Page 82 of These Immortal Truths
The girl hesitates, tugging anxiously at a blonde curl. Her blue eyes dart to the forest and back, before giving a tentative nod. Anna watches her run to the house, her shoes a size too big and making her gait more a bumble than a sprint. When she makes it halfway, Anna turns toward the forest, each step a little quicker than the last until she’s sprinting across the meadow.
Silas tips his head, his voice as smooth and warm as it was back then. He would be an exact echo of her memory if it weren’t for the lack of a southern accent. He offers a hand, palm up, in open invitation. “Miss Lydia.”
No. Not Lydia. Just as he is no longer the Silas she knew. Here, in Eira’s meadow, they are only themselves. She takes his hand, lets the heat of his palm thaw the brittle edges of her heart. “Anna. My name is Anna.”
His smile is as wide and dimpled as she remembers. “A beautiful name. It fits you.” Head tilting, he regards her with a stare that sees far too much. “You look tired, my friend. Tell me, what weighs so heavily on your heart?”
Anna’s throat goes tight, words sticking.
His gaze turns soft. “Khiran wore the same look when he found me.”
She winces, the sound of his name a shot to her heart. There’s a blatant question in Silas’ following silence; an opportunity left open for her to fill. Anna has no intention of answering it. Not when there are more urgent matters needing to be discussed. “Eira and I need help. The children—we don’t have room to house them over winter. I was hoping you could guide them somewhere safe.”
“Safe is in short supply. Always is,” he says, looking over her shoulder at the cottage. A few of the children are helping Eira pick plums from the tree. A few others are trying, and failing, to continuehanging the laundry she’s abandoned. His smile is a balm for her nerves. “I doubt that will stop us anymore than it did the last time.”
Anna breathes a sigh, her relief so great it’s physical. “Thank you.”
His hand cups her shoulder. “It is my honor to aid you, Miss Anna.”
She nods, resisting the urge to offer him more thanks. Instead, she asks, “Should I still call you Silas?”
His laughter rolls over the meadow like a warm breeze. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t. I have grown very fond of that name.” His gaze is soft with his amusement, eyes crinkling in the corners with the force of his smile. “It helps to have a friend who knows me by it.”
Again, Anna feels her throat tighten and her chest ache. This time, it’s for all the right reasons. “Silas it is.”
She introduces him as Silas, her friend, but Eira has yet to call him by that name.
When she addresses him, she seems to make a point of only addressing him as Shepherd. There is distrust hiding at the corners of her mouth, a sense of dread in the aged lines of her scowl. Anna has always known her to be prickly at first, but the efforts she goes to distance herself seem to be rooted in more than just distrust.
Silas’ ceaseless amount of patience and understanding only seems to emphasize Eira’s lack of warmth—the contrast obvious enough that even the children seem to pick up on it. Half of them gravitate towards him as if he’s the sun in their sky while the other half hold back, their eyes frequently gauging Eira’s demeanor for clues on how to behave around this new stranger. With the silence that descends over dinner that night, tension stifling any hope of conversation, Anna can’t help but feel that the old woman is making a terrible impression.
The children need to trust him, at least enough to follow him to safety once winter comes. Anna knows they only have another two months at most before they’ll be forced to leave. Silas must realize it, too. After dinner, he pulls a harmonica from his pocket, the notes playing clear and crisp over the crackling fire. The change is subtle, but instant.
The children’s eyes go from cautious to curious. When Silas offers them a turn, whatever reservations they held are soothed away by the vibrations of the reeds and Silas’ gentle encouragement. Soon, they’ve moved into the meadow and are taking turns making music for the stars. Eira is not so easily swayed.
She stokes the fire, embers dancing when a log falls. “They will be fighting over it soon if you’re not careful.”
Silas raises a brow. “To take it now would be to punish them before they’ve done any wrong.” There’s more weight to the words than light conversation.
Eira’s lips purse. She hears the unsaid comparison, too. “It’s prevention, not punishment.”
“If you take a moment of joy to prevent a potential problem, does it not have the same effect?” he asks, calm but pointed. “Give them the opportunity to exceed your expectations.”
“Raised many children, have you, Shepherd?” She stands, knees creaking, and collects some of the empty bowls strewn around the fire.
“None, Miss Eira.”
She nods, her eyes sharp. “Then I leave you to learn your lesson.” She turns to Anna, the blunt edge in her voice only slightly softer. “Make sure the children bring their dishes in, washed and put away, if they wish to have them ready for their morning meal.”
Anna smiles, despite the tension making it feel tight. “Yes, of course. Sleep well.”
Eira doesn’t return the sentiment. She’s already walking the short distance to the cottage. The sound of the door shutting is so sharp, it echoes. Even the children momentarily stop their music making to look over, before continuing with their clumsy notes.
Anna flinches. “I’m sorry. She’s not usually so unpleasant, I promise.”
Silas chuckles, placing another log onto the fire. “Trust takes more time once it’s been broken, especially for us. I am neither surprised nor offended.”
“Broken?” Anna murmurs, turning the word over.
