No one stays on Mutton Head. Cäthe Dustwell knew that, but the news had made her angry. Damien had apologized, and he had offered to end it.
Amicably.
He had never pressured her.
Mother warned me.
She felt ashamed for her anger and angry about feeling ashamed. And she had suggested his family's hunting lodge.
The mud sucked on her shoes as she stomped across the verdant fields, past the grazing sheep. Everyone knew every building on Mutton Head, and the lodge was more memorable than most. Cast-iron fencing surrounded the two-storey house, built from imported wood and the same dark stone as the Schaffauge Keep. Sinister gargoyles kept their watch, high on the black shingles of the roof. The young man skulked after her.
She waited for him by the lilies at the entrance. Leafy vines crept between the rusting metal flowers, and the wind carried a strange weeping sound. Damien's hand was unsteady and he, twice, almost dropped the key. The gate creaked open, and she took his hand as they walked up the path to the door.
"Did you hear that?" he asked.
The house loomed over them, and the keychain rattled in his hand. Cäthe heard the sea, wine-dark waves lashing the pale cliffs. The howling wind. And she heard the sound of her own beating heart. And nearly his. "Do you keep animals here?"
Damien showed her the back of the house, the old kennels covered by tarp. Something moved underneath it; wailing, snarling. "A hound," he said and swallowed. "Dad must've taken up hunting again." His outstretched hand did not lift the painted cloth. "We could leave."
Cäthe shook her head. They instead fled inside. Flickering candles bathed the master bedroom in orange light. A first kiss made her shudder. He had never before touched the inside of her thighs. Or her breasts. The bolder tongue, his lips, made her shiver with heat. The stifling clothes annoyed her and had to go. Her sturdy jacket, and the blue and grey pullover her mother had knitted for her. Damien helped her with her blouse and skirt. "I feel ugly."
"You are beautiful."
