Chapter Text
Imogen Temult hurried to and fro at her ranch home on the outskirts of Gelvaan. She could scarcely believe she’d offered to go with a perfectly strange stranger on a journey into the unknown.
Yet here she was, packing a bag, hand continually tugging on or tracing the yellow kerchief around her neck. A gift from that stranger. An investment in them. She really did like the sound of that.
She liked the sound of this stranger in her head even more. She had described it like chimes on the wind, and even now, the reverberations in her mind strengthened her resolve. There was something familiar in that music, something that touched at a primordial memory even Imogen couldn’t conjure up. Something that sang. Whatever else Laudna might become, she was the calm in a never-ending storm in Imogen’s mind, and that was enough for Imogen right now. Someone who didn’t know all the dark history chasing her. Someone with whom a fresh start was inherent.
Imogen left her home, sparing it a glance and wishing she’d had time to find her father before heading out. Probably at the bar in town carefully avoiding everyone and everything; she didn’t want to risk losing the memory of that music in her head by getting around others. She went by their barn and fed Flora. The horse greeted her with something akin to betrayal in her big eyes, as if understanding she was leaving.
Perhaps that was just Imogen projecting.
She rubbed at the side of Flora’s head, ran her fingers down Flora’s shoulder and flank. She hugged the horse around the neck, breathed deep of that particular melange, that heady combination of leather, sweat, dirt, grass, and sunshine. That last part was probably in her head.
Flora shook her head left and right, shaking Imogen off. The lavender-haired woman chuckled. “You be good for pops, okay? If I get back and hear you been ornery, I’ll stop giving you apples and carrots.”
An idle threat, and one which Flora knew wouldn’t hold. The horse nickered and blew her breath out so her lips flapped. As good a goodbye as Imogen was likely to get.
“Fare you well, Flora.” Imogen wiped a tear and left before she could second guess her intentions and newfound boldness.
She had just one more stop to make. One more task before she could leave town. She needed an advance on her pay for the week , and she didn’t want to argue with Master Faramore over it. So she did what she normally did in the mornings: used her key to let herself into the back of Faramore’s Sundries under cover of darkness. She closed the door and waited to make sure no one saw her go in, since to anyone but Faramore, she would be intruding.
The shop had a magic spell cast on it from a device embedded in the counter, an expensive but useful Alarm device. Since she entered the shop most mornings, Master Faramore always included her in its exceptions, who could come and go without setting it off.
It was dark inside. Imogen created a Dancing Light after drawing the shades up front. She wrote her letter to Master Faramore, letting him know she was taking the pay owed her.
She collected her pay from the floor safe, and sighed. It was wistful, sad, to leave the farm. To leave her father and Flora. It was a relief to be leaving the snake’s service. Sure, he’d be mad to lose his secret finder, but she was sure she’d be able to keep her father out of debt from the road. Faramore’s other secrets were also hers, and either would be crazy to risk that.
Then another thought occurred to her. A bold and insane idea. What if she could do this? What if she got past her anxiety?
What if she just… took it?
So she did. Imogen Temult stole away in the night, to meet up with a corpse and go on a grand adventure. She wondered how long it would take Master Faramore to realize it was gone. To understand the implication.
She was so tired of being blackmailed by Faramore; she wondered how he’d like the taste.
*****
Gwenan Kerry was always running late, which one would think was an advantage for a symposium given at midnight. And yet she hurried on, clutching papers describing magical incantations and astrological notations, long black hair streaming out behind her. The fashion these days was elaborate braids or plaits, but Gwenan had grown up on a farm on the outskirts, where keeping your hair out of your face was a matter of convenience and braids were standard. Here among polite society, it wasn’t necessary, and she wasn’t going to do it even if it meant not fitting in. No braid was a thing of immense pleasure.
Otherwise, Gwenan worked hard to fit in at the Whitestone Institute for Magical Solutions. She changed her makeup, her posture, her very way of speaking. But she wouldn’t change her hair, and that made her an outcast. Her contemporaries at the Institute were nobles and high-fallutin’ merchant caste, and she was some shadowblood dug out of the sticks. Her powers were chaotic, and dark, and hard to control when she got upset, embarrassed, or angry.
Being the social outcast meant she was always one of those.
