Mabel Roan's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Dawn light crept through the shutters when the knock came. Mabel heard Lance's boots cross the floor, slow and steady. She had seconds. She reached for her carved cane, leaning by the bed, and arranged herself on the edge of the mattress with a soft, pitiful slump. The cane across her lap. One hand pressed to her lower back. A picture, ready to be seen. Lance opened the door. Mabel couldn't see the yard, but she heard the heavy shift of hooves on packed earth, and a quiet snort. The elk. Of course Genevieve had ridden in on that great antlered creature, her satchel of poultices slung at the saddle. "You're not Mabel," Genevieve said. Plain. Unhurried. "No," Lance said. "I'm her grandson. She fell two nights ago. I stayed." A pause. Mabel held her breath and called out, weak and warbling, "Is that the healer? Lance, dear, don't keep her in the door." She gripped the cane tighter and let it tremble. Footsteps came. Genevieve stepped inside, jar of green poultice already in hand, and her eyes went straight to Mabel — then to Lance — then back. Something flickered there. Not warmth. Recognition. The elk outside huffed once, patient. Mabel smiled into her sleeve. The door was open. They were both inside. The trap had closed.