Page 31

M orning light dappled the cobblestones as we made our way through Everwood's quieter streets.

The small cart Uldrek pulled beside us was stacked with our modest belongings—bedding folded in neat squares, books wrapped in cloth, and a few pieces of hand-me-down crockery that Gruha had insisted we take.

Not much to show for two lives, but it was ours.

Ellie dozed against my chest, nestled securely in her sling. She'd been fussy earlier, but the gentle sway of walking had lulled her to sleep, one tiny fist curled around the fabric near my collarbone.

I glanced over my shoulder for the third time in as many minutes, scanning the street corner behind us.

"You're looking real jumpy this morning," Uldrek said, his voice gentle despite the teasing.

"I'm just—thinking," I replied, adjusting Ellie's sling.

He raised an eyebrow. "Thinking's dangerous on moving day. That's how people end up re-packing the same kettle three times."

I huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. "Is that what happened to you? Because I distinctly remember watching you wrap that blue mug twice."

"That was deliberate," he said with mock seriousness. "Extra protection for your favorite cup."

We turned onto River Lane, the cottage just ahead now.

I tried to focus on that—our new home, our fresh start—rather than the conversation I'd had at the Hearth Office just yesterday. The clerk had called it a “Complaint of Magical Coercion, Class Two,” enough to trigger a formal inquiry and compel Gavriel’s response under truth-binding.

The summons would be delivered within two days.

If Gavriel didn’t respond, a warrant could follow. If he did, I’d have to face him in council chambers. But either way, it was no longer a secret tucked behind my ribs.

I thought filing the complaint would feel like a victory. Instead, I mostly felt raw. Exposed. But beneath the ache of it, something steadier burned—a quiet certainty. I hadn’t just waited for the blow to fall. I’d struck first.

Uldrek lowered his voice enough to let me know he wasn't really joking anymore. "You did the right thing, Issy. Doesn't mean it won't feel like your bones are made of glass for a few days. That's just fear catching up."

I swallowed hard. "I hate that he gets to follow me into this. Into our home."

"He's not walking through that door," Uldrek said firmly. "Not unless you invite him. And somehow, I doubt you're planning a tea party."

That earned a real smile, brief but genuine. I was still afraid—that wouldn't disappear overnight—but I wasn't alone in it anymore.

A cat slipped across our path, pausing to consider us with imperious yellow eyes before continuing on its way. From a nearby garden, an elderly woman waved, calling out a cheerful greeting. The normalcy of it all seemed to clash against the tension I carried in my chest.

Ellie stirred against me, her teething ring slipping from her grasp. Uldrek caught it before it hit the ground.

"That's the second time she's thrown this at me today," he said, tucking it safely back into the sling. "What'd I do?"

"Maybe she's practicing for when she's older and can really tell you what she thinks," I suggested and was rewarded with his laugh—a sound that still surprised me with how much I'd come to need it.

We reached the cottage a few minutes later. Uldrek set down his end of the cart and reached into his pocket for the key. It turned in the lock with a satisfying click, and he pushed the door open.

"After you," he said, and something in his voice made me pause.

This wasn't like our previous visit, when we'd been considering possibilities. This time, we were stepping into something real. Something ours.

"Should we bring everything in first or start unpacking as we go?" I asked, surveying the empty space.

Uldrek was already heading back to the cart. "First sorting, then chaos."

We worked steadily for the next hour, bringing in crates and bundles and setting them around the main room in rough groupings.

Uldrek carried in the larger pieces—a table and chairs that Edwin had given us, a small chest of drawers for Ellie's things, the bedframes that would need to be reassembled.

I watched him set down a crate marked "kitchen" with surprising gentleness, then carefully unwrapped my chipped blue mug and set it on the counter. Seeing it there—this small, imperfect thing that had followed me from Tinderpost House—made my throat tighten unexpectedly.

When I opened the trunk containing Ellie's belongings, the feeling intensified.

Her blankets, books, and worn wooden toys lay nestled together, each item carrying memories of the past weeks.

I smoothed a hand over the soft fabric of her favorite sleep blanket, then began arranging her things in her room.

A soft knock at the door announced Hobbie's arrival. She entered without waiting for an answer, arms laden with bundles of herbs and twists of woven charm-thread.