She ran into the courtyard of the Institute, breathing heavy and harried. This was an important symposium, given by the Lady Briarwood herself, and Gwenan being late was going to reflect poorly on her. It was cold here; it was always cold here, Gwenan thought, which was strange since all the tales told of Whitestone spoke of everlasting warmth and sunshine. There was a bonfire in the center of the courtyard, and behind it, arms to the sky, was the Lady Delilah Briarwood, waxing poetic about the cycles of the moons, only one of which was visible behind her at this moment. Ruidus, the dark red moon, smaller and more distant. Catha shone brightly behind Gwenan, casting an elongated shadow that dissolved as she neared the bonfire. She sat hastily when Lady Briarwood’s eyes fell on her. Away from the other students, who whispered and giggled about her appearance, her lateness. How Gwenan would never fit in. Would never last, never make it to graduation.
“As you can see,” Lady Briarwood was saying, “Ruidus is unusually bright tonight.” Her lips turned up in a grin, which gave her a ghoulish cast, so that it appeared her teeth were sharp and elongated.
Gwenan shuddered while Delilah Briarwood continued. “By Ruidus’ standards, of course. There is an element of unpredictability to the dark moon that even the astronomers of the Age of Arcanum were unable to divine. What we do know, of course, is that before long, Catha will cross over Ruidus, while both are momentarily hidden behind our planet from the star at the heart of our celestial existence. A convergence of celestial bodies, like an arrow of darkness blocking the sun’s light. Yes, a rare double eclipse, difficult to calculate the exact date and time, will happen a few months’ hence.”
Gwenan struggled to understand the significance, while the instructors in attendance nodded sagely and the other students recorded her every word in notebooks by firelight. Gwenan raised her hand above her head, blocking out Catha’s light and squinting. What would a double eclipse truly look like?
She never could stop herself from wondering things she couldn’t quite answer.
“Put your hand down this instant, Kerry,” the head of the institute hissed at her. Gwenan’s hand shot back to her side, and she fought the red rising to her pale cheeks. “We are here to learn, not to gaze at the sky like moonstruck fools.”
But Lady Briarwood held her own hand up, silencing the woman. “It’s quite all right, Headmistress Powell. As the foremost ladies’ academy, curiosity should be celebrated here.”
“Apologies, Lady Briarwood,” Headmistress Powell said, smoothing the skirts of her robe. “This one’s more whimsical than curious.”
Gwenan blushed when her peers giggled, and let her hair cover her face as she looked down.
But Lady Briarwood said, “Whimsy is simply undirected energy. It is not your student’s failure to be engaged, Headmistress Powell, but your failure to engage her.” Headmistress Powell sucked in a gasp and retort. After all, one did not talk back to the Lady Briarwood. Everyone knew this.
Delilah Briarwood said, “Stand up, girl.”
Gwenan glanced up, eyes wide in terror at being so called out. “What use could Your Ladyship have fer me?” Her coarse gutterspeak slipped out, and she berated herself.
“I’ll not ask again, child.”
Gwenan felt herself lifted from the ground. It was her legs and arms, but it was curiously not her will. The Lady Briarwood was rumored to be able to control others with a whim, and Gwenan felt it now, if she wasn’t mistaken. She very much did not like this loss of control. But she was standing, rooted to the spot while the bonfire flames licked between them, flickering shadows.
“Good.” The Lady Briarwood held out a hand, a gesture for Gwenan to come around the bonfire and join her. She did, feeling as though she was only partially controlling her movements. Now in front of the imposing, darkly beautiful Lady Briarwood, she did her best not to avert her gaze or insult the woman. Everyone knew the Briarwoods could be cruel on a whim.
“Now tell me, darling,” Delilah said, “what was in your mind when you held your hand up to the light of Catha?”
“I were–was trying to imagine what a night sky would look like without neither–either moon glowing.”
“You haven’t the speech of your contemporaries, do you? Where did you find this delightful strumpet?” Delilah asked of Headmistress Powell.
“That’s Gwenan Kerry, My Lady. Her magical nature is unknown, but strong. Connected to shadow.”
“Not a merchant, even?” Delilah stalked around Gwenan, like a leopard watching its prey. “Just some lowborn with shadow magic.”
“I’m doing my best, My Lady,” Gwenan said, reclaiming the hard-won proper speech of Whitestone.
“And yet you couldn’t even find your way here on time.” Delilah clucked her tongue, leaned in close, breathing in Gwenan’s scent. Gwenan fought the urge to lurch away from her unsettling presence. “You’re an interesting girl. Given to whimsy, Headmistress?”
