How we feeling about Dawson? Want to read more about him? :)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Lucille
The field of lavender was flecked with blue, their green stalks gracefully swaying in the wind. Their sweet fragrance filled the air, carrying as far as the trees, and lightly tickling Lucille's nose.
She reached her hand into the edges of the field, her fingers disappearing in a cloud of purple and returning with the flowers bunched in her palm. Placing them in her basket, Lucille sat up from her place against a bordering tree and turned away, heading back for the house.
Evening was drawing in quickly as Lucille stood in her kitchen, her hands covered in dusty white flour, the bench equally as messy. In front of her, a bowl sat filled with a sweet smelling mixture, ready to be poured into tins and locked in the oven.
When she would bake, it was always clear that Lucille was in a world of her own. It was in her imagination, where she could build her village in her mind just how it used to be. But it always left her feeling somewhat hollow after coming out of the dream-like trance, and she often burned the bread, much to her fathers annoyance.
"Lucille." Her father shouted her name, breaking her from the day dream. "Do you have anything from the bakers?"
"There was only this loaf left. But I'm baking some cakes. To raise some spirits a bit, I think." She replied, slapping his hand away as his finger reached to dip into the raw mixture. "Don't! It's not good for you."
Her father had been in a weird mood since she had left early that morning. He was unusually smiley and acted as if nothing was wrong. It was if they had turned back time, to as far as when even her mother was still alive.
She groaned as he reached back into the bowl, scooping up the spoon in his grip and licked it clean. He laughed at her reaction, but they were interrupted by harsh footsteps. Maron nudged Lucille to the side, his face quickly becoming stern and shoulders squared.
The German glanced into the kitchen with a hooded gaze, stopping shortly for a moment, before retreating to the courtyard. The pair watched through the window as a car pulled up, whisking him away.
"I don't like him being here." Lucille whispered.
"You think I do?" Her father snapped, his mood instantly turning sour.
"Why don't you go stay with that friend of yours for a while?" Her father suggested.
Lucille began to shake her head, thinking of the fact that Amélie had been posted with a soldier that morning. But she quickly stopped herself. Anything was better than staying meters away from a soldier with such a high position. The loft would be perfect. No one would know and she would be safe.
