Book 3: Chapter 1 – A Place of Memories [Part 2]
Book 3: Chapter 1 - A Place of Memories [Part 2]
Levine’s home stood where the cultivated fields lapped against a patch of managed woods, set a little apart from the nearest neighbors so it could breathe in the afternoon breeze and answer in the quiet creak of its beams. Timber‑framed walls, soot‑kissed and honey‑colored, rose beneath a steep thatch whose ridgeline arced like the back of a resting cat. Along those walls clambered old vines thick as a child’s wrist, their leaves a deep green that seemed almost blue once dusk touched them. All summer the vines bore nothing but shy buds, but now, at the hinge of autumn, the buds had opened into Phalasia flowers—five‑petaled trumpets of glowing violet that spilled cascades of perfume each time wind brushed their throats. Even before Mina reached the gate, she could taste that perfume on her tongue.
She lingered a moment by the low stone fence, letting the fragrance wrap around her. In the slanted light, her basket looked jewel‑bright, a tumble of mushrooms pearled with dew, braided herbs, and flavorful nuts fresh from the forest. The vines lifted and rustled above; petals drifted down and caught in her short blond hair. She laughed under her breath, brushed them loose, and walked the flagstone path to the oak door.
It opened before she could lift her hand. Levine filled the doorway, one arm braced against the jamb as if merely standing there were not enough to contain him. He was dusty with flour, an errant smear like a stroke of white paint across the angled plane of his cheekbone. Tall and broad through the shoulders, he possessed the kind of strength that did not need to boast. The firelight at his back threw a glow around him; in that glow, the deep brown of his hair gleamed almost auburn, and his eyes, usually the mild color of river‑stone, caught sparks of amber. Mina had thought he was handsome. Lately, though, her awareness had sharpened, blossoming into a tender ache whenever he smiled. It struck again now, a sudden flutter beneath her ribs.
“Mina,” he said, voice pitched low so it rumbled through her name, and the flutter worsened. “Thought I heard the gate. Come in—before the steam steals all the warmth.”
She stepped past him, trying—and failing—not to notice the faint cinnamon scent that clung to his shirt or the way his sleeve strained gently over the curved muscle of his forearm. Inside, heat from the kitchen pressed close, carrying aromas of simmering broth, leeks, wild mint, and dough frying in shallow lard. The thatch muffled outside noises so thoroughly that every pop from the hearth sounded intimate, conspiratorial.
“You’ve been cooking again,” she said, lifting a finger toward the flour on his cheek.
He laughed, short and sheepish, and tried to wipe it off, succeeding only in smearing it to his temple. “Evidence of my crimes. If the dumplings burn, we’ll blame the pan and never speak of it.”
“I’m the last person who would scold you,” she answered. “I’m hopeless with anything sharp or hot. I nearly set the smithy on fire last month just by stirring tea.”
“Nonsense,” came a deep voice from the next room. “Stoves fear you now and will think twice.”
Gaellan emerged carrying a steaming pot in a towel‑wrapped fist. Years had carved stern furrows along his brow and threaded silver through his dark hair, but there was an unmistakable gentleness in the way he set the pot down, as though even iron might bruise.
He nodded to Mina, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “You’re back later than I expected. Arnell didn’t put you to work shoeing every horse in the county, did he?”
“Only the one,” she replied, holding out the grasspods. “But Arnell told me to remind you that you still owe him ten silver.”
Gaellan’s eyes narrowed. “Tight bastard, as always.” His eyes flicked to the basket and brightened. “Kali nuts. Perfect. We’ll grind them with juniper for the stew tomorrow.”
Levine reached to relieve her of the basket. His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, feather‑light yet enough to send a spark up her arm. She hid her reaction by fussing with her cloak clasp.
“I can chop the herbs at least,” she offered.
Levine gave a mock gasp. “But you’ll put us all to shame.”
“Out,” Gaellan said, waving them toward the table set before the hearth. “Let the girl sit. Dumplings are nearly done.”
Mina obeyed, easing onto the bench. The dining room glowed with late‑day sun and lamplight, their hues interlacing in stripes across floorboards worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Upon the far wall hung Gaellan’s sword. It was a long, slightly curved blade, darker than steel, as if forged from midnight itself. Tiny runic scratches climbed the fuller like frost. Each time she came near it, a chill threaded her spine, and now was no exception; her eyes skittered away before she realized they had moved.
