Ravenwood (Violet of Ravenwood Book 2) by J. M. Taylor

Author:J. M. Taylor [Taylor, J. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-12T06:00:00+00:00

V

The village is alive and thriving amidst a busy market day, despite dark clouds looming above. Until now, I have never seen humans up close before. They are strangely similar to witches and warlocks, only they appear dirtier and less appealing. I’m disappointed. The stories of heroism and romance found in their books have always been a fascination for me.

The rain is sudden. It doesn’t trickle down in warning as expected but is pushed from the sky in sweeping droves. The humans are caught off guard and rush to finish their errands and pack up their stands.

Navigating through the slush and mud, they do not notice the witch and warlock riding through the center of their street, none but one small girl who stares at me as I pass by her. I expect her to point and call everyone’s attention to me, but her mother yanks her over a growing puddle and inside a thin, crooked dwelling attached to others just like it. Rows and rows of them, with nothing but the colors of doors to distinguish one from the other.

“This is how they live?” I ask Malin. “How sad.”

“Only those who live in town. There are others who live differently. You will see.”

As we reach the end of the main road, I look back at the nearly abandoned street and feel sorry for them. It is filthy and bleak. “They are wretched creatures and not at all what I expected.”

“You shouldn’t speak of what you do not know,” Malin says. “Many of them do not have much and their lives are fragile, yet there are those who would gladly offer what they have to those in need and lay down their lives for each other. Their bonds are strong, and in some ways, stronger than our own.”

I don’t like being chastised, but he is right. I don’t know them, and I know better than to judge what I do not know or understand.

The road narrows into a path before leading us over a short bridge. The horses’ hooves clop across, pushing through slush to the stone below.

On the other side of the bridge, at the foot of a white hill, a small house sits alone, stone and mud for walls, dark smoke billowing from its chimney.

Malin dismounts and enters as though he has been here a hundred times before.

The shrill cry of a woman from inside the house pierces the pounding rain and follows Malin out the front door. She is pleading with him, but she is unharmed. He is not the one who has caused her pain.

“She did not know why her husband and son had not yet returned,” Malin said, his face stricken with grief.

“Someone approaches,” I warn him and grip the handle of the small knife Malin had given me for protection.

“You won’t need that,” he assures me and rides out to meet two young riders in the field behind the woman’s house.

She stands outside, soaking wet and shivering, staring at me and awaiting whatever comes next.

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