In contrast to the day, which had been fair of weather, the night was lashed by a seemingly torrential rain. The winds were known for shifting quickly in this region, and the season, nearing the end of summer, was such that storms were often found rolling in from the southeast. Ainsley had noted the dark clouds on the horizon around dusk and moved all the animals into the barn, which had enough space for everyone and then a bit more, which was fortunateâsheâd hate to have to leave anyone out on a night like this.
Unlike the animals, who tended to be uneasy during such turbulent weather, Ainsley herself relished in it. Sometimes, all she wanted was to be ensconced inside while the water lashed the sides and roof of the house, curled up in front of her window nook and reading something as natureâs wrath descended on the world outside, but sometimes she also liked to be in it, feeling all that turbulent sensation herself.
Though her mother had gone to bed several hours ago, citing fatigue, her father Peter was still awake as well, being the sort of person who shared his daughterâs love for storms. He preferred to do his enjoying from in front of the low-banked fire in the hearth though, and she noted that heâd nodded off in his favorite chair, doubtless a bit tired from all the work theyâd done in the north fields today. Ainsley smiled to herself, pulling a quilt from the nearby couch and draping it over him, laying a chaste kiss on her fatherâs temple and deciding that sheâd go check on the animals. Jester, one of the horses, tended to spook at the thunder, but could usually be calmed if one knew what they were doing.
Pausing at the entryway to slide on a waterproof, hooded poncho, Ainsley stepped back into her boots and pushed the front door open, stepping out onto the covered porch just as a fork of lightning lanced across the sky. She could no longer hear the thunder that would accompany, but she could feel it, somewhere in the core of her. That might be what she loved most about the rain, now: that vibration from the pads of her feet to the crown of her head.
Stepping off the porch, she was immediately assailed by the rain, and had to reach up with both hands to keep the hood in place on her head, protecting her from the worst of the wet. She might not mind, but there would be plenty of time to get soaked after sheâd checked on the animals.
The mud sucked at her boots as she tread up the path to the barn, but she didnât pay it any mind; they were laced on well enough that it wouldnât be a problem. Opening the door to the barn, she pulled her hood down, snorting softly when her hair fluffed out, slightly staticky from the friction, and reached to flick on the lights.
The barn didnât have many, so they didnât provide more than cursory illumination, but her eyesight was good, and she didnât need much to navigate by anyway. A banging sound alerted her to the fact that Jester had kicked at his stall door, and she hastened over towards him, stopping momentarily when she thought she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Turning her head, she didnât see anything, and the horse kicked again, so she merely shook her head and started moving again.
âShhh. Itâs all right, lovely.â She murmured to him more because he tended to respond well to her than for any particular benefit it had for her, and he quieted under the gentle touch of her hands. âIâm not going to hurt you, and neither is the rain. Thatâs a boy.â She reached into the stall and rubbed his neck affectionately, smiling when he nibbled at the ends of her hair, which was really a rather bad habit of his that she shouldnât allow, but it had never done any harm.
Ainsley recalled that there was a spare set of horse blankets up in the loft, and since the night was turning out to be chillier than usual for the season, it might not be a bad idea to grab a few and outfit the horses before she went back in for the night. Backing away from the stall, she approached the ladder to the loft and climbed with the ease of long practice, pulling herself up into the loftâ
âand coming face-to-face, in a manner of speaking, with a total stranger.
Her eyes went wide upon meeting another pair, shrouded in the thicker darkness of a shadow, where little of the light reached. She might not even have noticed him had she not happened to cast her eyes in that direction in search of the spare blankets, but she certainly had now. Quickly, she assessed the situation: the stranger was wearing loose clothing of a kind sheâd seen once or twice before, but much more remarkable than that was the tattoo branded right there on his face, stark and utilitarian. The Rothen had made those marks on a very specific type of military prisoner: the priests and priestesses of the old church.
Ainsleyâs lips parted as though to speak, but she wasnât exactly sure what to say. Slowly, carefully, she lifted both hands, palms facing outward, so that he could see them, and know that she was unarmed. She hadnât missed that one of his hands was positioned where she expected one would keep a weapon, if one was the kind of person to keep weapons.
At last, she found her voice again, and mustered up a small smile, though what the emotion was behind it was unclear. âIf itâs all the same to you, Iâd prefer you not draw that. Iâm somewhat fond of my life⊠and I imagine youâre fond of yours, too. So⊠if youâll give me a moment to find the horse blankets, I can pretend I never saw you.â Her tone was even, soft, but it lacked any indication of fear, though there was a great deal of caution in it nevertheless.
