The walk home took three times what it should have. My right leg set the pace, the road declined to shorten itself, and Kade’s last order kept me company the whole way: sleep, then the yard, after the sun cleared the roofs. I’d offered to stand the watch instead. He’d looked at my leg and said, “You’re limping,” and some arguments are over before they start.
Brookhaven slept in pieces. A shutter clicked above me. From the Sleeping Badger came the scrape of a chair and a muffled curse. The common fire had dwindled to a red seam beneath ash, and the road west of it carried cooling bread, soap, and old woodsmoke.
The cottage waited at the end of the road, whitewashed fieldstone pale beneath the stars. A lamp burned behind the mended curtains. Maren had left the latch loose.
I pushed inside and found her at the kitchen table, folding a cloth that didn’t need folding. A covered plate sat beside the lamp. She looked at my face first, then my right leg, then the mud on my sleeve.
“You’re late,” she said.
“The wolves were inconsiderate.”
“Sit down before you fall down and make me catch you.”
“I’d never burden you so.”
“You’ve been doing it since you could walk.”
Under the cloth waited soft bread, sharp cheese, and two strips of cold meat. Hunger opened inside me so quickly it felt like another injury. I sat. Maren poured tea from the pot near the hearth, added honey without asking, and pushed the plate within reach.
I ate with both hands. The bread was faintly sweet from the grain, the cheese sharp, waking my tongue. Maren watched until I swallowed the first mouthful, then fussed with the torn edge of my jerkin.
“Kade says I report to the yard after sunrise,” I said.
“Then you’ll report after sunrise.”
“He didn’t tell me what’s happening.”
“He told you to sleep.”
“You two have formed an alliance against my better qualities.”
“You have one better quality. It’s being quiet when you’re asleep.”
I tried to answer, but the room softened around the edges. The hearth cracked. Her hand settled briefly against my hair, smoothing it back from my brow.
“Finish the tea,” she murmured.
I did. Then I made it as far as my bed, where exhaustion took me before I removed my shirt.
The next morning, I woke to a pail striking stone and someone shouting at a goose.
For a moment I lay still, pleasantly lost, with the blanket warm around my shoulders and my body sunk deep into the mattress. Then the scar high on my thigh pulled tight. Not badly, but enough to make me suck air through my teeth.
“Up,” Maren called from the kitchen. “If you’re awake and making that noise, you’re awake for carrying water.”
“I might be dying.”
“Die after breakfast.”
That answer had carried me through fevers, broken knuckles, and the year I learned cider could be drunk faster than sense allowed.
I dressed slowly, testing my right leg with each step. It held. The limp remained if I let it, a hitch beneath the knee that made the floor seem to tilt toward every watching eye. No one in Brookhaven had to mention it. They could read a limp as easily as weather.
At the kitchen table, Maren had set out porridge thick with cream, a fried egg, and yesterday’s bread toasted beside the hearth. She’d rubbed the toast with garlic and spread apple preserve over one corner. Sweet and sharp met on my tongue, and my stomach forgave the hour, the wolves, and nearly everything else.
“Eat all of it,” she said.
“You’ve made a feast fit for a plow horse.”
“A plow horse would complain less.” She nudged the crock closer. “Dalla says the mending eats you hollow for a few days. I plan to outfeed it.”
She stood with her arms folded beneath her ribs, flour dusting one sleeve and iron-brown hair escaping at the temples. I ate the egg in three bites, then slowed because she looked prepared to add another portion by force.
“Your list,” I said.
“Two buckets from the pump. Mend the latch on the front door. Take the split basket to the cooper’s shed and bring back the sound one. The geese are in the herb bed again. Chase them out before they eat the sage.”
“Anything difficult?”
“The basket may challenge you.”
“I’ll try not to disgrace the family.”
She reached across the table and tugged my collar straight. “And don’t run to the yard.”
“I never run.”
“You fall forward quickly.”
I wanted to argue, but the porridge was hot and the bread was better. Besides, she’d already begun wrapping the remaining toast in cloth for later, which meant the argument had been judged and lost.
Outside, Brookhaven was busy without hurrying. Shutters opened one by one. Laundry sagged between leaning fences, damp from the morning air. Pails knocked against legs. A woman across the road shook crumbs from a cloth while her youngest tried to catch them before they reached the chickens.
