Page 80 of Hearts of Locke Hill

The path skirted around the athletic fields and then bentagain along wild meadows of buttercup, sorrel, and the budding clumps of oxeye daisy. Though her walking pace remained at a steady clip, here her mind began to wander, unwillingly, to the tangled reality in which she found herself, instead of the straight and simple climb she’d imagined:

No competition.

No second-guessing.

No whirling emotions.

No Cyril in the blasted way.

The flight of a bird from the meadow caught her eye, and then she halted, full stop.

The flight of her pulse competed with the exertion from her walk.

There, in the middle of the meadow, sat Cyril, his arms resting on raised knees, his head lowered.

Of their own accord, her legs moved her forward, first hesitantly, then hurriedly, until she was running, running. She gathered her skirts, her cloak flying behind her.

She was not stealthy. She drew near enough where he should have heard her, should have lifted his head at her unwieldy approach. He did not move. Her legs pulled her to a stop. “Cyril,” she said, breathless.

He lifted his hand as if to hold her questions. “He’s still with us.”

She drew in a great breath and released it, her shoulders dropping. When he did not stand, she did the only thing she could think of.

Crossing through the grasses to where he sat, she lowered herself to the ground, her own back pressed against his. “Give me your hand,” she said, placing hers where he could grasp it. He did. Then his breathing hitched, and his head pressed backagainst the side of hers, and the clouds released their raindrops, making the flower heads bob.

They stayed that way for several minutes, his grip tight in her fingers, even as the light rain became a steady downpour.

“We must get you,” he finally said, his voice hoarse with emotion, “inside.”

She raised her voice against the rain. “If I wanted to be inside, I’d be inside.”

“Of course you’d say that.” His voice rose as well. “But if you became ill, I’d—”

He didn’t need to say more. Not with his father having pneumonia. She leaned forward to rise, and he stood with her, giving her a hand. “You’re the one without a hat,” she shouted.

“And what is this?” He tugged at her limp cloak.

“It’s waterproof.”

With a skeptical lift of his brow, he moved to lead her back toward the school, but she pulled against him.

She pointed to the hill just beyond a row of trees. “The tower is closer. We can wait out the rain.”

He looked to the hill, then the school, no doubt weighing his options. But she had no time for that. “Come!” She pulled him after her, and she began to run. Soon they were keeping apace, helping one another around muddy spots or over a fall of rocks, grasping hands when one of them slid. Finally, the tower rose before them, and they rushed inside.

Cyril took in their surroundings as they caught their breath, tracing his fingers over lines where yellow stone blocks met to form the walls. His gaze followed the carved stone steps up to the wood planking above them.

“There are t-two floors of wood above us,” Violet said. “They’re kept up well, so leaks sh-should be few.” She could nothelp her teeth chattering, and the alarmed look on Cyril’s face told her he’d noticed. In two strides he was to her, removing her farce of a rain cloak and wrapping her inside his own wool coat. The wool coat that remained on his person.

Warmth encircled her as she considered what to do with her arms, her hands, finally settling on tucking them to her sides like little bird wings, her fists tight. Cyril wore a sweater, its fine weave soft. His chest moved with his shallow breaths, matching hers.

“Better?” he asked. He held his coat closed around her, resulting in an inevitable embrace.

“Yes?” she said, her alto suspiciously high.

“You’re not sure?” he asked, a touch of humor in his tone.

“No?”