“She’s a curious sort, as you suggest.” Gwenan hated being under the gaze of Delilah Briarwood, but she very much enjoyed how uncomfortable Headmistress Powell was under that same gaze. Backpedaling her critique to the point that it sounded almost a compliment.
Delilah grinned, a grin that set chills dancing on Gwenan’s spine. “Curiosity kills the cat, they say.”
And just like that, Gwenan signed her own death warrant. That was a phrase baked into her being, and she responded the way they did on the streets. The way they did in the outskirts and bars.
“Aye, but the cat what lives kills the curious.”
Her eyes went wide in terror. She’d backtalked the Lady Briarwood. She’d be sausage by morning. Fed to the pigs. What a truly moronic girl Gwenan was!
But Lady Briarwood laughed. Her entire demeanor changed, from predatory to precious. Her hands clapped together, and she pulled Gwenan close. “What a delightful fool you are! Mistress Powell, I expect you to keep the young Mistress Kerry to hand when I visit next. I suspect she’ll have many entertainments. For now, I should like a proper tour of the grounds, and I think this little shadowgnat will prove most enlightening. We will continue our discussion of the moons when I return.”
“My Lady?” Mistress Powell asked. “The grounds are large and hard to illuminate at night. Perhaps you would like to schedule your tour for the morning?”
“You will wait here until Apprentice Kerry and I return. Lead a lecture, if you so please.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Mistress Powell said, swallowing heavily. Gwenan couldn’t believe what was happening. What could the Lady Briarwood want with a girl who had just insulted her by talking back? Would she show Gwenan the cruelty of the Briarwoods? Would her throat be slit by candlelight and left to pool on the cobblestones as a warning against insolence?
Or was this, she dared to believe, the start of her proper tutelage? Could this be the guide she’d sought, to lead her in discovering her shadow powers? Could the rumors be only that? Was the Lady Briarwood severe, but kind?
She hoped desperately that was the case. She needed a break, and being granted the favor of the Briarwoods? That would be one hell of a break.
*****
Tolver’s Stand was in the past, a distant memory on their backtrail. Imogen and Laudna had traveled on the very next day, because they didn’t want to test the limits of whatever memory spell Delilah Briarwood had cast on the cleric of Pelor. Delilah was, unsurprisingly, tight-minded on the subject when Laudna inquired.
Days passed where they stayed in thickets and outcroppings of stone only charitably called caves. Imogen seemed, to Laudna, to prefer isolation over the creature comforts of a soft bed. Occasionally they stayed in small inns, haylofts in isolated barns, and rarely ventured into the bigger cities on their path to somewhere with a library, or a school of magic.
During these weeks, they shared. Tales of adventure, of mystery. Imogen told stories about her time before the nightmares, headaches, and mind powers. When the world was hard but fair. Before every night was a roll of the dice and every day another buzzing migraine waiting to happen. Flora and her father featured heavily in these stories. Imogen didn’t talk about her mother much. She had few friends and didn’t like to talk about working for Master Faramore.
Laudna didn’t tell many stories from before she was dead. She didn’t like most of her stories from before then. She was a different person then. A farmgirl with rough edges, a streetrat with a tongue to match. And her time at the Institute was… not happy to think about. Years in the wilderness with only the voice in her head to keep her company had softened her in some ways. Cracked her in others.
Mostly, the women enjoyed each other. Imogen didn’t like to sleep, whereas Laudna welcomed the oblivion of unconsciousness. Slowly, over days, they found comfort in each other’s ticks and personality quirks. Laudna would lay awake, Imogen’s cheek to her chest, waiting for Imogen to finally sleep before Laudna would allow herself to drop off. Imogen would wake before Laudna, sometimes violently. Sometimes scared. The mornings were tense.
Sometimes they were lovely. When Imogen woke without tearing herself from nightmares, she would find that this night, she had slept in the cool embrace of her lover the night through. Sure, she was sometimes sore in the morning from sleeping in an unnatural position, but waking up to the earthy, sweet scent of Laudna was worth it. She’d nestle in deeper, and Laudna’s arms would hug her closer, and she’d wait. These were the perfect moments. The moments that kept both of them going, now they had discovered them.