"Windows need protection," she announced, setting her bundles on the table. "And doorframes. And cradle, again."

"Thank you, Hobbie," I said, watching as she immediately set to work, stringing charms above windows and tucking protective herbs into the cracks between floorboards.

I'd learned not to offer help with such tasks—Hobbie preferred to work alone, muttering incantations under her breath that sounded more like scolding than magic.

"The spare room is ready whenever you want to see it," I told her as she finished with the front windows. "We brought in that small bed from Tinderpost."

Hobbie gave an indignant sniff. "No beds. Beds creak. Baskets don't."

"Baskets?" Uldrek repeated, pausing in his work of assembling the table.

"Round one. With wool. Near the child." Hobbie's tone suggested this was perfectly obvious.

"You want to sleep in a basket?" I clarified. "In Ellie's room?"

She nodded firmly. "Already brought mine."

Sure enough, when I checked the room later, I found a large, shallow basket lined with what appeared to be an entire sheep's worth of wool positioned near Ellie's cradle. It looked absurdly comfortable.

By midday, we'd brought in the last of our belongings and begun the process of turning the cottage into a home. Uldrek assembled the bedframes while I swept and arranged the living room, Ellie amusing herself with a wooden spoon on the blanket I'd spread for her.

Another knock at the door announced Dora's arrival. She bustled in carrying a basket covered with a checkered cloth, her cheeks flushed with exertion.

"You’ve been working too hard," she declared, setting her basket on the newly assembled table. "I brought sustenance. Real food, not whatever Gruha calls lunch."

She unveiled her offering with a flourish—jars of preserved fruits, smoked fish wrapped in paper, a small loaf of bread still warm from the oven.

"You didn't need to—" I began.

"Course I didn't need to," she interrupted cheerfully. "That's what makes it nice, isn't it?" She bent to tickle Ellie's chin. "Look at you, little miss, all set up in your new place. You going to let me hold you, or are you still pretending to be shy?"

Ellie regarded her solemnly for a moment, then broke into a gummy smile and raised her arms. Dora scooped her up with practiced ease.

"She gets heavier every day," she remarked. "Growing like a weed, this one."

We were still unpacking Dora's basket when Fira arrived, a scowl on her face and a potted plant with trailing vines in her arms.

"To strangle the drafts," she explained gruffly, setting it on the windowsill. "Old cottage like this, bound to be drafty."

I glanced at the trailing vines as she passed me—spindly but stubborn, like her.

Gruha was the last to arrive, appearing at our door as the afternoon light began to wane. She carried a cast iron cooking pot, a bundle of dried soup herbs tied with twine, and something small wrapped in tissue paper.

"Soup pot," she said, placing it on the hearth with a solid thunk. "Herbs to go with it." The bundle followed. She hesitated, then thrust the tissue-wrapped package toward me. "Someone at the house had no need for this. Thought it might fit your girl."

Inside was a tiny woolen vest, finely knitted in soft gray yarn with delicate stitching around the edges. It was clearly new, despite Gruha's implication otherwise.

"It's beautiful," I said, examining the careful work.

Gruha shrugged, embarrassed by the praise. "Like I said, no need for it at Tinderpost."

The women didn't stay long, which I appreciated even as I enjoyed their company. They seemed to understand that this first day was something private, a moment for our small family to breathe in the newness of our own space.

As the door closed behind the last of them, I turned to find Uldrek watching me with a curious expression.

"What?" I asked.

He shook his head slightly. "Nothing. Just… didn't expect all that."

I understood what he meant. Neither of us was accustomed to such casual generosity, such undemanding warmth. It felt foreign but not unwelcome.

We ate bread and smoked fish at the table while Ellie alternated between accepting spoonfuls of mashed roots and trying to grab everything within reach. The conversation flowed easily between us, punctuated by Ellie's babbling and the occasional clink of Uldrek's mug against the table.

Only once did the subject of Gavriel arise, when Uldrek asked quietly, "How long do you think it will be? Before the summons reaches him?"

I considered the question. "The clerk said two days. Less, if he hasn’t masked his whereabouts.” I paused. “They use binding seals—anchored through the civic registry. Wherever he is, it’ll find him.”

"And then?"

