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“Mika! You’re so quiet, you nearly scared an old woman to death!”

“I’m sorry, I was drawn to the smell,” I try to apologize as my nose keeps sniffing toward the pot. She laughs and flaps at me with her apron as if to shoo me away.

“Can I do anything to help?

“Come give this a stir then, while I check the bread.”

I eagerly take the spoon from her and begin to stir the pot of chunky meat stew, which is interspersed with all kinds of wilting leaves I don’t recognize: wide and bright green, small and yellow sword-shaped with pink edges and spots, and curly, dark green ones. Amongst the wilting greens, I see chunks of white kumara and what looks like pieces of young fern stem, prompting my stomach to give a hungry growl.

While I’m mixing, the older woman takes the two massive loaves of bread out of her little fire oven and sets them aside. Disappearing for a moment, she returns with some dried seed pods and starts grinding them to a powder before tipping them into the pot. An earthy, minty smell wafts up toward me.

“What’s the meat?” I ask her.

“Mutton, dear. Our old lady had enough of this life, so we eat her in celebration and thanks.”

I like that, and I smile to myself.

“Taste it, will you, and tell me what it needs?” she calls, rummaging in a large butler’s pantry.

I quickly look for a small spoon and dip it in the pot to get some of the gravy. The pepperiness punches me delightfully in the face, along with the sweetness from the kumara and earthiness from the greens dancing across my palate.

“Honestly, just a tiny pinch of salt. But a salty buttery bread would be enough.”

She returns from the pantry with an approving look, laden with seven bowls and side plates in her arms.

“Good girl. Beans said you could cook, but he eats the slop that Riley cooks, so I wasn’t convinced,” she says wryly as we hear a “hey!” from Riley in the next room.

“Make yourself useful, boy, and set the table before you’re too drunk,” she calls out to Riley.

He does as he’s asked, and everyone else comes to help, and before long, we have a giant table loaded with food and drinks. There is even a spiced pear cider in jugs for us to share. It’s a fun meal with stories and laughter, mainly at Riley’s expense. It looks like they enjoy deliberately goading him until he explodes. But he gives it back just as good as he gets, so I think he secretly enjoys it.

Frankie—Beans’ sister—pulls me aside after lunch to ask if I have leathers. Ofnemoris predominantly wear leather vests or harnesses, leather sheaths for weapons, leather boots, and even fingerless gloves. I have none as Nemoris leather is expensive.

We’re in a massive room with sewing machines and piles of fabric and leather. I show her my straps with equal parts pride and embarrassment after seeing the quality of her work.

“You made these?” Frankie asks, and I nod. “These are so clever. Do you mind if I take the measurements of the designs? I’ll pay you back with anything you want. I was already going to sew you some leathers anyway, but maybe there’s something extra you’d like?”

I have to shut my gaping mouth and restart my brain. Unable to reply yet, I strip off all the different straps. Pulling out weapons from their hiding places but keeping some hidden. By the end, I have the straps from two small flat wrist blades of varying sizes, two longer ankle blades of different widths, the sheathed knife inside the cut of my left pocket, and two straps of throwing knives of different lengths. It was Frankie’s turn to be gobsmacked before her laughter boomed, not unlike her brother’s.

She grabs out a measuring tape and begins taking measurements of my body, instructing me to lift my arms, stand straight, or take off my current, ratty old boots.

“Do you carry a sword?”

“Oh, yes I do—it’s on a belt with my belongings. Should I get it?”

She nods at me, and I look for the room I’m to share with Riley and Tovi. Grabbing my sword and belt, I hesitate. The edges of a soft leather wrap peek out from my bag, giving me an idea fueled by hope. I return to Frankie.

“Would you have any idea how I could holster these?” I ask, almost pleading, as I show her my hatchets.

She takes them from me with awe, being so gentle. She looks closely at each one and strokes them like a lover. I like her. This is the exact respect and love my hatchets deserve.

“These are stunning, Mika! Where did you get them?”

I describe the market stall and the lady who sold them to me, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen her again.

She takes a few more measurements from me, asking if she can keep the hatchets with her while she works, and I agree. I leave all of my straps with her so she can make patterns, feeling oddly naked and vulnerable without them.

CHAPTER EIGHT