The Artist And The Spectre

Chapter III

In just a few days the three of them fell into a pleasant routine: Rowan helped her aunt in the garden and her uncle with groceries or loading the van when needed, then studied when she could and took long walks along the shore when she got bored.

This was all well and good indeed; though she couldn't help but notice a certain unease emanating from her benevolent relatives.
Dreading the cause, Rowan attempted to act more cheerful and lighthearted: she chattered away at mealtimes, helped around the house, cleaned her room and fastidiously avoided any and all behaviors that might not spark joy or even just hint at her being anything less than peachy.

It was all for naught. Like an unstoppable tide, the discreet side eyes at the dinner table and the hushed conversation late at night continued until one day, it finally all came to a head.

"Rowie-dear, don't you get a little lonely out here sometimes?" asked her aunt as they were inspecting the plush tomatoes in the backyard.
Rowie-dear glimpsed back at her host's placid face and then scanned her surroundings, hoping for a way out of the conversation. She mentally cussed the woman for questioning her while she was for all intents and purposes cornered, boxed in by social graces and good manners.

Considering that cursing her aunt's bloodline (sadly) did not yield results, she pretended to be utterly engrossed in the vegetables. Inexorable as an advancing glacier the chubby gardener approached and repeated the question with a kindly smile.

Goddammit. Now what?
Rowan opted for the universal answer to anything: a noncommittal shrug.

"Ummm, I don't know?" She internally cringed as soon as the words left her lips. Fantastic. Now she'd just opened herself up to further discussion. Great work everyone.

The big lady chuckled merrily, covering her lips with her rough gloves.

"You're a riot, little one!" She daintily pulled her hand out from its muddy cocoon and affectionately buried it in Rowan's short, wild curls, squatting down to her haunches so their heads were almost level (she was a rather tall lady).

"But, you see, I am a little worried about you. Me and Omar are hardly young anymore!"

The woman craned her neck to better study Rowan's expression, then clicked her tongue as she thought of what to say next.

"Would you, perhaps, enjoy the company of someone your age?"

Rowan froze on the spot. What should she say?
"You guys' company is more than enough, dearest aunt, and I would rather not interact with people my age for the time being." Yeah, that could work. A bit stuffy maybe, but adults usually liked that, didn't they?

The young girl's nose wrinkled, her expression turning into a slight scowl as her inner debate raged on.

But what if she got even more concerned? Oh well, she would understand, right? After all she'd been told about Rowan and stuff. She wouldn't mind. Hopefully.

She lifted her head to communicate her feelings to her aunt; only to stop mid-breath at her caretaker's earnest expression. Heedless of her previous reasoning, her mouth uttered the following sentence:

"Sure, that would be swell, aunt. Thanks."

Welp. She'd done it now. God-dammit.

The big woman grinned and glefully clapped her hands together.

"Wonderful!" She exlaimed, "I have a friend with a lovely girl just your age! The two of you will be the most wonderful of friends, of that I am quite sure."