“There he is,” called the baker from his doorway. “The famous wolf slayer.”
“You owe me a loaf for that title.”
“I owe you a loaf for returning my boy’s knife.”
“Then we agree I’m owed two.”
“You’re owed a scolding for letting him carry it into the woods.”
“Take that up with his father.”
The baker pointed a floury finger at me, then spoiled it by reaching for another loaf. Behind him, bread steamed in its baskets. The smell made my breakfast seem like a distant, noble effort.
At the pump, an old neighbor shoved one pail toward me with her foot. “Your mother said you’d be useful today.”
“My mother says many reckless things.”
“Hold the handle properly. You’ve always hauled like a drunk.”
I did as told. The pump squealed, and water came cold over my knuckles. A boy paused on his way past to stare at the way I favored the leg.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Only when people ask.”
He considered that, kicked a stone at my boot, and ran before I could answer.
The geese objected loudly when I drove them from the herbs. The gate latch took three attempts and a splinter. By the time I reached the cooper’s shed, my shirt clung to my back.
A woman called after me about a fence post I’d promised to help lift last spring. The baker shouted that his boy’s knife was to remain at home. Someone pressed half a pear into my hand and told me not to drip juice on the clean road.
I returned the sound basket, gave the pear core to a hopeful goat, and set off toward Kade’s yard with time to spare.
If he expected me late, I meant to disappoint him.
At the gate, I found the yard still quiet. Kade stood alone beside the practice posts, and when he looked toward me, one gray brow rose.
For once, I’d arrived before he was ready to complain.
“You’re early,” Kade said.
“I’ve been told it’s a handsome quality.”
“By your mother.”
“She has excellent judgment.”
Kade’s mouth shifted, though whether toward amusement or indigestion was difficult to say. He stood beside the weapon rack with his practice sword resting against one shoulder, iron-gray hair bright beneath the thin morning sun. The old scar along his jaw pulled pale when he frowned, which was often enough that I watched his hands instead.
His finger pointed at the nearest chalked square. “Inside.”
I stepped over the rail. Packed earth received my boots with familiar softness. Dust clung to the scarred boards, and the weapon rack smelled of oiled wood, leather, and cold iron. A few neighbors paused along the rail as they passed. They’d watched me grow from a skinny boy who held a wooden sword backward into a young man Kade could knock flat without stepping hard.
That history made the silence worse. I wanted Kade to see the man who’d stood between Perin and a wolf. Instead, he looked at my feet.
“Your right leg,” he said.
“Still attached.”
“For now.”
He tossed me a blunted sword. I caught it, shifted my grip, and kept my weight centered.
Kade entered the square.
“Three attackers. You’re here.”
“Only three?”
“Don’t get hopeful.”
He struck before I could settle.
Steel cracked against steel. I turned the first cut aside, caught the second at my shoulder, and hopped back from the third. His blade skimmed my trouser leg.
“You’re watching me,” Kade said.
“You’re difficult to ignore.”
“Watch the field.”
He drove me toward the edge of the square. I saw the post behind my right shoulder, the loose earth near my heel, and the younger trainees gathering beyond Kade’s back. Sera stood among them in fitted deep green and russet, her practical braid hanging over one shoulder. Her warm brown eyes caught mine for a heartbeat and held on a beat too long to be accidental.
I nearly looked back.
Kade’s blade rapped my ribs.
“Dead.”
“I was distracted.”
“That’s what dead men say.”
We reset.
The rest of the morning passed in the yard’s rhythm. Kade worked me through footwork until my calves trembled sooner than pride wanted. Then he put me against two younger trainees whose speed I’d underestimated. The healing leg made pride a poor substitute for balance. I shortened my steps, kept my weight centered, and turned instead of lunging.
Between bouts, Kade marked the dirt with the heel of his boot.
“Here. You see one threat. What else?”
“The second man’s reach.”
“Again.”
“The doorway. The cart wheel. Bad ground.”
“And?”
I glanced toward the rail. The baker’s floury boy had stopped there, his father’s knife safely tucked into his belt this time. Two women leaned against the fence, whispering. Sera had taken up a practice blade and was correcting a younger trainee with a tap to his elbow.