Imogen shied from touch, but she always craved Laudna’s. When Laudna would wake, smile, and stretch her long arms, Imogen would crane her neck from Laudna’s breast, and lick her lips for the morning kiss that would carry her through the whole day. Laudna was only too happy to oblige, and they’d giggle and tickle their way through the morning.
They made very good hermits together when the nights were good.
Imogen gave Laudna attention, and companionship. Sanity to cling to when the desire to gesture emphatically for no reason took her. Laudna only wished that Imogen liked Pâté, or would leave thoughts of Delilah Briarwood alone. Del had been a kicked dog these past weeks, only occasionally coming forth in Laudna’s mind to speak, or ask questions. She had been a terrifying force in Whitestone. She had been an aggravating but powerless presence ever since.
Delilah had tasted her own power and freedom ever so briefly, though, and Laudna was sure she would seize it again if the opportunity arose. Perhaps not in Imogen. Delilah was a kicked dog, but kicked dogs would eventually bite.
This particular morning, Imogen and Laudna listened to the sounds of the city waking around them. They had paid extra for a private room, and even a little more beyond that for Laudna’s appearance. They had the coin to spare ever since they sold the wizard’s spellbook and his spell scrolls. One of many benefits of a big city was being able to sell unusual items, if Imogen could hold it together long enough to make use of it.
“G’mornin’, Laudna,” Imogen said, lifting her chin to Laudna’s cheek, breath hot on Laudna’s lips.
“Good morning, dearest,” Laudna said. “Your breath leaves something to be desired this morning.”
“Oh, gosh, it musta been that awful stew they served us last night.” Imogen pulled away, but Laudna held her close. Imogen’s eyes widened in embarrassment and surprise, but she let herself be held.
“I desire your breath inside me, is what I meant.”
Imogen’s lips quirked up in that tiny smile she reserved only for Laudna. “Oh. You have a funny way of sayin’ it.”
“And yet you’re still making wordsounds when you could be making other sounds, darling.”
“Much obliged, darlin’.” Imogen twisted and put herself on top of Laudna, straddling her under the covers. There was very pleasant heat wrapping itself around Laudna’s midsection, and she growled needfully while Imogen moved against her, kissed her deeply, breathed her in and breathed into her. Laudna’s blood might flow slower than molasses, and her breath might be shallow as the grave they dug for that wizard, but she always felt most alive when Imogen’s fingers traced down her chest, undid the lace on her smallclothes and breathed life into every part of her.
Laudna’s bones might creak, and her skin might flake, but in at least one way that truly mattered, her body was alive with passion, pleasure, and the pressure of this wonderful woman atop her.
Imogen, always sensitive in her hands and feet–anywhere the skin had that shade of purple–curled her fingers into Laudna’s hands, pressing her hands down on the bedding beside her head. Laudna would not have guessed that Imogen liked being in control, but perhaps as a side effect of maintaining her overwhelming sensations, she always directed the action. Laudna was happy to let it happen, to be guided and receive every bit of Imogen’s attention.
That Imogen didn’t find her body offputting, or her demeanor terrifying, was warmth enough for Laudna. She giggled as Imogen explored, and Imogen came up for breath, hovering over Laudna’s navel. “Somethin’ funny?”
“I was just thinking that you may not find me scary, but I’d wager I can still make you scream.”
Imogen snorted at that very bad joke, hot breath washing over Laudna’s stomach, which made her shiver with anticipation. They loved each other. They barely knew each other, but they did. At least, Laudna loved this beautiful, broken, lavender lady, and she thought Imogen might feel the same. She couldn’t share Imogen’s mind the way that Imogen could with Laudna, but it was enough.
Later, as they cleaned up and dressed for the day, Imogen hummed Laudna’s music while Laudna ran the brush through Imogen’s hair, tied it back for her, and settled the waves and curls around her shoulder. Imogen started doing the same for Laudna, while Laudna ignored Delilah’s anger in her mind.
“I wish I could hide myself when you do that.”
Laudna didn’t answer. Delilah persisted. “I find it very insulting that I have to hear and see it all, but gain none of the enjoyment. You could let me come forward just a little, couldn’t you? I have cravings, too.”
Still Laudna wouldn’t respond. “Oh, you’re pathetic, Gwenan. I should have shared all your secrets when I had the chance. That infernal girl’s mind was so hostile, though. There wasn’t time for anything but pain and panic.”
