The Archery Range – Part 2: Bullseye

"I would like that," said Beth. "I would like that very much."

The kiss was soft and tasted of woodsmoke and wind. Imogen's hand rose to her cheek, calloused at the fingertips from the bowstring. Beth laughed against her mouth, and kissed her back, and the glade seemed to hold its breath. A wood pigeon cooed. The targets stood silent in the amber light.

"I don't usually," said Imogen.

"Kiss students?"

"Kiss anyone."

"Then I'm honoured."

"You should be," said Imogen, grinning. "I'm a very good shot."

They collected the arrows, stacked the bows and walked slowly along the woodland path to Imogen's cottage at the edge of the trees, a small stone house with a green door and a garden full of herbs. Dusk gathered under the oaks. A fox crossed the track and paused to look at them with polite interest.

The kitchen was warm and bright, with a scrubbed table and a stove. Imogen made tea and they drank it standing, close, their eyes on each other over the rims.

"I should tell you," said Beth. "I'm out of practice."

"At what?"

"Everything."

"We have all night," said Imogen softly.

The bedroom was snug under the thatch, with a patchwork quilt and a window onto the dark trees. They undressed slowly, laughing at arm guards and braids and a stubborn lace, and their love-making was gentle and unhurried, full of soft breath and murmured laughter, with owls calling in the oaks and the cottage creaking around them.

At dawn, mist lay in the glade like milk. Beth woke to find a long arrow on the pillow, tied with a ribbon.

"A bullseye," said Imogen, from the door, with two mugs of tea. "I made it last night. It's not for shooting."

"It's beautiful."

"It's for the wall of your office. For when the week gets loud." Imogen sat on the bed. "And so you remember that you can breathe out. And let go."

Beth kissed her. "I think I've already learned," she said.

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