding lambs, hauling hay with the farmhands.
Maybe that was why he carried himself the way he did.
Polished, but grounded. Gentle without softness.
She liked that about him.
“Cook is making that roast chicken I like,” she said, trying to sound lighter than she felt.
"Oh, I love that chicken. I wish she would make it all the time.” He motioned them in the direction of the vast farmhouse. He looked at her with his usual bright smile. "Are you excited about the Autumn Celebration and seeing everyone again?"
Dragonfly replied with a noncommittal shrug.
“I’m really looking forward to the livestock show,” Arion rattled on enthusiastically. “I almost won first place last year with my chicken! I’m determined to win this year. Oh, and my mother doesn’t have a booth either, so I’ll be able to watch all the entertainment instead of being stuck helping.”
As Dragonfly stepped into the shade of the porch, a white and black seadog gazed up at her with his gentle brown eyes.
The dog’s massive leathery nose twitched in Arion’s direction, but sensing that no snacks would be forthcoming, he didn’t bother to get up.
The enormous beast thumped his tail once or twice in lazy greeting, and then went back to napping with a blissful groan.
It was the middle of the day, and lunch was still an hour away. The entire house was as silent as a whisper. No one lingered in the sitting room when Dragonfly and Arion stepped inside.
Constantine’s farmhouse was vast. The sitting room was enormous, its stone floors blanketed by colorful rugs imported from distant lands generations ago. The stained-glass windows shimmered with stories: horses, gods, lovers, and battles immortalized in brilliant glasswork.
The house boasted a huge kitchen, a dining hall large enough for dozens, a library, a music room, and even a room just for laundry. But none of it impressed Dragonfly as much as the bathing room.
The bathing room had a cool stone floor, a fireplace, a wood stove for heating water, and a grand claw-foot tub.
When she’d first come to this house, she had refused to use it.
How wasteful, to fill such a large tub for just one person.
But after a grueling day of wrestling sheep and falling off horses, Arion’s elderly grandmother had finally coaxed her into the steamy water.
Alone in that quiet room, surrounded by candlelight, submerged in hot, flower-scented water, she had been so at peace she’d fallen asleep with her head resting on the side of the tub.
Dragonfly left Arion in the sitting room and quickly trotted down the long hallway. She slipped into her bedroom and shut the door behind her.
The weight of the morning crashed over her in that instant. Her room was warm from the afternoon sun, but she still shivered. She pulled the curtains closed, unbuttoned what remained of her torn blouse, and draped it over the back of a chair.
She gently touched her face and arms. The welts, bruises, and scratches stung beneath her fingertips. Minor injuries, but undeniable proof that it had really happened.
Fatigue sank deep into her bones. It wasn’t just tiredness—it was a collapse of spirit, a wilting from the inside out.
She crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head, trying to shut out the world, but sleep refused to come.
After a long time, she peeked out from beneath the blanket and looked out the window. She longed to see tall, comforting trees, but the flat, empty fields stretched endlessly to the horizon.
She reached under her pillow and pulled out the folded piece of yellowed sketch paper Lekyi had given her. She carefully unfolded it—like opening the lid of a treasure chest. She gazed at the charcoal drawing of the treehouse.
She could almost hear the leaves rustling, almost feel the rough rope ladder under her hands, almost smell the freshly cut timber.
Quickly, before tears could rise, she shoved the drawing back beneath her pillow and hid again under the covers.
She liked riding the horses. She liked working with the sheep and cattle.
She was surprisingly good at shearing the sheep, even though she’d never done it before.
But she had only been in White Wood for a month, and already, she wanted to go home.
She missed walking in her forest. She missed her lake.
She even missed the bossy squirrels that used to scold her from the trees.
She had requested the transfer. She had needed the distance. Working alongside him every day—by the lake, under the trees—it was all too much. She had needed to get away from her feelings. But distance hadn’t helped. It had only made them worse.
Unlike the fleeting crushes she’d once known, this was something deeper. The way Collin looked at her—it terrified her more than being ambushed in the woods.
When she finally forced herself out of bed, she chose a fresh blouse from the dresser and slowly combed the knots and leaves from her hair.
She picked up the book she had been reading—a tale from Crimisa’s ancient lore, one of her favorites. The story told of the gods at war, their battles spilling over into the mortal world. A woman named Genevieve had been caught in the divine storm, swept away from everything she loved.
