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I cast one last look at Ulfric and then claim a seat, gratefully reaching for the steaming silver pot.

* * *

Better fedthan I have been in weeks, I leave Maisel’s cottage and make my way to the short gate that separates her small plot of land from the homes around her, admiring the last of her autumn flowers. The cottage garden is cheerful this time of year, with fat pumpkins peeking from behind the late-blooming carmine daisies, but I imagine it’s even more breathtaking in summer when the bulk of the flowers are in full bloom.

I’m disappointed I won’t see it then.

The air is cool, but it’s warming quickly, and it looks like it’s going to be another beautiful day in the mountains. The village is already bustling, with gnomes going about their business. Most appear to be in the nearby orchard, harvesting apples with their rickety ladders and baskets.

A young gnome girl, only knee-high, walks down the lane leading a goat that’s twice her size. She eyes me curiously when I walk through the gate, but she doesn’t stop to say hello.

Another woman sweeps her small rock porch, and a man smokes a pipe as he critiques the apple harvesters.

In the light of morning, it’s just about the most charming village I’ve ever seen.

“Will you stay for the cider pressing?” a man says from behind me.

I jump a little, startled not because someone is addressing me, nor that the voice is smooth and deep, but because the words came from too high up for the source to be a gnome.

Ayan gives me a flirtatious smile when I turn, and then he matches my pace, clasping his hands behind his back. “Good morning, Clover.”

I eye him. “Good morning.”

He leans a fraction closer and lowers his voice. “No need to look so wary. I don’t bite—not unless you ask me nicely.”

“You’re a pig,” I say, continuing down the lane, trying to remember where Gruebin’s cottage is located.

“Worse,” he says with a laugh. “I’m a High Vale. Haughty, proud, and—”

“Extremely self-confident.”

He grins. “I believe that sums me up nicely.”

I roll my eyes.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, undaunted.

“No, we’re not staying for the cider pressing.”

Even if it sounds lovely. Unable to help myself, I glance back at the orchard longingly.

“You could stay here, you know. Let your soldier and his scrappy comrades continue their aynauth hunt. Maisel would never admit it, but I’m sure she’s over the moons to have company.”

“I’m one of the ‘scrappy comrades,’” I say wryly.

Ayan steps in front of me and stops, studying me with his dark brown eyes. “Are you? Are you really?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “You just don’t seem to be the adventuring type, that’s all.”

Apparently, the outfit isn’t fooling anyone.

“Well, I am,” I say hotly.

“If you won’t stay, maybe I should come with you. It seems you could use an extra member of your party—someone competent in offensive magic, someone good with a sword.” He preens like a peacock. “Someone ruggedly handsome with a dazzling wit and intellect.”

I brush past him. “If you see someone like that, please let me know.”