Page 27

She had nowhere to go after Dragons. And more importantly, she didn’t want to go anywhere.

And so today she walked to the light blue house on top of the hill. It looked both inconspicuous among the equally colorful dwellings of the island and yet, in her mind, stood completely apart.

She had learned that after long debates, after all the clinical terminology, they’d settled on calling it the Refuge. As she approached the building, she felt that the name fit perfectly.

The story of Mayor Allende’s victory and subsequent promise of ensuring safety for all domestic violence survivors had made the state news. Lark had watched the fresh-faced reporter talk to Dragonites on the wall-mounted TV in a diner on the outskirts of Provincetown, where she washed dishes and served food for a few months. Then the cameras had panned to the busy streets of the island and the town hall. A tall, gorgeous, dark-haired woman, the mayor herself, spoke calmly about Crow’s Nest becoming a sanctuary for those in need.

Something in Lark’s chest had shifted. Like a piece of a mechanism, a cog that had been faultily installed, rearranged itself in a position that suddenly fit better. Not yet right. Not yet free. But… better. Lark almost did not recognize the feeling. It had been one she was rarely allowed to acknowledge, not to mention breathe in fully.

A strange hope filled her lungs even after Mayor Allende and her sleepy little town on the island with a fairy-tale name off the coast of Massachusetts were gone from the screen.

By the time the program returned to the studio and an older woman rattled off the national statistics on domestic assaults and the number for the Massachusetts state help line, Lark had one hand on her small backpack and was headed to the door.

Impulsivity suited her. And saved her. Many times over. Shady bosses. Strange, handsy coworkers. Sweary motel desk managers. She had been going from one place to the next, from Louisiana, to Alabama, to Georgia and then north, north, north for ten years. Small backwater towns at first, larger ones after Savannah as she grew weary.

It had been easier to blend in in places where everyone was constantly on the move, like truck stops and dingy diners, but Lark had also been very tired.

And she wanted more. She wanted… Maybe that had been the problem. The want. The want made her impatient. Made her weak. She started applying for jobs in larger towns, then touristy places. Moving, yes, but also to better things. To brighter things. To sun-filled restaurants and moody, ambitious cafés. She learned. And for the very first time it felt like she was living instead of just running.

She still made close to nothing—her steadfast refusal to show her papers or give her full name made her easy prey for under-the-table wages and other dishonest practices—but it didn’t matter.

Lark was learning. To cook. To make fancy coffee. To bake bread that smelled like heaven when she cut into it. She even lucked into a secretarial sort of duty at a women’s clinic in Delaware after a diner customer arranged for it. It had been sweet. She was… something. Something more. She wanted. And it was risky.

Wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant permanence, and Lark could not afford that. So over ten years, she found herself all the way in Massachusetts, as far east as one could go without a passport.

Dragons had brought back the want the moment she spotted it on the horizon, cold and shivering on the ferry. Three enormous stone giants and a speck of land in between them. Forests and a beach. A collection of houses that looked like a child had spilled them in the sandbox. And Lark had wanted. Not for the first time, but perhaps the strongest, she had wanted to stay.

Hadn’t you told yourself you had wanted a purpose?

The building rose in front of her as she followed Ceridwen’s directions, and Lark sensed that maybe, just maybe, she had found the beginnings of one.

That little cog—the one that had sat not quite right, the one that had been better yet not perfect—shifted again, and breathing became easier still.

Was this your purpose?

What had begun as a survivors’ center was now in its second month of functioning, its doors open to anyone who needed help.

She heard Ceridwen talk about the hours she had spent there over the weekend and how they were looking for people to come and help. Volunteers would get basic training on working with survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault, and then they’d be placed where their help was most needed at the Refuge.

“I’m not certain I have anything to offer.” Lark had murmured, and Ceridwen shook her head.

“You cook, you clean, you bake, you operate the registers and my order books. And above all, you are kind, you are careful, and you are fiercely intelligent, Lark. You have plenty to offer.”

Ceridwen smiled and laid her hand on Lark’s shoulder, and something in those eyes, the faith in her, felt like a blessing.

Lark had trembled at the thought of placing herself in a space where pain was so crystalized, so connected to her own. And yet… And yet, the very next free evening she had, she walked up to the unassuming building and knocked on the door.

So here she was. The blonde who opened the door looked like someone out of a romance novel. Something about cliffs and fire, things burning and being rebuilt. Something award-winning, dramatic, and romantic.

Lark wondered if all the women on Dragons were ridiculously beautiful and felt instantly inadequate in her old windbreaker and her mousy brown hair pulled back in a skinny ponytail under Seren’s beanie.

The tall, willowy woman ushered her in, her blonde braid swishing around her shoulders as she closed the door behind them. She smiled, an easy welcome given freely, with no hidden thought, no concern, despite standing in the doorway of a place that housed all the hurt in the world.

“You’re Lark, right? I’m Sam. Sam Threadneedle. Councilwoman Crowhart mentioned that you might stop by. So you can say I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Lark started, then simply stared. Ceridwen talked about her? Lark assumed that people didn’t remember she existed once she was out of their sight.

The woman—Sam, Lark corrected herself—smiled wider, a touch gentler.