“People.”
“People aren’t obstacles.”
“Some of them are.”
“Then you move around them.”
His answer irritated me because it was sensible. Behind him, the baker’s boy wandered closer to the rail while watching us. I shifted my line so Kade stood between the child and my blade.
Kade came at me again.
This time I didn’t chase his first opening. His shoulder dipped, inviting a cut at his arm. I held. He changed the line toward my throat. I parried, pivoted around my bad leg, and kept my eyes on his chest instead of the sword. He stepped inside my reach and struck my wrist.
“Better,” he said.
The word landed harder than the blow.
I waited for more. Kade rolled his shoulder and gave me none.
“Against the wolves,” he said, “you kept your head when the first one broke through.”
I forgot to breathe.
Kade immediately added, “Then you chased the second. Don’t do that.”
“You could’ve said the first part before the second.”
“Would’ve made you soft.”
“I’m devastated.”
“You’ll survive.”
He attacked. I wanted to prove the praise deserved continuation. That hunger rose hot and foolish, and for one dangerous moment I nearly lunged at the opening he offered.
Then I saw the chalked boundary behind him, the uneven earth beneath my rear foot, and the way his hips hadn’t committed to the retreat.
Not yet.
I waited.
Kade’s feint collapsed into a real cut. I caught it, stepped off the line, and let his momentum carry him past my shoulder. My blade touched the padded gap beneath his arm before he could turn.
For half a breath, the yard went quiet.
Kade looked down at the place I’d touched, then at me. “That was clean.”
My chest lifted. I kept my face composed through an effort that deserved its own medal.
“Do it again,” he said.
“I was enjoying the moment.”
“Enjoy it while moving.”
He came at me once more, and I met him without rushing. Around us, boots struck earth, practice blades rang, and someone at the rail gave a low appreciative whistle. I didn’t look to see who. For once, I didn’t need to.
By the time Kade finally let me go, my stomach had begun considering the wooden practice sword.
“Wash before you sit down anywhere,” he called after me.
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
I left him with the younger trainees and the pleasant misery of being needed. By then I wanted lunch large enough to frighten a priest.
The common had reached its midday life. Canvas awnings overlapped above the tables, patching sunlight into shifting squares. The common fire snapped beneath a blackened iron plate while a woman turned meat cakes with a wooden spatula. Hot pastry scented the air near the Sleeping Badger. Apples rolled in baskets beside carrots and pale roots, and beneath the bargaining, laughter, crockery, and squealing handcarts, onions fried in fat.
“Edrin!”
Bram Cobb leaned over his stall counter, one finger measuring a strip of harness leather as if it’d personally offended him. Silver touched his dark hair at the temples. He glanced at my split knuckle, then at the sweat darkening my shirt.
“If you’re bleeding on my leather, buy it.”
“I’d hate to ruin your finest.”
“You ruined your finest when you were twelve and tried to climb the dye shed.”
“That was a tactical ascent.”
“You fell into a barrel.”
“The barrel was tactically placed.”
Bram groaned and rubbed his eyes, but pushed a heel of bread toward me from the basket beneath his counter. I took it with a grateful nod.
“Your mother said you’d come by for the mended strap,” he said.
“She said that?”
“She said you’d forget it.”
“There she is.”
He pointed at me with the bread knife. “Don’t make me send it to the cottage with a note.”
“I’ll carry it myself.”
“You’ll pay me when Maren pays me for the mending.”
“I’m touched by your faith in my future.”
“I’m touched by your mother’s patience.”
I escaped before he could add another family debt to my conscience. At the nearest stall I bought two meat cakes, buttered roots, and a pastry filled with mushrooms, herbs, and gravy thick enough to hold a spoon upright.
The first bite nearly made me close my eyes. Salt, browned crust, pepper, and rich mushroom juice filled my mouth. My body stopped caring whether I looked impressive.
That was when I saw Lysa.
She slipped between the tables with a basket hooked over one arm, dodged a child without spilling a single apple, and let her skirts argue with her hips the whole way. I’d known her since we were children. That had never stopped my eyes from following.
Her gaze found me before I could pretend mine hadn’t found her.
“Careful, handsome,” she said. “You’re staring so hard you’ll choke.”
