Wildflowers | Alec Volturi

quatre

"She had this image that was built carefully around her." 

Robyn had only been to a big town, a city, a handful of times in her relatively short life. 

it had been important to her Father that she was to see the differences in lifestyles, that she attempt to appreciate the small village that she was born into and destined to remain -- of course, with the sole condition that a man of high finery that her Father should so approve of come to whisk her away. 

There were greater numbers of people, a population so large that they had the chance to not know each person that they encountered. There was, apparently, places that one could go that strangers were a real idea. 

It was there, in the nearest city, that she had seen what she would consider a real church, a looming building with steeples, real pews and columns and archways. They had art on the walls and coloured glass in the windows. 

They had a real bell there instead of the little handheld thing that Robyn would ring at the beginning of each service, standing just outside the open door to let people know of the hour, should they ever forget -- they never do. 

It was where she stood after a marriage, ringing her little bell as the happy couple rejoiced. 

It was, as she was now, where she stood, silent, with the little bell in hand, smiling and greeting the churchgoers as they left to there days, the woman and girls stopping to kiss her cheeks before moving on to speak with her Mother. 

Why they had to stand here each time, greeting them, was beyond her. She didn't enjoy it in the slightest, having to pretend to like these people, having to pretend to smile bashfully when they attempted to persuade her to court their foul children.  

Though, it was here that Robyn could see the twins, standing off to the side, at the open to a narrow road that would lead to their home. It was as close as they dared come to the filled church, as close as they dared come even if their parents were welcome to sit at the very back of the church -- slipping in and out before anyone could give them much thought. 

She blinks, swallowing the lump in her throat, and turns her head. 

It was the dark-haired woman that came to her next, leaning down to lay full lips against her cheek, a brush of a greeting as she whispered. "I will speak to him the next time we are alone," her words are taken gratefully, held close to Robyn's heart with hope, "You should warn them in advance, go to them so they are not caught by surprise." 

"I will, thank you," her reply is just as soft, if not softer. "May the Lord be with you," she says louder, nodding her head with the words. 

The dark-haired woman slips away, moving on to thank Mother for the wonderful service -- as though she was still the one that helped prepare the service. They both knew that it was Robyn that took on the task now, filling in for the sickly woman. 

"You are distracted today." 

"I am always distracted, brother," she says lightly, with a faux brightness and a plastered on smile. "I have the nature of a woman." 

He laughs. "Ah, so you admit now that the fairer sex does not have the spiritual fortitude of a man?" 

"Never shall I admit such untrue words," she defends with a smile. "I simply admit that it is easier to get lost in one's thoughts when you are more prone to having them. It is not my fault that women think more than men." 

"You are a feisty creature, Robyn," he gests, but the words don't reach his eyes, falling short as he grows a sudden intensity that he hides behind a kindly expression. "You ought to be careful what you say, lest you anger someone that you shan't."