Dragonfly had just reached the part where, after years of torment, Genevieve finally made her way home—but would her lover still love her? Dragonfly’s heart should have been racing, but she couldn’t hold the thread of the story. She was too restless. Too raw.
With a frustrated huff, she tossed the book aside, grabbed her torn blouse, and quietly made her way back to the sitting room.
Arion was slouched in an overstuffed armchair, feet propped on the adjoining seat, appearing to be in a lazy doze.
Dragonfly quietly slid into a rocking chair across from him.
She rolled up her sleeves and, as softly as she could, dragged a wooden sewing box from beneath the cluttered table.
She searched for a needle and thread and a few extra buttons.
She bent over her lap, but the bright sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows made the fine thread difficult to see.
“What happened to your arm?”
She flinched so hard the sewing box rattled. Her heart jolted into her throat. “I’m sorry”—she clutched the sewing kit tightly—“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Arion poured a cup of tea and handed it to her. “I was only resting my eyes.”
She clung to the warm cup with both hands. The weight and heat helped to steady her. She was safe. She was safe.
“You’re terrible at threading needles,” Arion said with a playful smile, effortlessly plucking the needle from her lap.
“It’s just very bright in here,” she muttered, taking a sip of the tea—and grimaced. “I might be bad at threading needles, but you make the worst tea I’ve ever tasted.”
He laughed, ignoring the jab as he expertly threaded the needle and began sewing the torn blouse. “Andrew stopped by earlier.”
She finished the bitter tea. “What did he want this time?”
“He was looking for you. Didn’t say why. I didn’t ask.”
She sighed heavily. Not Andrew. Not today. If only the day would end already.
Arion’s stitches were neat, close, and perfectly straight. “Where did you learn to sew like this?”
His cheeks flushed. “I can sew better than my mother. She was a seamstress before she married my father. She taught me hems and buttonholes before I could even walk.”
She gestured to the cluttered table. “You may know how to sew, but clearly you’ve never learned to clean. A cluttered house is a cluttered mind.”
“Ah—that must be why my mother says I’m a scatterbrain! Don’t look in my room—it’s a disaster zone.”
He finished mending the blouse and stashed the sewing kit beneath the table.
She turned the blouse over in her hands, quietly impressed.
Most everyone learned the practical skill of sewing as children, but it went no further than replacing a button or fixing a hem.
Arion’s expertise proved that he had a great deal of practice.
“Why do you hide your skill? I’ve never seen you sew before. ”
He poured another cup of tea, not meeting her eyes. “When I went to school here as a boy, some of the older boys used to mock me for helping my mother with mending. After a while, I just stopped showing anyone.”
She folded the blouse carefully in her lap. “Well, I won’t tease you. In fact, I think I might have more things you can mend.”
Arion’s grin brightened. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll do your mending if you go to the Autumn Celebration and help me show my entries.”
“I’ll think about it.” She stood. “Call me when lunch is ready. I don’t want to miss it.”
Dragonfly carried the final bucket of steaming water to the tub and poured it in. She tied her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head and slipped off her old threadbare robe, hanging it neatly on the chair.
The cold stone floor bit at her bare feet. A shiver ran through her as she quickly climbed into the warm water.
Oh, heaven.
She slowly eased herself into the tub until the water lapped at her chin. As she sank deeper, her breasts lifted, buoyed by the gentle waves, as though they, too, were trying to rise above the day.
When she was finally settled, she stared at the shimmering surface.
Beneath the ripples, her body was warped and wavering—a stranger’s shape.
Her gaze drifted across every bruise, every scratch, every flaw her mind refused to forgive.
A bitter compulsion swept over her—a desperate urge to hide even from herself.
Fragrant steam curled around her face, warmed her lungs, soaked into her bones. She lay in the stillness for a long time, breathing deeply, her eyes fixed on the wood-beamed ceiling. The room was so quiet she could hear the smallest splash of water as she shifted.
Slowly, she sat up, letting her body rise from the water’s weight. She picked up the washcloth, soaked it, and gently rubbed the dark bruises beneath her breasts and along her arms.
The soreness stung her skin, but it was the anger that overtook her.
Rage swelled in her chest. She would not live in fear.
She would not shrink away from the woods, from her chores, from this life.
She would stay in White Wood until she was good and ready to leave.
She would never forget her knife again. And she would not run from the man who had attacked her.
He would not get another chance.