I swallowed a mouthful of pastry with dignity barely intact. “I was studying the market.”
“The market has hazel eyes and a crooked smile now?”
“Brookhaven keeps improving.”
She laughed. The pale nick beside her lower lip caught my attention. I met her eyes. Her smile had widened.
Lysa stepped closer. One ribbon had come loose near her temple, and the market heat had put color high in her cheeks. Her eyes dropped to the dirt on my shoulder, then the sweat darkening my shirt.
“You look dreadful.”
“Kade says I look better moving.”
“Kade says many things that make people miserable.” She tipped her head toward the road beyond the common. “I’m going to Marta’s. Come with me.”
Lunch stopped mattering between one breath and the next. The day’s heat had curled the hair at her temple, and I could see exactly where. I wanted to follow her anywhere she was going.
“For the bath,” I said.
“That’s what I said, pet.”
She turned before I could build a refusal that might protect me. I finished the meat cake in two bites, wiped gravy from my thumb, and followed her across the common, pretending the bath was the reason.
Marta took one look at the hitch in my right step and clicked her tongue.
“Recovery pool,” she said. “Not the deep one. You’ll overheat that scar and then complain when Dalla scolds you.”
“I’ve never complained under those circumstances.”
“You complained when I gave you willow bark.”
“It tasted like boiled fence.”
“And yet you survived.”
She thrust a folded linen wrap at me, then another at Lysa. “Keep your voices down. The old men in the main room have ears sharper than their manners.”
Lysa accepted hers with a solemn nod. “We’ll be models of discretion.”
Marta looked from her to me, hands settling on her heavy apron. “That’s what frightens me.”
She sent us through a linen screen into the smaller room. Steam blurred the lamps and softened the stone walls. The recovery pool sat beneath a copper pipe that hissed steadily into the water, no larger than a farmer’s dipping trough and twice as welcoming. Cedar benches lined one wall. Beyond the screen, muted talk rose and fell with the slap of water against stone.
Brookhaven had no grand hall or jeweled pleasure house. We had Marta’s hot water, clean wraps, and the certainty that someone’s aunt might walk in to ask whether you’d remembered your mother’s birthday.
Lysa tied her braid up out of the way and glanced at me over her shoulder. “Are you planning to stand there until winter?”
“I’m considering the dangers.”
“Of water?”
“Of being seen with you.”
“You followed me across the common in front of half the town.”
“That was different. I was hungry.”
“You’re still hungry.”
She slipped behind the nearest screen. Cloth rustled, followed by the small splash of her entering the pool.
“Are you coming?” she called.
“That depends how long you keep asking.”
I stripped and lowered myself into the water. Heat climbed through my legs and back. The yard’s aches loosened at once, leaving behind a pleasant heaviness and the uncomfortable awareness that Lysa sat close enough for our knees to touch if either of us shifted.
She’d tied the linen beneath her arms. Steam pearled on her shoulders and throat. The wet wrap traced the small, high curve of her chest, narrowed at her waist, then drifted loose over her hips. I looked. She caught me looking. Neither of us pretended otherwise.
Her hazel eyes caught me.
“There’s a whole world below your chin,” she said.
“I’m familiar with it. It’s less distracting.”
“Poor thing.”
She moved nearer, her hip brushing mine beneath the water. The contact was brief enough to deny, but I took it for deliberate. Heat climbed into my face that had nothing to do with the pool.
“How bad is the leg?” she asked.
“Kade says it’ll mend.”
“Kade says everything will mend if you stop being an idiot.”
“He says that about my sword arm.”
“He says it about the rest of you too.”
She reached beneath the water and closed one hand around my ankle. I could’ve moved. Instead I let her draw my lower leg across her lap, a decision that cost me more composure than it should have. Her fingers were quick and capable, the same hands I’d seen knot ribbons, sort cloth, and steal the best apple from a shared basket.
“Does it pull?” she asked.
“Only when I move.”
“Then don’t.” She kept my leg across her lap.
Her fingers worked up the muscle to where the dark scar began, careful not to press the new ridge. Her thumb traced just below it. My breath caught, and the wolf had nothing to do with it.
“You were frightened,” she said.
“I was magnificent.”
“You were shouting.”