This Laudna responded to. Delilah couldn’t do anything. Or rather, she historically couldn’t do anything. Now that she had fled Laudna’s body ever so briefly, and had a taste of freedom and power? Who knew what Delilah might be capable of now.
“Remember how I said I would kill myself before I gave you to her?” Laudna thought. It was a shame that she had failed in that regard, but Imogen was alive again and that was all that mattered.
Delilah thought back at her, “Yes, yes, you were very clear.”
“I will end myself if I have to, to keep you from touching the world again. You may be giving me strength, but you’re also making me hardly better than a zombie. The only power you have is aggravation. And I’m already crazy, so good luck, Del, in driving me further insane.”
Delilah grunted in Laudna’s mind. “You will slip up one day, and I will be there, to offer my strength.”
She said nothing more, and Laudna sighed.
Imogen said, “I ain’t tryin’ to eavesdrop, but I keep catching snippets of you thinkin’ at Delilah. Everythin’ all right?”
“If words were daggers, I’d have a back full.”
“Sorry you’re dealin’ with her. I had her in my head for a few minutes, or I suppose I was in hers? So I guess I kinda know what you’re goin’ through.”
“There’s no one better to share my plight, Imogen.”
Imogen smiled at that, then got a faroff look in her eyes. “Laudna, can I ask you a question that I very much hope you answer honestly?”
“You can ask me anything, dearest.”
Imogen sighed. “Did you… did you agree to let me come with you because Delilah wanted my… body? My powers?”
Laudna was afraid of this question. Not because her answer was damning, but because she thought answering it might sever this fairy tale romance when it had only just begun. “I had an argument with her the very moment you left my sight to pack.”
“So you knew she wanted me from the jump.”
“Yes.”
This was it. Imogen feeling betrayed, that she joined Laudna under false pretenses.
Imogen would leave, go home and continue to slave away under Master Faramore, who exploited her pain for profit. And she would be right to, a part of Laudna thinks.
“I wouldn’t be right,” Imogen said, putting a hand on Laudna’s bony shoulder and squeezing for assurance, such that Laudna’s bones creaked. “I wish you’d been up front about what was inside your head, but let’s be honest here, I wouldn’t have believed you without feelin’ her for myself.”
“So…” Laudna said, “Del did us a favor?”
“If you want to think of it like that. Make the best of a bad situation, like.”
“You know,” Laudna said, “we never really talked about you dying.”
“We didn’t.”
“Just sort of…” She gestured at the air, wiggling fingers around a vague orblike shape. “Talked around it.”
“I was undead for a bit, but before that, I was dead dead.”
Laudna nodded. “Do you remember what happened between the two moments?”
Imogen shrugged. “Do you?”
“I suppose I don’t. I remember the energy blast that killed me, and I remember thinking about how angry I was that it was happening.”
“Angry? Not scared?”
Her controlled accent broke a little bit to think of that time. “Those last few months in Whitestone were a real bitch, pardon my Menagerien.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna.”
Laudna shook her head, though. “No, it’s fine. I woke up and everyone around me was dead. My parents included. I was somewhere… between. But what happened while I was dead? Nothing.”
“Same for me,” Imogen said, but she wouldn’t meet Laudna’s gaze.
“Imogen, dear, we’ve only been together a few weeks, but I can tell when you’re evading. You saw something, didn’t you?”
Imogen’s fingers tensed and curled around the hairbrush, squeezing it tightly. Nervous anxiety gripped the woman. She nodded.
“Was it the red storm from your dreams?”
“It was… somethin’ else. The red storm feels dangerous, like a warnin’ on the wind. This felt like what would happen if I ignored it.”
“What happened?”
“Destruction. Fire rainin’ from the sky. Thousands of souls screamin’ for mercy and silenced all at once. It was real bad, Laudna.”
“I gather that everything that happens in your head is very bad.”
“I wish it weren’t.” Imogen sat on the bed, the covers still rumpled and disheveled, and pulled her knees to her chest. “It ain’t fair.”
“No, it’s not. But on the bright side, you have me.” Laudna grinned wide and interlocked her fingers under her chin, attempting to be as cute as she was capable.
Imogen smiled but didn’t laugh. There were tears in her eyes, but this was a woman who wouldn’t shed those tears if she didn’t need to. Imogen Temult may be a tortured soul, but she was a force to be reckoned with, too. Delilah Briarwood found that out firsthand.
That thought made Imogen chuckle. “What did Delilah look like? Was she tall, dark, and gorgeous like you?”
