Snowblind {complete}

Dry - Flow

'Shit-shafter!'

Lanna's mouth dropped open. A girl of no more than seven screamed at her brother across the street, the insult in almost perfect Southern. Lanna glared at the child. A girl with pigtails and dressed play-clothes shouldn't know those words. The girl's brother sneered at his sister as he stood in the doorway of their home.

'If our mother catches you speaking that nonsense then...' He had the good sense to close his mouth when he realised Lanna was standing in the street, watching them with rapt attention.

The children turned to Lanna and gave a sheepish bow.

Lanna moistened her lips and returned the gesture before hurrying on.

The sun climbed higher into the cloudy sky and a welcome chill breezed past her, carrying the promise of more favourable temperatures. She would seek out Hemil to give him a piece of her mind.

'Such is not acceptable,' Lanna muttered to herself. She should be in the paddies. The mudfish needed an inspection. One of the few things the Southern family knew better than the village was fish. As the only flesh they could consume, they all had an interest in making sure the fish population stayed healthy and plentiful.

Lanna put a hand to her stomach. She hadn't slept well, body twitching whenever she found rest. It could point to an oncoming seizure or mean nothing. She'd best let Hemil know. She needed another set of eyes watching her.

He was in the ox shed, feeding and tending to the creatures. The hot bovine smell made Lanna lick her lips. She considered taking a bite when no one was looking. Rich, bloody, warm meat. The texture of the flesh on her tongue, the caress of the blood as it ran down her throat and... She shook herself from the tantalising memory of her carnivore days.

Hemil gave her a welcoming smile and a bow worthy of a palace official.

'To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?' he asked, filling a feeding trough with fermented grass, adding a fruity counterpoint in the barn's aroma to further pull at her instincts. The ox moved to munch at the sweet-smelling stems.

Lanna put her hands on her hips and Hemil straightened.

'What have I done now?' he asked with a resigned sigh. The smirk refused to leave his lips. Did he already know what she would say?

'I'm teaching you no more Southern if you're going to pass it on to children.'

He snorted and put down his feed bucket. 'A buffalo escaped. I was whipping it home, and I was "pissed off" as you would say.' He gave a quick grin when she rolled her eyes. 'Southern words seemed more appropriate.'

Rapid steps and he was before her, hands on her waist. He had been much freer with her lately. More inclined to touch and be near. Moreover, she looked forward to the contact – anticipated it even.

'Don't be angry, Lanna. I dread to think what you'll do to the fish if you go to them in a sour mood.'

Oh, ancestors. She tried to frown at him, but her lips moved upward and she found herself chuckling.

'Much better.'

It happened so fast she questioned whether he'd done it. Lips settled on the swell of her cheek: soft, slightly moist and cooler than the flaming skin under them. He pulled back, hands tightening on her waist as if fearing she would move away. Her words shrivelled on her leaden tongue.

Was her face on fire? It felt like it. Lanna stared at him like a moons-struck calf. Her gaze fixed on his lips and she lifted a hand to the wet mark on her face, almost cradling the spot in her palm.