Page 2 of Bound

She’d prepared her baskets the day before. They were good and strong—she’d made them herself. The ones her mother had crafted were now used strictly within the house. Wasteful, her mother would say, but her eyes would be warm. Then sad. Always sad about the edges.

When did grief end? She was a woman grown. And yet not a day passed that she did not wish her mother was still with her. Not simply to lighten the load, but because... because she’d loved her. She’d been company and family and...

Wren buckled the first of the baskets. It was awkward. Always was. It pinched at her diminutive wings and would chafe them raw if she did not wrap them in wool first. She’d visit that field later. When she was home again.

It was a long walk, after all.

She didn’t mind it.

Well. Sometimes she minded it.

When the winds were cold, and when she caught the first glimpse of the Harquil. Then it hurt. In ways that were old and had no business aching the way they did. So she kept her head down and continued her march into the city itself, the path indented by the merchants who had enough to warrant a cart.

The city itself was walled so high that she risked pinching her neck to see the top when she neared the base. The gates must have been able to close at one time—but time and lack of care had dirt bunching up around their bottoms. The wood itself succumbing to the unwelcome moisture. Even the great hinges that held open the giant doors looked rusted and decayed.

Whatever they had once had to fortify against had clearly long since died away.

Age had smoothed the cobblestones. The entire city itself had been built from white stones, the tops gleaming in the sun as the bottoms grew murky from wood-smoke and inevitable dirt. The cobbles were dingy and grey, cleaned seemingly only from the rain rather than an attempt to keep the roads clear.

Was that tucked away on a list somewhere? A forgotten task. Or simply a neglected one.

She had plenty of those back home.

The awe she’d felt at the white city had long since faded. She was not the little girl that had come with her mother to sell, wide-eyed and fascinated by all the sights and the people.

The bustling. The hum of many wings as people flittered between their chores. Or were they visiting just because a neighbour was close enough to do it at all?

Wren had never bothered to pace out how close the next dwelling was to her own homestead. Logically, she knew there were others that must live away from the city, but if they’d chosen to live apart, then it was for good reason.

Her mother had good reason. With a daughter born outside the bond, a half-blood that was not supposed to even be possible.

She swallowed. Kept moving.

The stalls were stationary. She had to pay a fee each season in order to keep her spot. Maintenance, they said. Which she supposed was true. Hers was one of the smallest, but there was still a tile roof to keep out the sleet and hail that did not seem to care that some were attempting to do business.

It was harder. When she was young and it meant long days and few sales and a discouraged mother to trudge along afterward back home. She’d try to hide it, of course. That she was disappointed with how little coin jingled. But there was food.

Her father would bring some.

Always did.

He’d got them a home, after all.

He’d even stayed there for a while. At first. She could remember sitting on his knee and remembered her mother smiling.

Remembered too when she’d watch from her bed when they thought she’d been asleep and they slipped away outside.

She’d wanted to follow, to see what she might be missing, but they’d put her to bed and her mama had told her to stay, so she didn’t get up. But they always came back. Holding hands and even kissing a little.

She liked it when he stayed.

Liked it less when her mother sobbed. When she tried her best to explain... explain that he wouldn’t be staying anymore. He would visit her, that he loved her, but that... something had happened. Something big and important, and it wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just part of being a Harquil. Maybe she’d understand someday.

She unloaded her goods, sparse as they were. But they filled the front table.

They were nothing much to look at, of course. It was reputation that brought her any custom at all. Inherited from her mother. Medicines. A few potions in vials. Lozenges that could soothe even the worst of a flight-cough.

Some had tried to mimic them, but were not able. They might taste similar—she’d sampled a few with tight smiles and a nod that perhaps she’d be back to purchase a full bag of them. But the herbs were her own. Her mother’s. Carefully cultivated and grown from mothers beyond the stars themselves.