Levine joined her, the bench dipping under his weight. She felt the warmth of him, close but not quite touching, and the faint rise and fall of his breath. If she looked sideways, she could see how the fire gilded his profile—straight nose, strong jaw, lashes so thick they cast shadows on his cheek. An absurd, irreverent thought darted through her mind: it’s unfair for a single face to hold that many pleasing angles. Heat climbed from her collar to her ears. She ducked her head and concentrated on smoothing her skirt.
Gaellan served dinner. The dumplings floated in rich broth fragrant with woodland herbs; wisps of steam curled upward, catching firelight like ghosts. They ate in companionable quiet at first, save for the occasional clink of wooden spoons against clay bowls. When appetites had taken their sharpest edge off, Gaellan addressed the matters of the day.
“The harvest promises to be grand,” he said, wiping his mouth with a linen square. “Barley’s fat, wheat stands chest‑high, even the cabbages look like green moons. Good thing, too, with Meridian still buying every grain sack south of the River. Their granaries must be as hollow as a drum.”
Levine shook his head. “Meridian pays high coin, but merchants grow bolder each season. If we sell too cheap now, come winter, we’ll regret it.”
“We’ll hold some back,” Gaellan assured him. “And I’m thinking of moving the harvest fair to the twenty‑third. Traders won’t expect it so soon.”
Mina listened, absorbing the rhythms of their planning. She liked how father and son spoke—voices different in texture yet woven with such ease it formed a single fabric. Occasionally, she let her gaze stray to Levine and found fresh details to admire: the way his brow furrowed in thought, the subtle dimple that appeared when he smiled, the strong lines of throat and collarbone revealed where his linen laces were undone against the heat. Each discovery lit a small candle inside her, until she felt aglow herself and had to sip water to calm her pulse.
Talk shifted. Gaellan’s tone darkened a shade. “The beast in the southern woods—reports place it nearer than before. A shepherd lost three ewes at dawn. Only drag marks left, no blood.”
“What kind of beast leaves no gore?” Levine murmured.
“Something that swallows whole,” Gaellan replied. “Serpent, if rumor proves right. Scales thick as shingles, eyes like lantern glass. A traveling minstrel claims to have glimpsed it from the ridge trail—says it moved like a river bending through trees and made no more sound than a whisper.” He paused, turned stern eyes on Mina. “I’ve already posted warnings, but I need your word. No more wandering into the deep forest.”
She set her spoon down. “I promise.” Yet the promise tasted bitter. The woods were her refuge, her one place of unclouded certainty.
“Good,” Gaellan said, though concern lingered. “Adventurers have been summoned from Meridian. The bounty’s high enough to draw every sellsword with a blade and a dream of glory. Until they arrive, caution is our shield.”
Levine reached beneath the table, laid his hand briefly upon Mina’s. The gesture was meant to reassure, but the warmth of his skin distracted her utterly. Her reply caught in her throat. She could only nod, hoping he mistook her flushed cheeks for firelight’s kiss.
Dessert followed—a platter of bite‑sized tarts whose flaky shells cradled apple slices soaked in clover honey. Mina discovered she had room for three. The first melted on her tongue; the second filled her senses so sweetly she forgot all talk of grain prices and serpents. By the third, she was conscious only of the quiet pleasure on Levine’s face as he watched her enjoy them.
Night gathered. Gaellan cleared his throat, pushed to his feet with a muted groan of old joints. “I’ll see to the ledger before sleep,” he said, carrying bowls to the washtub. “You two go on up. Lamps are trimmed.”
Mina rose. Levine did likewise, and for a moment, they faced each other uncertainly. He made a soft, playful salute with his flour‑dusty towel; she laughed, stepping past him toward the stairs. But halfway up she sensed him following and felt a giddy whirl in her stomach.
The stairs curved tightly; the tiny landing at the top forced them close. Levine reached around her to light the hallway candle. His arm brushed her shoulder. She inhaled bread and ash, spice and the faintest hint of male sweat—scent that felt startlingly intimate. He pulled back, apparently oblivious to the chaos he’d just set boiling under her skin.
“Good night, Mina,” he said. The candle’s flame flickered in his eyes.
“Good night, Levine.” Her voice was barely breath.