“Magnificently.”
Her laugh came softly. She eased my leg back into the water without releasing my gaze. Then her fingers found my uninjured hand, turned it palm-down, and pressed her mouth to my knuckles.
The kiss was warm and quick.
My wit deserted me. It’d served faithfully through wolves, Kade’s practice sword, and the humiliating price of lamp oil. Now it lay dead at the bottom of Marta’s pool.
Lysa didn’t release me. She watched my face, and I took that attention for a question. Maybe she wanted an answer. Maybe she simply enjoyed watching me lose one.
“That’s a dangerous thing to do,” I managed.
“Kissing your hand?”
“Making me think you’re kind.”
“I’m not kind.” Her thumb slid over my knuckles. “I wanted to see if you’d stop talking.”
“Did it work?”
“Not yet.”
She held my gaze and drew my hand a little closer. My pulse stumbled. I could’ve laughed or made some light remark. Instead I shifted toward her.
Water lifted between us and settled against our ribs. Her knees touched mine.
She stayed.
The steam made the room feel smaller. Damp strands had escaped her braid. Water shone along her skin. When the linen loosened at one shoulder, I followed it until her eyes caught mine again.
“Lysa,” I said.
Her smile lost its teasing edge. I put my hand at her waist.
My palm settled against her narrow middle. She drew in a breath but didn’t retreat. Her hand came to my shoulder, fingers spreading over the muscle there. Up close, she smelled of soap and warm skin, with the faint sweetness of apples clinging to her hair.
“You’re very brave when nobody’s armed,” she murmured.
“I’m armed.”
“With what?”
“A devastating smile.”
“It’s doing poorly.”
“Give it a moment.”
She leaned in. Her breath grazed my mouth. My hand tightened slightly at her waist. Her fingers curled against my shoulder.
The linen screen snapped aside.
“Edrin.”
Dalla stood in the doorway with a small clay jar in one hand and her travel-worn cloak fastened at her throat. Her green eyes dropped to the scar visible through the water, then to my hand at Lysa’s waist. Her expression didn’t change, which made the interruption worse.
“The salve,” she said. “Before the swelling sets.”
Lysa withdrew her hand with admirable calm. I removed mine more slowly, as though my arm had forgotten whose orders it followed.
“Of course,” I said.
Dalla held out the jar. “After you dry off. Gently.”
“Naturally.”
She gave me the look of a woman measuring whether my best was worth trusting. “That’s what concerns me.”
Dalla set the jar on the cedar bench and left, drawing the screen closed behind her. The copper pipe hissed. Somewhere beyond the wall, Marta tutted at someone splashing.
Lysa looked at me. Her mouth was still just a kiss away.
“You can pretend that meant nothing,” she said.
“Can I?”
“You’re very talented.”
She rose from the pool, water slipping along her body before the linen settled against her again. At the screen, she glanced back. I couldn’t tell whether she expected me to follow or wanted me to sit in the heat and suffer for my hesitation.
She let the screen fall between us.
I remained in the pool with my hand still remembering her waist.
By the time I reached home, the bath’s heat had left my muscles loose and my thoughts annoyingly alert. Dalla’s jar knocked against my hip inside my pocket. Lysa’s mouth remained an inch from mine in memory, an inconvenient distance to carry through a whole town.
The cottage windows glowed behind their mended curtains. I opened the door and found Maren at the hearth, drawing a browned pastry from the oven with a folded cloth around both hands.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I was delayed by a medical emergency.”
She looked at the jar, then at me. “You were delayed by sitting in hot water.”
“That was the treatment.”
“For what?”
“A grave injury to my dignity.”
“Good. Perhaps it’ll heal if you stop talking.”
The smell nearly killed me before any wolf could. Crisp bread browned with butter, onions cooked down until sweet, and the deep richness of meat and mushrooms filled the cottage. Carrots and turnips steamed in a crock beside the hearth, shining with herbs. A dish of last summer’s plum preserves waited near the plates, dark and glossy. Maren had saved the best cider for supper, its sharp orchard sweetness rising from the cups.
My stomach made a sound like a beast testing a gate.
“Sit,” Maren said.
“I’d hoped you might ask more gently.”
“Sit, Edrin.”
I sat.