Laudna grinned at the compliment. “She was all of those things, yes. And she was intoxicating.”
“She got you drunk?”
“In a manner of speaking. Her words were honey on her lips. She made it seem as if you were the only thing that mattered in the whole world, and that you were invincible because she wanted you to be.”
Imogen nodded. “Sounds like Master Faramore, kinda. He’s what Daddy always called a hardliner, but he knew how to talk smooth and get what he wanted. By makin’ you think it’s what you wanted, too.”
“When some acquire power, they think the only way to keep it is oppression.”
“Damn right.” Imogen nodded, then her face grew lined and pensive. “I kinda hate how nice it felt being pushed out of my own mind.”
Laudna reached a hand out, and Imogen took it, curled her fingers into Laudna’s. “You have a heavy burden, dear. Del couldn’t handle it for more than a couple of minutes. You live with it every day, all day long.”
“And for that briefest of moments, I remembered what it felt like not to be in pain just a little bit all the time.”
They had discussed her past briefly on one of the nights they’d shared together. “The headaches and nightmares and all, do you know what caused them to start? Why your hair turned that lovely shade?”
Imogen shrugged. “That’s what I hope to find out on this journey. It was gradual over the last couple years. I woke up one day a couple years ago and my hair’d turned into this.” She rubbed at her eyebrows, still brown, and the fine hairs on her arms, then blushed as she looked down at her lap. “None of the rest has changed, and that makes less sense, somehow. Like I’m goin’ crazy or somethin’.”
Laudna smiled at the comment about the rest of her hair. Yes, Laudna had a firsthand account, didn’t she? “I do not recommend insanity, having been there and done that.”
Imogen’s lips quirked up at the moment of levity, but she continued, “And before too long, I was gettin’ nosebleeds if I spent too much time around people, the headaches. I even passed out sometimes when it first started. That’s the other scary part. I can cope, mostly, but there’s no tellin’ what might make the pain worse. What if it grows stronger? What if I can never shut out the voices again?”
“If that happens, love, I will be by your side to help you through it. You learned to control it and suppress it now, and I would bet Pâté’s next meal we’ll be able to condition you for more.”
“Laudna… Pâté doesn’t eat. He ain’t real.”
Laudna was a bit taken aback at this suggestion. “He’s real enough, and if I forget to pretend feed him, he’s insufferable.”
“What do you pretend to feed a ratbird?” Imogen asked, mystified.
In response, Laudna pulled him from her belt, and began pantomiming him while she spoke in his gruff accent. “Well, I loves me grubs, don’t I? Them ones with the shells are good, too. Sat’sfyin’ crunchy, they are.”
“Laudna, no,” Imogen said, pulling her hand free and laughing uncomfortably.
“Gimme a good piece o’ fruit any day, too.” Pâté’s raven skull wobbled and fell off, clattering to the wood floor. Laudna scooped him up, dusted him off, and adjusted the skull so that it wouldn’t do that again. “Right and proper, me master is. Always takes care’a old Pâté, she does.”
“She’s great,” Imogen said, agreeing and in obvious disbelief that Laudna was talking to her through a dead amalgamation. Laudna couldn’t explain in words what Pâté had really done for her, why she’d never give him up, even if she would keep him back to make people comfortable.
Instead of giving in to the dark designs of Delilah Briarwood, she had funneled that energy into her little creations. Eventually, to drown out the incessant calls to do bloodshed in Delilah’s name, Laudna had begun to chat with them, just to keep her mind actively on something else.
And eventually, Pâté started chatting back. Laudna had just gone with it; it made Delilah angry and gave her something to focus on during those years of isolation. Delilah may have been her only real companion for 27 years, but Pâté had been her only friend.
“Suffice it to say, Pâté is my friend and I’ll not go without him,” Laudna said. In her head she was sure this was another sticking point, another bone of contention that would drive Imogen away.
Imogen smiled, though. “You ain’t gotta worry, Laudna. Pâté’s weird to me, but you’re not. You’re kinda the only thing that makes sense to me.”
This warmed Laudna’s cold, dead heart, and she put Pâté away again. “I like it ever so much when you say things like that, darling.”
“And I like it ever so much when you call me darlin’.” Imogen leaned in to kiss Laudna’s cheek, and Laudna gave herself fully to this woman, this gift. At this rate, they’d never leave their room.
And that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?