Avery Rhiannon's Arc

Chapter 7 of 17

Avery sat by the fire with a warm bowl in her hands. The question pressed against her teeth again. Forty acres. The land. She had not asked. She set the bowl down and let her eyes travel the room instead. She saw it then, all at once. Low gates on every doorway. Worn blankets stacked in baskets. Water bowls along the baseboards. Tom watched her looking. "Come see," he said, and led her into a tall stone hall lined with painted portraits. Dog after dog, framed in gold. "Every stray that stayed," he said. "I keep their faces." Avery's throat tightened. She thought of the kennel by the river — the cheerful little roof, the soft beds, all of it underwater now. She pictured Tom building it board by board. She pictured it gone. "Don't worry about the kennel," Tom said, reading her face the way she hated being read. He walked her to a back door and pushed it open. Behind it stood a small stone room fitted out as a clean veterinary clinic. Steel table. Cabinets. A lamp already lit. In a low crate by the wall, a brindle puppy lifted his head. Floppy ears. Huge wet eyes. A pink spot on his tongue. "Found him this morning," Tom said. "Before the storm." Avery knelt and let the puppy press his nose into her palm. The quiet inside her shifted, just slightly. She looked up at Tom. The question was right there. She opened her mouth — and closed it. Not yet. Not tonight. She lowered her eyes to the puppy instead and felt the chance slip past her once more.