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“Be careful,” Grace said to her father.

“I always am.”

“I want to help you,” Russell said, approaching the hole.

“Hush, now,” Father said, “and do your part.” Then he scrunched his lean five-foot-ten-inch frame into the open space of the hole. It wasn’t tight, but it wasn’t comfortable either. He would have to stay there for a few hours, waiting for the last passing carriage or wagon carrying Fidarans to Vathra, theirassigned trade center, before he slipped from the hatch and distributed the food to struggling farmers.

It was the perfect time. Crossing open fields with unreported food was far safer on this one day each month when most of the gentry, including the mayor and sheriff, would be gone. At first, Grace’s parents had tried bringing supplies in the daytime after market day when homes were filled with new wares anyhow, but then questions came up about the purpose of the sacks lugged between farm homes.

Helping the craftsmen was a bit easier. Goods regularly passed to and from the shops on Craftsman Ridge. Grace and her parents bartered away the second half of their stowed food over the next week.

Grace shut the hatch door, covered it with dirt and weeds, and then returned to the wagon.

The dawn sky was now orange and pink.

“Into the wagon. Quickly,” Grace whispered. Russell, to his credit, heeded without complaint.

Grace shook the reins, and the horses began the two-hour journey to Vathra. Her chest thudded with adrenaline. No one should have seen them. They’d taken the usual precautions, even with Russell’s chattiness. She heard naught beyond the clomp of hoofs, the clack of wheels against dirt and the thrum of her own pulse in her ears.

Silently, she wished her father safety throughout his clandestine efforts. He’d done this once a month for two years, and stealth had never been difficult for him, so she smiled. This job didn’t call for perching in trees and waylaying tax coaches, but it was something rebellious.

And her part of the rebellion was maintaining the appearance of normalcy.

So she handed her brother the reins and directed her mind to the market.

Chapter 3

“Thank you.” Grace handed the paper listing her surname, the quantity of apples she had purchased, and the number of the shed housing her wagon back to the vendor. The woman scribbled her approval and handed the paper to a runner.

“How much longer do we have to be here?” Russell’s whining complaints had long since worn Grace’s patience to a thread. She rubbed at her forehead where a pinprick of pain was developing.

“Russell, this is why we are at the market. Why did you come if you didn’t want to be here?”

“You’re taking so long with the boring part. I want to see the mystic tent.” His pout emphasized the remnants of boyhood in his sharpening face. Always a child at heart, this brother of hers.

Grace sighed. “That was last on our list, but…”

“Yes!” Russell dashed off, and Grace’s words turned into a growl.

“…you know we can’t buy anything from there.”

She offered a half-hearted smile to the apple vendor and trudged into the crowds, following after Russell.

As a trade center, Vathra was home to dozens of local merchants with steady customers, but on the first of day of the month, traveling merchants came from every region of Arellon as well as from neighboring nations to barter, sell, and buy goods. On these days, a woman could find any luxury she could afford, aside from personal space. Moving along the footpaths could only be described as weaving.

Barely keeping Russell in sight, Grace had no time to investigate beautiful baubles or delicious foods displayed in the colorful tents and wooden stalls as she usually would to fill time. She and her brother needed to leave for home at the last possible moment so the road would be empty when they stopped to pick up Father and drive him, hidden among their spoils, back to the town and their estate.

Worse still, she couldn’t watch the people she passed, her eyes trained as they were on the flitting lanky figure of her brother.

Always in the back of Grace’s mind was the hope that she’d see a familiar brown face, older and more mature now, but just as friendly and confident as she remembered. Surely, if she were ever going to see Jonathan again, it would be at a trade center.

Her heart ached. For all she knew, he’d been here every month for two years, but she’d never run into him. There were too many people.

Grace saw Russell enter the mystic tent and wove more quickly to reach him before he could get himself in trouble. She made it to Russell’s side just in time to swat at the hand reaching for a purple stone.

“Don’t touch.”

Russell leveled an “I’m not a child” glare at Grace and moved over to boxes of trinkets. She eyed him, relaxing only when she saw his hands resting at his sides.