She slipped into her room, closed the door, and leaned against it. Her heart thudded so hard her ribs seemed to echo. Beyond the window, a nearly full moon hung low, turning the Phalasia blooms silver‑blue. She crossed to the sill and pushed it open. Cool night air rushed in, tinged with petal scent and distant chimney smoke.
Below, the garden lay hushed. Pumpkins, almost ripe, glowed faintly. A few fireflies bobbed above them, lanterns held by invisible hands. Somewhere, a barn owl hooted. Mina drew the curtains, fearing that if she lingered, she might see the sinuous silhouette of a serpent sliding between trees—and worse, that it might look back. She shivered, rubbed her arms, and busied herself readying for sleep.
Her room was small but lovingly appointed: a polished elm chest under the eaves, a braided rug dyed in sunset colors, a narrow bed heaped with quilts that smelled of lavender. She changed into a linen nightshift, braided her hair as best as its cropped length allowed, and slid under the quilts. For a time, she lay still, listening to the house settle. A joist popped. Far below, Gaellan’s chair scraped, then silence claimed the rooms.
Sleep did not come. Thoughts churned, restless as wind in rafters. She pictured Levine at the kitchen table earlier, sleeves rolled, wrist flexing as he pressed dumpling edges closed. Each motion had looked effortless, but strength lay beneath—she had seen it whenever he hefted sacks of seed or bent nails straight with bare fingers. The memory warmed her cheeks anew.
A floorboard creaked beyond her door. Low voices—Levine’s and Gaellan’s—floated up the stairwell in a hush meant for night, not for ears. Curiosity pried her from the bed. Barefoot, she crossed the rug and set one palm to the cool latch. She did not open it, only leaned close, heart thudding.
“…time we told her,” Gaellan murmured, his baritone heavy with months of unspoken worry. “She is no ordinary girl, son. We found her downstream of where that red giant crashed from the sky.”
Levine let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Because she’s an angel, Father. How else do you explain that smile?”
“Mock if you like,” Gaellan replied, tone sharp but not unkind, “yet you saw it just as I did. We hiked the riverbank at dawn and found no wreckage, only the scorch‑marks in the soil—and her, half‑drowned, clinging to a branch further downstream.”
Levine fell quiet. Gaellan continued, gentler now. “And you remember the necklace she wore? Emeralds the size of eyeballs set in pure gold. That piece alone could pay off every debt from here to Meridian. She was raving until the moment I slipped it from her neck. Then, and only then, her screaming stopped. ”
Levine’s voice softened. “I intend to give it back to her, of course, I haven’t forgotten. But look at her now—how she laughs with the villagers, how the children follow her like ducklings. She is happy here.”
“I know she looks happy… but that doesn’t stop her from being a strange one. Haven't you noticed her strength?” Gaellan pressed. “Yesterday at Arnell’s, she lifted a forge plate one‑handed. Arnell gaped like a landed fish. Most men need two arms just to slide it.”
Silence stretched, then Levine exhaled, the sound of dreams cracking. “I just… don’t want the dream to die,” he confessed. “This quiet life—hers, ours—feels fragile. If we name the strange, maybe we shatter it. I’m in love with her, Father…”
“If we keep silent,” Gaellan said, voice low, “reckoning will come and tear it down for us. Secrets rot from the inside. I’ve held my tongue to spare her the added stress while she recovered. Goddess knows the human mind is a fragile thing and can only take so much strain. But the truth will find its way. And, better from your lips than mine…”
Mina’s fingers slipped from the latch. Truth—some part of her yearned for it; another clutched the peaceful hours of berry‑sweet tarts and time spent beside Levine. She retreated, limbs trembling, and slid beneath the quilts as if hiding from moonlight itself.
Sleep found her at last, but it was jagged and uneasy. She drifted through corridors of half‑memory: a blazing streak across the night sky, the roaring river, the emerald necklace burning against her skin. Gaellan’s warning echoed—secrets rot from the inside. Yet woven through the nightmare was Levine’s laugh, bright as morning bells, tugging her toward waking.
The fact that he was in love with her.
When dawn bled pale gold across the ceiling, she surfaced with damp lashes and an ache where hope and fear wrestled. Outside, the Phalasia vines brushed the roof in the first breeze of day, and the scent of their blossoms crept in—sweet, tentative, as if asking whether the dream of quiet village life might survive one more sunrise.