HIM
Spring has fully emerged at the house. Small flowers bud from the damp earth, and the estate is green—a result of the heavy rains.
Ducklings follow in a line after their mothers, tripping over their clumsy feet.
Mamka is thrilled because the cupboards are overflowing with fresh fruits. Adah is thrilled because the rain has let up a little and we can hang the linens out to dry again. I'm thrilled that I can spend more time outside after so many months cooped up in that stuffy house.
Course—even with the fine weather—Mr. Stephens and Mrs. Hobbs are as strict as ever. Because of this, I'm hiding in a hay pile behind a shed, shielded by rows of white linens swaying on the lines.
I snack on fresh strawberries, juice dripping down my chin. Drowsiness seeps into my being, the warm sun lulling me in and out of sleep.
When I hear a melodic voice singing I think it must be the remnants of a dream, clinging to my consciousness. But when I hear the crunch of gravel and shifting of the linens accompanying it, my drowsiness scatters. Though I don't technically have a job to do this afternoon, I know my napping and laziness would be frowned upon.
I press myself closer to the corner, peaking around it to see my potential discoverer. All I see is a corner of a dark dress, moving among the flowing white. Once I'm certain she can't see me, I listen closer to her voice.
It's soft and melodic, weaving its way through what sounds like a lullaby. My eyes once again feel heavy, trying to drag me back to sleep. I close my eyes and savor the song. I would love to play the piano forte while she sings. I can already imagine the accompaniment, voice and instrument tangling together in song.
I lean forward to get a better view of who it is, and slip, crashing into my pail of strawberries and sending them tumbling into the yard.
The voice stops.
I listen as the crunch of gravel grows nearer. A hand reaches around the closest linen, pulls it aside, and—
Ah. Damn.
Limonskiy stands there, artfully framed by the sheets, looking at me in surprise. She carries a wicker basket on one hip, her usual strict air affected by the spring the same as me.
Her hair is still in a bun, but curls poke out defiantly. Her face glows with health.
I feel remarkably stupid, sprawled on the ground, hair mussed from sleep, and face stained with berry juice.
And yet, I expect mocking—displeasure—but all I get is a wry smile.
"I should have known it was you." She huffs, as if amused, and tries to smooth her curls out of her face. I sit up and brush myself off, trying to regain some of my dignity.
"I was just…" I trail off, gesturing vaguely to my little corner. I swear I see a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
"Just hiding?" She supplies.
I feel heat creep up my neck.
"And eating strawberries." I clear my throat, unsure how to act around her. She huffs a sigh and does something I never could have guessed.
She sits next to me.
Taking a strawberry from the pail, she sets her basket to the side. Though she doesn't talk, she doesn't glare and shout at me either. I swallow nervously.
"Seemed a shame to be inside on a day like this."
She hums in agreement around a bite, and the sound skitters along my bones, leaving sparks in its wake. I let us fall into silence, broken up only by the sweet song of birds. I feel like I'm balancing on a precipice, that one word from me will send her running or throwing things again. She seems relaxed right now though, sprawled in the hay, daintily wiping strawberry juice from her lips.
Meanwhile, I find myself too aware of my limbs—the stickiness of my hands. I can't help but glance at her through the corner of my eye.
"How come you're always around when I'm breaking the rules?" I venture, taking a bite of strawberry so nothing foolish can come out of my mouth.
"Mmm, I'm not sure, it does seem to be a habit of ours."
Ours. My heart thumps irregularly.
"Maybe you have some kind of sense for when I look pathetic."
I hope that my self-deprecation will soften her to me, even a little. Her quiet huff of amusement comes as a reward for my efforts.
She side-eyes me, seeming to be deciding something. I try not to squirm under her gaze.
"Sorry I threw things at you." I blanche.
"Not that you didn't deserve it," she adds, glaring at me. "But I shouldn't have lost my temper."
I don't know what to say. I hold my breath as she gets ready to say more.
"It seems as though you have some kind of sense for when I look pathetic too." She shakes her head ruefully—displeasure pulling down the corners of her mouth. "Don't think I've forgiven you."
Standing, she brushes hay off herself.
"Just wanted the moral high ground?" I quip, before I can stop myself.
She levels a disdainful look at me, rolling her eyes. A stray piece of straw clings to her hair, and I get the sudden, wild urge to reach out and brush it away.
"Who's out here?" A sharp, nasally voice inquires.
Laura's eyes find mine, the shock in them mirrored in my own.
Hobbs.