Rosamund
If the ride to Crestmere had been quiet, the ride back to Wellspring was quiet like a graveyard.
We sat on opposite sides of the carriage for six hours and exchanged exactly four words. Good morning. Thank you—the first when I climbed in without taking his offered hand. The second when he passed me a flask of water somewhere past the halfway mark, and our fingers didn't touch.
The rest was silence.
I stared out the window, pretending that the trees, grasses and shrubs covered by mist, the telltale sign of spring, were suddenly a delight to stare at. He stared out his window, occasionally making hand gestures and tapping signs on the carriage to communicate with the driver.
The moment the carriage pulled through the gates of Wellspring, all I wanted was my bedroom. I didn't wait for the footman or for Nevan. I pushed the door open before the wheels had fully stopped, stepped down onto the gravel without assistance, and walked toward the house.
