Dawn's Promise (Silent Wings #1)
A.W. Exley
1
Whetstone, Leicestershire. Spring, 1880.
“You shall die, you foul creature, for drawing the life’s blood from this beauty.” Having said the words, Dawn closed her eyes and said a wee prayer, asking for forgiveness for the execution she was about to perform. It was a serious matter to take the life of another being, no matter how heinous its crimes.
Then she squashed the greenfly between her fingers. Dawn tried not to look at the tiny life smeared over her fingertips. Instead, she concentrated on the greater good. She was forced to act to defend the roses. Nasty little bugs were destroying the blooms. Hungry mouths fixed onto stems and sucked the sap, which resulted in deformed growth. Not content with stunting the roses, the insects nibbled holes in all the petals and ruined the flowers.
She wiped her hands on the apron protecting her brown-plaid gown. There seemed to be a lack of ladybirds this year, the sworn enemy of greenfly. Had there been some offensive that reduced their numbers? Most people never even noticed the life and death battles that played out in miniature across a garden. Dawn did, for this was her dominion.
She would have to consult her books and determine what might be affecting the ladybug population so she could restore balance to the environment. The roses were the glory of the summer garden, and the ugly, battle-worn flowers would mar its appearance all season.
“As my first return volley, I shall mix up a garlic spray. That will show you all.” Dawn waggled a finger at the tiny green enemy clinging to the rose bush.
“Dawn,” her mother called from beyond the greenery, “you have mail.”
“Coming, Mother.” She glared at the army of advancing greenfly. They would not be victorious; she would see to that. She would not tolerate unwanted invaders in her garden.
As she rose, a flap of wings caught her attention in the overhanging elm. A raven, or the watcher, her mother called him. He had claimed their garden some years ago and could usually be found somewhere among the foliage, watching with his reflective black eyes. What did he find so fascinating that he returned day after day?
Dawn waved to the bird and then hurried toward the house. Her feet trod the lime chip paths, and her long skirts brushed against the box hedging. Her mother had crossed to the edge of the lawn and peered down the narrow path. Dawn wasn’t exactly hard to find, since their garden was neither grand nor substantial. Dawn had crammed as much into the small space as she possibly could. How she longed to stretch her wings and tend a larger area, but that would never happen.
An irregular tick thudded in her chest and she stopped. With one hand over her heart, she took a few deep breaths until the flutter within her settled. Only then did she continue on her way at a more sedate pace.
“Did you have company today?” Her mother stood on the cobbled patio. A smile pulled at the crow’s feet around her brown eyes. A lifetime of worry had added silver to her chestnut hair and lines on her face, but with her regal bearing and sculptured bone structure, she remained a beautiful woman.
“Yes. The watcher sat in the elm as usual. Do you really believe they report what they see to stone masters?”
Verity’s smile dropped and her expression turned serious. “Yes and I’d rather a watcher in the trees than a seeker in the undergrowth. But don’t let your father overhear such talk. Stuff and nonsense, he calls it.”
Her mother named rats and weasels as seekers of secrets who reported to the watchers’ opposing faction. Stories of mythical creatures fighting one another was all make-believe, of course, and Dawn was too old to believe in such things.
Verity handed over a small parcel and pulled her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders. “Whatever does this one contain, and is it alive?”
Dawn took the parcel and considered her answer. “Alive yes, but dormant.”
She could never tell her mother an untruth, not that Dawn had any great secrets to hide. Verity had a way of knowing the veracity of words. Father called her his truth taster because she said truth was sweet on her tongue and lies were sour. Her father occasionally brought business clients to dinner to have Mrs Uxbridge listen to them speak and cast judgement on their level of honesty.
“Dormant could mean a hibernating hedgehog,” her mother said.
Dawn traced her name written in black ink on the brown paper and enjoyed the moment of anticipation before she tore the wrapping from the contents.
“I requested a new cultivar of aquilegia. This one has brown blooms so dark they are nearly black.” She wanted to replant a tiny section near the rear wall. She imagined plants with foliage and flowers in the darkest shades possible to bring a trace of midnight to the backyard.
Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Black? What a horrid colour for a flower. Why would you want black in the garden?”
A wistful smile graced Dawn’s lips. “People think white the purest colour, but it is so easily spoiled. I think black is the most graceful and pure shade of bloom and leaf. Besides, it will be my small homage to our watcher, to see if I can replicate his ebony feathers with foliage.”
Her mother shook her head. “You do have some strange fancies. Perhaps your father and I should not have kept you so much from other children, but we do worry so about—”
Dawn laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “I have never needed playmates to entertain me. I am content in my own company.”
Her mother laid a hand atop hers. A hand with long, fine fingers so like to her own. Mother and daughter were so similar in appearance that only the changes wrought by time stopped people from assuming them to be sisters. They shared the same bone structure, colouring, and alabaster skin as though James Uxbridge had contributed nothing to Dawn’s creation. Dawn wished she would age as gracefully as her mother. Would she live long enough to find out?
“Come in for tea, dear. You have been overlong in the garden and it is time for a rest.” Her mother tucked her arm through Dawn’s.
The older woman drew the younger toward the house. Dawn didn’t feel weary and was sure her legs could carry her a few more times around the narrow paths, but on the subject of her health, she deferred to her mother’s superior knowledge. Her delicate condition had contributed to the worry lines on her mother’s brow, and she didn’t want to be responsible for another.
A child’s laughter floated over the high brick wall from the neighbouring house, and Dawn glanced in its direction. If she had been healthier or bolder, she might have climbed a tree to see what games were played next door. Although she had lived in the house for over ten years, she had never formed more than a passing acquaintance with her neighbours.
There were once three children in the garden beyond the wall, all of similar age to Dawn. In earlier years, they used to climb the wall to talk to her as she worked in the garden or ask her to fetch an escaped ball or toy. Her parents thought childhood games too taxing on her heart, and watching others play was the extent of her involvement. Over time, the neighbours stopped scaling the brick as play was abandoned for more adult pursuits.
Two were married now, and Dawn suspected the squeal of delight came from the oldest daughter’s toddler. A pang of loneliness opened up inside Dawn’s chest. She would always be the observer as others lived out their lives around her.