Dawn came to Wisteria Manor like a mistress in the house of a nobleman—unwanted, unwelcome. Zuriel, like the wife of the house, regarded the coming of day with open disdain.
Of course he had no reason to rise from bed; he was in Wisteria for rest, after all. Yet he knew his body could never lie still when morning came.
It was merely instinct—no different from beasts that slept by night and rose at dawn in search of food.
Thus his disdain for dawn.
Accompanying the light that coursed into the room were memories of the night before. Memories of tinkling bells, clapping palms, and a voice deep yet silvery. His irritation waxed.
Ramblings of a madwoman, he told himself again.
Yet as he arose and stepped out of the cottage to walk the forest, he could not shake the sound that seemed to tail after him—bells—nor the name that followed it…
"Damaris."
The moment she stepped out of the hut, her name echoed through the forest, and she knew another scolding awaited her.
"Yes, Milcah?" Her response was a drawl, meant to convey her weariness for the talk she knew was bound to come.
"I woke up in the dead of night and found you had disappeared again," came the voice that had echoed her name into the morning air with reproach. A voice made hoarse by age.
Sitting on a small wooden bench, surrounded by reeds, was a woman whose hair had more gray than black. Her fingers, diligently weaving a mat, paused as she looked up at the young woman standing by the door, sandals in hand.
"Did you go dancing in the woods again?" she asked, turning her face back to her work as her hands resumed their weaving. "How many times must I tell you that although Wisteria is a peaceful place, you—"
"do not know what kind of people are out there at night." Damaris completed the words she was so used to hearing. "I know, Milcah. But you always forget, Damaris is no feeble woman. I am no damsel in distress." She shrugged, waving her sandals in the air like a weapon.
Milcah spared her a glance, then faced her work again. "No matter how strong a woman is, there will always be a stronger man." After those words came the loud crow of a cock, as if in agreement with the older woman.
Irritated, Damaris glared at the bird, but her gaze soon softened as it fixed upon its crown. It was red… She was suddenly reminded of something red she had seen on the head of another.
A certain man she happened to come across the previous night.
Hair as red as blood, with eyes that gazed directly at her. At first she had not seen those eyes, and so, like many others, she assumed his staring meant he had been mesmerized by her charms.
Yet when the moonlight shifted and rested upon his face, their eyes met—and she found no interest whatsoever reflected in his.
Strange man.
Any man who would not be taken by the beauty of Damaris was most definitely strange.
"And if not for your sake," Milcah continued, "then for the sake of others. Last time, poor Timothy nearly died of fright thinking you were a ghost of the woods." Milcah shook her head as she recalled the way the young man ran out of the woods screaming ghost.
Damaris laughed. "Everyone knows Timothy lacks a spine." She started walking away, sandals swinging, remembering the look of embarrassment on the man's face after he had stirred people from their beds in the dead of night, only for her to emerge as the supposed ghost.
"And where are you off to, so early?!" Milcah called after her hopping figure; the only response was a shrug of her shoulders and an enchanting smile.
"And Damaris, your sandals are meant to be worn on your feet!!" The words trailed after her as she moved through the grassy lands, sometimes hopping, sometimes running.
"Good morning Damaris!"
The calls immediately began. A young man hunched beneath the weight of a heavy sack upon his shoulder waved, alerting others to her presence.
What followed were offers of help, declarations of love, pleas for a reply to confessions made, laughter pleasantly trailing after her like dried leaves floating in the wind.
"Damaris, will you be telling any tales at the market square tonight?" A child asked with anticipation in his eyes.
"Who else tells them better, Eric?" she answered and the boy ran off declaring the good news to his peers.
"Damaris, when will I get my mat? The old one is completely worn out." asked a woman carrying a bowl of steamed corn.
"Before nightfall, Hagar. Can I have one?" she asked, pointing at the bowl.
Hagar rolled her eyes, wrapped two ears in banana leaves, and handed them over. "Just make sure I get my mat today."
"You will. Thank you." She beamed and went on her way.
Rowena, weaving baskets, called. "Damaris, when you get to the farm, please remind my husband to pick up the bread—I already paid! He never remembers!"
"I will." She was about to move on when she caught a glimpse of someone behind the tree next to Rowena.
A mischievous smile curled up her lips. "Good morning Timothy, you can't hide from me forever."
"You are too much, Damaris." The young man flushed crimson and bolted.
"Hey, Damaris, how are you feeling about me today? Are you in love?" called another, flexing his muscles for the world—and Damaris—to see.
"Not in this life James."
With corn in one hand and sandals in the other, she bounced onward thinking to herself, This was how it should be. This was how normal healthy young men acted around her. Anyone who didn't act this way was indubitably not normal. Just like red hair.