“He’ll have seven days to respond. After that, the Council can issue a binding warrant.” I took a sip of tea, letting the warmth settle my chest. “He won’t ignore it. He’s too proud.”

He reached across the table and took my hand, his touch warm and solid. "You have the documents from the vault. That's real proof, Issy."

"I know," I said, though a part of me still doubted. Still feared that Gavriel's voice, his presence, his charm would somehow unravel everything I'd built. "I know."

We let the subject drop after that, turning instead to the practicalities of settling in—where to store the extra linens, how to fix the squeaky floorboard near the hearth, and whether the garden could be salvaged before winter set in.

Ordinary concerns that grounded us in the present moment, in this small, imperfect space that was becoming ours.

As evening deepened, we prepared for Ellie's first night in her new room. Uldrek carefully assembled her cradle, checking each joint to ensure it was secure, while I hung a soft scarf above it like a canopy, creating a wash of gentle color in the lantern light.

Hobbie, who had been busy with her own mysterious preparations all afternoon, appeared in the doorway. "I’ll keep watch," she announced, gesturing to her basket-bed in the corner. "Sleep better with eyes on her."

I knew better than to argue. Hobbie's presence was a comfort, not an intrusion. And her protective instincts toward Ellie had proved valuable more than once.

After Ellie's evening bath, I nestled her in her cradle, humming softly as her eyes grew heavy. She fought sleep as she always did, tiny fists waving in protest until finally, inevitably, her breathing deepened and her body relaxed.

Uldrek and I lingered by the door, watching her sleep.

"She's really asleep," I whispered, still half-expecting her to wake at any moment.

"We should be too," Uldrek said, his voice low. But neither of us moved.

The realization of where we were—what we'd done—seemed to settle around us like a cloak. This was our home. Our family. Not temporary, not a lie told for protection, but something we'd built deliberately, piece by piece.

Finally, I stepped back, gently pulling the door halfway shut. Hobbie gave us a curt nod from her ridiculous but undeniably cozy-looking basket, then promptly closed her eyes, signaling the end of her interest in our activities.

We retreated to our bedroom—our room, not his or mine.

The space was simple but welcoming, with the newly assembled bed beneath the window.

The sheets and blankets we'd brought from Tinderpost House were folded neatly at the foot of the mattress, waiting to be spread.

The air still smelled faintly of cedar and dust.

I laid my hand on the edge of the quilt, suddenly aware of the silence surrounding us. There were no barracks full of guardsmen nearby, no boarding house with thin walls, no Dora to appear with impeccable timing and innocent questions—just us.

Uldrek stood near the door, watching me. The lantern light caught the angles of his face, softening them.

"What is it?" I asked, noticing his hesitation.

"Just wondering if I should help with the bed or if you have some system I shouldn't interrupt."

I laughed softly. "I don't have a system." Then, noting his stillness, I added with gentle teasing, "What, are you scared of me now?"

He made a sound of mock offense, a low growl that sent a pleasant shiver through me. "I'm not scared of anything."

"No?" I took a step toward him. "Not even of sharing a bed with me? Properly, I mean. Not just sleeping."

His eyes darkened. "Now that," he said, his voice dropping lower, "that terrifies me."

We both laughed, a little breathless, like we'd just gotten away with something forbidden. And in a way, perhaps we had—escaped the past, outsmarted fear, found our way to this moment that had once seemed impossible.

I reached for his hand, drawing him toward me. "Come here," I said, and he did.

Our lips met with none of the hesitation of our previous encounters. His hands found my waist, steady and sure, as mine slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there. The kiss deepened, and with it came a sense of rightness, of finally arriving somewhere I belonged.

When we broke apart to breathe, Uldrek pressed his forehead to mine. "We should probably make the bed," he murmured.

"Probably," I agreed, making no move to do so.

Instead, I leaned in and kissed him again, allowing myself to melt against him—not out of fear or need or desperation, but simply because I wanted to. Because I could.

The day's tension, the worry about what was coming, the lingering fear—all of it receded, replaced by something warmer, more immediate. Tomorrow would bring what it would. But tonight was ours.

"How about," I whispered against his mouth, "we just make it messy instead?"

His laugh was low and full of promise as he lifted me gently onto the unmade bed. "That," he said, "I can definitely help with."