These Gentle Wolves by Clare Sager

Author:Clare Sager [Sager, Clare]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Romance
Amazon: B0BTX9NH5R
Goodreads: 122823555
Published: 2023-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

Under Glass

Despite my mind buzzing with thoughts of Ari and Lysander and their happiness, I still fell into a deep, dark sleep the instant my cheek touched the pillow.

Either House had no control over its dreams and they spilled over into my mind or it really was a cruel tormentor, because when I opened my eyes in a corridor, I was alone. No Faolán. No partygoers. No anyone.

The house was dark and quiet, the only light a wall sconce by the glazed door leading out into the conservatory. On the wall behind me, where there should’ve been another door, there was nothing, just vine-decorated wallpaper.

“Faolán?” I ran my hands over the wall, but there was no sign of an exit. I called his name again, louder.

Was that…? Just quietly, distantly, perhaps behind many more walls, I thought I caught his voice calling me.

Or was that wishful thinking?

I paused, listened but heard nothing more.

Fine. If there was only one way out of this room, I’d take it and loop around to find him.

Out in the conservatory, it was a little lighter, with a full moon shining through the glass roof, casting grey shadows beneath the bent trees. The moonlight flecked the hanging moss with silver and lined the branches; it barely reached the floor.

Ahead, a faint sound, a song drifted between the tree trunks. Haunting and soft, it made tears prick my eyes. Sorrowful. Mourning. Even though I couldn’t pick out the words, I knew it was a lament.

I hadn’t realised my feet had carried me closer until the song grew louder, and I caught the cracking of the singer’s voice, the soft sobs between the verses, and the splash of water that was her only accompaniment.

There had to be some way I could help or comfort her, at least.

I picked my way along the path that wound between the trees, sometimes stumbling over their twisted roots. In places the path squelched, and in others it rose onto a timber boardwalk, crossing boggy ground. I kept one eye out for a door that would take me out into the night, but I couldn’t even see the conservatory’s glazed walls, never mind an exit.

Eventually, the way ahead brightened as it opened into a clearing. Silvery light glinted off water where a stream cut through the indoor garden, snaking between large stones worn smooth over ages.

And there, on one, sat a woman. Like everything, her hair seemed grey in the moonlight, but I swore it held a hint of warmth, like it was really a chestnut brown or red. It sheeted around her, hiding her downturned face, spilling into the water like it was just another tributary leading into the stream.

Bent over, she worked as she sang, dipping into the water, scrubbing against a rock, dipping and scrubbing, dipping and scrubbing. At her side sat a basket piled high with clothing. A washerwoman.

I wasn’t quiet in my approach, but she didn’t look up; she only focused on her work and her song. Scrubbing and singing, scrubbing and singing.

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