𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗 : 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

"Yes, it's very nice, but tell me his name!"

"You're so pushy, little one! Are you already in love with him based on a short description alone? Marco is more your speed, but—"

"Tell me!"

"Fine, fine," the older girl laughed. "His name is—"

You sat up sharply from the sweat-soaked sheets now that your biggest fear had come to fruition.

You dreamt of Sasha.

Checking your wall clock, you had almost two hours before the sun would peek over the horizon. A normal person would go back to sleep, but panic and adrenaline had other plans. They tossed you out of bed, shoved you toward your dressers, and hooked your satchel over your thin, white nightgown. You thought of your next move as you tiptoed down the stairs to not wake Niccolo. The nearest red cedar tree you knew of was an hour's walk on foot, but you could get in half the time on horseback. Jamming your feet into stiff boots in the foyer, you creaked open the front door and rushed down to the horses. Dew soaked your ankles, but nothing would stop you from completing your quest.

Not even wet socks.

Nearing the stables, you saw orange flickers radiate from the edges of the wooden walls, and your body immediately tensed. You snuck around the corner and spied silently as an impossibly tall man brushed your sweet Lady by candlelight in her pen.

"Quelle belle fille, jout comme ta mère," Mr. Kirstein whispered. "Cependant, tu es tellement plus gentil qu'elle. Elle est très gentil et serviable à tout le monde sauf moi." You had never heard him speak with such warmth and softness in the month you knew him as he rambled to your horse. "Je suppose que je mérite sa colère. J'ai été cruelle envers elle. Elle parle de moi, Lady? Elle dit des choses méchantes?"

You had never heard him talk so much, either. Usually, he kept his sentences concise. Perhaps, when he spoke in his native tongue, he could be as wordy as he felt necessary, and English limited him. Nonetheless, you had a mission to complete. Stepping out from your stealthy position, you finally made your presence known.

"Mr. Kirstein," you stiffly greeted, and he nearly jumped from his skin.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fais?!" his voice cracked with bewilderment due to your sudden incursion. Clearing his throat, he tried to speak again, this time only slightly calmer, "Why are you here?"

"I need my horse."

"At four in the morning?"

"Yes. Now, step aside so I can saddle Lady and be off."

"W–What?" he stuttered as he looked around, his face barely illuminated by the flickering fire resting on the fence, but the low light glimmered on a face red as ripe strawberries. "Is it safe to go out alone?"

"I've grown up in these lands my entire life. I can promise you that I'll be more than fine. Now, move."

You stepped over to the wall and yanked a saddle and the blanket from their hanging hooks. Closing the distance between you and the man, you plucked the brush from his hands and stopped to the left of Lady. The painter watched as you worked to brush her back, lay down the blanket, and fasten the straps of her saddle under her belly. You even slipped her headstall and began walking her out of her pen before he could form words.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"The woods."

"For what?"

You paused and whipped around, frustration from his questions heating even the marrow in your bones. "Why the hell do you care what I'm doing and where I'm going? Leave me alone as you planned at the beginning of this week, and let me do whatever I need to do!"