She cut the pastry into thick portions and set one before me. The crust broke under my knife with a buttery crack. Gravy welled through the layers, carrying roasted meat, mushrooms, black pepper, and thyme dried above the hearth each summer. I put a forkful in my mouth and forgot every clever thing I’d intended to say.
Rich gravy coated my tongue. The pastry flaked against my teeth. The roots were soft at the center and browned at their edges, and the onions had melted into sweetness. I ate too quickly, burned my mouth, and kept going.
“Slow down,” Maren said. “The food isn’t running away.”
“You didn’t see the wolves.”
Her knife paused over her plate.
“We came home,” I said.
Only then did she cut the pastry.
“Kade kept us moving,” I said. “Four died. The rest ran.”
“Four,” she repeated. “And you?”
“I contributed handsomely.”
“You got bitten.”
“Grazed.”
“You got grazed by teeth.”
“Grazed was kinder.”
“Teeth weren’t.”
She tapped the clay jar with one flour-dusted finger. “Work it around the scar after you wash. Properly. Not one lazy swipe so you can claim it’s done.”
“I know how salve works.”
“You know how to swing a sword. That’s not the same thing.”
I looked at the pale burn scar across her wrist. She'd dressed half the town's cuts through hard winters, and she still tapped the salve jar as though mine were the one wound she couldn't trust to anyone else.
“Kade said I kept my head,” I told her.
She lifted her eyes. “Did he?”
“In nearly those words.”
“Then he must’ve been feverish.”
“That was my concern.”
I tried to make it light. Maren saw through me and spared me the embarrassment of saying so.
Maren said nothing more. She passed me the cider.
“You’re training tomorrow,” she said.
“After the sun clears the roofs.”
“Then you’ll mend the door latch before you go.”
“The latch can wait.”
“The latch has waited five days.”
“It’s having a fine time.”
“Edrin.”
I sighed into my cup. “I’ll mend it after training.”
“Before you go. The wind’s picking up, and I’m not spending the evening chasing hens out of the kitchen.”
“The hens have more sense than to come inside.”
“One slept in your boots last week.”
“It liked the lining.”
“It was a hen.”
“A comfortable hen.”
She shook her head, but the corners of her eyes softened. We finished the meal with the old rhythm between us, argument rising and settling like a pot on the hearth. She told me the garden needed turning before the next rain, and I said I’d take the spade. She said I’d say that until the weeds grew taller than me. I said that was an ambitious standard for weeds.
When the pastry was gone, I dragged bread through the last of the gravy. Maren pretended not to see. The preserves followed, tart plum and honeyed sugar brightening the heavy meal, then another half cup of cider because she claimed the first had been mostly foam.
“You’re distracted,” she said while gathering the plates.
“I’m digesting.”
“With your eyes fixed on the wall?”
I glanced at the mended curtain, the flour on the worktable, and the boots waiting by the door. “It’s a very interesting wall.”
“Mm.”
She carried the dishes to the basin. I rose to help, and she clicked her tongue.
“Sit back down. You’ve got one leg sore and your head full of excuses.”
“That leaves me perfectly suited to drying.”
“You’ll break something.”
“Only if it’s standing still.”
“Sit.”
I sat, and for once I didn’t turn the order into another joke. The cottage settled around us with its familiar small sounds, crockery touching wood, water poured into the basin, the hearth giving a soft crack as a coal collapsed. I watched Maren move through the kitchen, broad shoulders shifting beneath plain wool, iron-brown hair loosening at the temples.
I wanted to tell her I was glad to be home.
When she passed behind my chair, I caught her hand and pressed my mouth to her knuckles, flour and all.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“The wall.”
Her fingers closed around mine. “Go wash, you fool.”
I did. I cleaned the sweat and bathhouse heat from my skin, dried the scar on my thigh, and worked Dalla’s salve into the tight skin around it as instructed. It smelled of crushed herbs and resin. Maren inspected the result, tutted once, and allowed it to pass.
After we banked the coals, I set my boots beside the door and climbed into bed. Lysa’s face tried once more to follow me into sleep.
I was too tired to argue with it.
Maren crossed the room to pinch out the lamp. Somewhere beyond the wall, Brookhaven murmured in its sleep, familiar as breathing.