Gift- Book 1

Chapter 7

Ryn has never done anything like that before. So brash, rude... Leiea thinks. Is he really that hurt about me not telling him sooner?

Of course, it was wrong of her to do that. Extremely unfair. The problem was, he was even madder after she made herself perfectly clear. He got madder after hearing perfectly understandable reasons as to why she did that. And it looks like now she'll never know the real reason he said all of that.

Considering how flimsy and almost nonexistent their relationship was in the first place, she knows that it would never come back. At least willingly. She doesn't care though. People that lash out in that manner- especially the certain formal way Ryn did- don't deserve close friends and classroom partners, like they were.

Leiea snaps back into reality, realizing she's sitting on the damp grass in front of the window, her hands resting on her neck and elbows on her knees. The curtain inside the house is drawn tightly. The interior looks dull through the crack under their door.

She had expected to stay here longer, either talking with Ryn or just spending time in his house, but that was thrown out of the picture rather quickly. It would be more proper for Leiea to go home and talk to her family, but Mother is usually busy at this time of day with preparing food. Fleya is probably occupied, too. It's been Mother's goal lately for her to learn how to keep up with more chores because Leiea would be gone and couldn't do her own.

That's yet another thing that made her guilty. She can't provide for people in the village at all, which has always been an honorable duty for her to uphold. Most definitely in the winter. Leiea stops herself from spiraling into the distress that arises when thinking of winter. It makes her wonder if other people think of winters like that too. With darkness that's blinding in snow and deaths as common as blades of grass freezing.

She stands up and takes her time walking home, the bright afternoon sun stinging her eyes. The house looks welcoming through the window and Leiea can make out the clusters of lit candles on the kitchen counter.

The door is barely open and before she can push it open, she sees Fleya, still practicing her embroidery, this time on the hem of a skirt. Her hair's pulled back into a braided bun, the kind that most young women around the village wear while working. The little gold locket is on the table in front of her next to a sewing kit.

"Hey Fleya,"

Her head bobs up from surprise and her hazel eyes light up. "Leiea! You're so early!" She jumps off the chair and rushes to hug her big sister. Leiea notices that her hair feels cleaner than usual like she just bathed last night.

She smiles. "Sheyric let me have the afternoon off. He had to go do something, so..." She was about to say she went to Ryn's house but realized that would lead to more and more questions and explanations. It's saddening news to break to someone who was also fond of Ryn. Thankfully, Fleya doesn't press it further and instead fetches the embroidery project from the table a few steps away. She holds it up to show.

The skirt is the elegant pure white kind used for special occasions, and it looks to be about Leiea's size. The work on the edges has swirls and loop shapes in a baby blue thread.

She pipes up, "It used to be Mother's. She never brought it up but she wants you to start having some of her nicer clothes since you don't have much."

Leiea laughs. "I don't have much because I grew out of everything and hated all of it." Fleya grins.

Dresses and skirts, fancy hair, and other finery have never been appealing to her. Most of the lacey dress clothes are itchy and tiny detail work on pockets and collars have always seemed like a waste. But of course, she would have to own some nice things in case anyway. Maybe she dislikes it because of the popular girls at school like Lorietta, boasting about and flaunting everything. The only thing in that realm she's actually keen on is small jewelry pieces, like tiny metal earrings or a thin bangle. Although the emerald is fairly outlandish, she still likes it.

Fleya's almost the opposite. She loves wearing simple dresses and skirts daily, even while working. Her hair's always done nicely by Mother, compared to Leiea who simply brushes her locks out sometimes. She's also wearing jewelry more frequently. Possibly people caught on quickly that she's more girly than Leiea.

She hands the long skirt out to her. "Here, try it on. I want to see you in a skirt for once."

Leiea rolls her eyes and steps into it, her boots catching on the silky lining. It's rather puffy but still light. The work-in-progress hem hangs just below her knees and the waist is stretched out and much too long for her trim one. She lets go of it with flair, letting the mass of fabric flop to the ground. She jumps out of it in a nervous, twitchy way and hurries to the other side of the room like its vermin to make Fleya laugh. She does and picks the heap up to dust it out.

The kitchen counter has bowls stacked on the corner and the wax candles illuminate the spice rack above it. Mother got it from a trader years and years ago, yet most of the contents are still full. It isn't her thing to be trying different flavors in dishes or experimenting with food. Leiea has always liked the consistency too, sticking to a dozen or so seasonal foods.

Late spring and early summer mean a rise in her favorite fruits, like peaches and strawberries. Usually they would be bought from a vendor or produce grocer, but sometimes they're lucky and get to grow their own harvest. This year was one that they couldn't because proper seeds were scarce and Mother didn't trust buying out-of-season fruits just for the seed.

In the past, she has also noticed different fruits growing in the forest, like what appeared to be blueberries. Sometimes birds or squirrels were seen to be eating them, but she never dared to, knowing how strange that place is.

Fleya's sitting at her spot at the table, once again focused on her project. Leiea sits down next to her and watches her smooth stitching.