The Twisting by Laurel Wanrow Page B

grinned, feeling ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop himself. She grinned, too, but a sound in the hall—the back door opening—broke the moment. He retreated to the door again, and his hand found the knob. “Mrs. Pemberton will return soon,” he said. “I just wanted to say hello.”
    Annmar closed the space between them. “Wait, I…”
    He froze.
    Her eyes grew wide, then flitted off as she squeezed him around the waist for the briefest, heart-stopping moment. She stumbled back, and he caught her by the elbow, bringing them together again. Her disheveled curls hovered inches from his nose. He lifted his chin and rubbed. Fine strands caught on his stubble, and the warmth of her radiated to him. He lolled his head to rub his scent on her again.
    What was he doing? He dropped his hand and once more put his tail to the door, the sweet aroma of her almost forcing him to close his eyes.
    “Um, I’m glad you’re well,” she mumbled.
    “Me, too. I mean, that you’re well, too.” This wasn’t going well. Even holding her was too dangerous. He pivoted.
    “Daeryn?”
    With the knob half-turned, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.
    “How do you have the same smell, with no fur?”
    Her blue eyes looked up at his so earnestly. Damn, he couldn’t ruin this. “It’s just, uh, part of me. The glands, teeth and so forth from the ’cambire form don’t disappear. Just…change. And that’s fluid. Changing.” He was talking too much. “I should go before Mrs. Pemberton kicks me out. I see where Mary Clare gets her assertive nature.”
    Annmar nodded at his non-answer, looking kind of flushed. “I suppose.”
    He opened the door before he gave in to that forlorn look. “Bye.”
    “Bye,” she whispered.
    He shut the door behind him and walked out of the main house. Great Creator, I’ve never had to work this hard at self-control around a girl.
     
    * * *
     
    Annmar whirled and darted to her cot. The farmhouse’s rear door closed as she perched on the edge, too full of nerves to sit. She popped up, but the nearing footsteps in the hall made her sit again.
    She snagged the quilt and wrapped it around herself. Daeryn had come at dawn, safe and whole. And she’d gotten up the courage to hug him. Mary Clare was wrong. Hugging the boy wasn’t like hugging the polecat.
    It was better.
    He smelled the same, but he’d hugged her back. Her nose tucked down and drew a long breath. Would they hug the next time they saw each other? She thought so. She hoped so. But not if anyone else was around. She couldn’t be that forward with others watching.
    Though, he’d watched her at Market Day—a flush traveled through her—and said her eyes had turned blue. The same blue as the luminated threads? What could it mean?
    Another breath of his scent carried her through the conversation again. Thank goodness she’d shown him the sketch. Now, going to see Old Terry should be safer. Did he mean she should bless the doodem before the visit? Annmar chewed her lip. Mary Clare had told her their Creator worship didn’t have a formal name, just the chapels and rules for living peacefully in this valley. The prayer Daeryn wrote talked about Mother Earth and the land. They made it seem simple, but doing a blessing sounded serious, like making an obligation to their religion.
    Rap, rap, rap. The door opened. “It’s me, dears,” said Mrs. Pemberton. “Time for—oh, Daeryn has gone already?”
    Annmar’s cheeks heated. “He’s tired.”
    Mrs. Pemberton set a breakfast tray on a table. “I could see that. But sometimes that doesn’t stop young people.”
    Her tone seemed to indicate more than just Daeryn leaving on time. Sure enough, instead of taking a seat in the wing chair, she pulled a ladder-back chair up to the cot and settled into it. “Mary Clare tells me your mother passed last year.”
    Annmar nodded.
    “I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you won’t take this in poor spirit, but will you accept advice from a woman