Elliotte

Chapter Five

When all comes to worst, she was going to stuff her precious belongings into a valise and take to her heels. Not even a particle of dust to be left behind her.

Unloved by her own sire, as it was a crime to calm him by anything else, and gravely disfavoured by his people, Elliotte didn't feel the need to want to even open her bed chamber door and step out.

What for? So everyone could take a bite out of her and sneer at her struggle to belong and impress.

'Twas far too much load for her to bear, yet bear she must.

She cast her eyes upwards to heavens and offered a short fervent prayer for the fortitude to bear it all.

"Ernice!"

The buxom woman rose at the loud call, and slowly waved back at her even as she mentally berated Elliotte for dashing across the fields with her skirts raised high above her ankles.

"Mi lady, 'tis the serf's garb ya haf on."

Elliotte passed and quickly glanced down at herself. She was garbed in a raw linen mantle and hood. Her under-dress was of brown, and the braided cord about her middle didn't do a thing at all to define a shape.

"Whatever is wrong with my clothing, Ernice?" she said, holding the skirts out at the sides for good measure. ""Tis easy to move in, you see."

Ernice stifled a groan. "And yer studies?"

She got a shrug for an answer.

Ernice readied herself fora well placed rebuke.

Elliotte's gasp interrupted her. Her mismatched eyes wide. "'Tis the horn," she said in a high pitched voice. "The horn of Costswolds!"

Ernice watched with sunken heart as Elliotte dashed off in a blur of brown and honey to welcome the very man who loathes the very sight of her.

The sycamore tree bled once again, as it has been for the last forthright.

She couldn't shake off the sense of dread that enveloped her at the turn out of events.

She needed to make a short trip, to the diviner.

There must be something to be said about this...