Page 5

Three weeks. He's never told me before when he'd return. Always just appeared, his arrival a surprise I pretended not to welcome.
Something squeezes in my chest—a feeling I refuse to name. This arrangement was supposed to be simple. Physical release with a man who wouldn't get attached, wouldn't expect more from me than I was willing to give. A xaphan who'd never want a human for anything beyond occasional pleasure.
So why does my small house feel so empty every time he leaves?
I lie back on the sheets, staring at the ceiling beams. Is this what my life has become? Waiting for scraps of attention from a xaphan courier who passes through my village only when duty requires it? A few hours of passion once a month, then days of silence until he deigns to return?
The worst part is knowing I'll welcome him back. Every time. Like a starving woman grateful for crumbs.
"Is this all I get to have?" My whisper hangs in the air, unanswered.
No family. Few friends. A small supply shop that barely keeps me fed. And Araton—who isn't mine, will never be mine. Who comes and goes like the phases of the moon, predictable yet untouchable.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, fighting the hot pressure building behind them. I won't cry. Not over him. Not over this arrangement I willingly entered into.
The hollowness expands inside me anyway, familiar and unwelcome. A little empty. A little lonely. A little heartbroken.
3
RONNIE
Iwake up to a familiar churning in my stomach, the fifth morning in a row. Stumbling from my bed, I barely make it to the bucket in the corner of my bedroom before the meager contents of my stomach vacate in an undignified rush.
"Goddess above," I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Nothing's staying down—not the dry toast I forced myself to eat last night, not even the meadowmint tea I hoped would settle my rebellious insides.
The wooden floorboards creak beneath my knees as I push myself upright, ignoring how the room spins. This sickness came on suddenly, with no warning, and shows no signs of relenting. I splash water on my face from the small basin, avoiding my reflection in the mirror above it. I already know what I'll see—skin paler than usual, making my freckles stand out like splattered mud, dark circles shadowing my gray eyes.
I need to open the shop. People depend on my supplies, and I'm the only merchant for miles who stocks certain essentials. I can't afford a day of rest, not when the trading routes have been disrupted by the increased xaphan presence in the region. The irony of that thought isn't lost on me.
The walk downstairs to my small shopfront feels like scaling a mountain. I unlock the front door with trembling hands, flipping the hand-carved sign to announce I'm open for business. Morning sunlight slants through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and shelves lined with practical necessities—preserved foods, medicines, tools, lantern oil, and the various odds and ends that keep a village functioning.
My first customer arrives just as I finish arranging a new shipment of dreelk leaves. Mrs. Hemming, with her perpetual frown and sharp eyes that miss nothing.
"Morning, Rosalind." She's the only one who still uses my full name, a reminder of my aunt who raised me with indifferent hands but rigid formalities.
"Mrs. Hemming." I nod, fighting the wave of nausea that rises when I catch a whiff of her floral perfume. "What can I get for you?"
She sets her basket on the counter. "Quillnash, if you've any fresh. And that tincture for my husband's joints."
I turn to fetch the items, hoping my unsteadiness isn't obvious. The shelves seem to swim before my eyes as I reach for the bottle of joint remedy.
"You look terrible," Mrs. Hemming declares, never one to soften her observations. "Pale as death warmed over."
"Just tired." I set her purchases on the counter, concentrating on not swaying. "Trade route delays have me working late."
She sniffs, unconvinced. "Working late, or entertaining that xaphan who visits you?"
Heat flares in my cheeks despite my weakness. Of course people notice. In a village this small, nothing stays secret.
"That'll be twelve lummi." I deliberately ignore her implication.
Mrs. Hemming counts out the coins with deliberate slowness. "You're ill, girl. Anyone with eyes can see it."
"I'm fine." I push her purchases toward her, desperate for her to leave before I embarrass myself by vomiting in front of her.
The doorbell chimes as she finally exits, but before I can gather myself, it rings again. Kai Willowbark enters, her arms filled with bundles of herbs. As our village healer, she's always gathering something for her remedies.
"Morning, Ronnie," she greets, her voice warm and melodic. Unlike most, Kai never judges. Perhaps because she's seen people at their worst—in sickness, in pain, in death. "I've brought those brimbark stalks you wanted to stock."