Page 3 of Bound

She didn’t like to think about those things. The stories. She’d stopped asking for them early on because, more often than not, her mother would cry. And no amount of hugs seemed able to soothe her.

So it was enough that they were special plants. That it was important they flourished, and they had to be treated carefully.

They were kept in the garden closest to the house. With a high fence surrounding it all. To keep out certain parties that would find the deep green foliage a particular treat compared to the perfectly ordinary sweet grass of the pasture.

Then there were the hives that had to be tended, the delicate little insects encouraged toward the flowers of that particular garden and...

Wren took a breath.

She would manage. She just needed to organise herself a little better.

Doubts pushed in. There were only so many hours to each day after all and...

A mother appeared. Fluttering down with a squalling fledgling on her hip, and it did not take even her speaking before Wren reached for a pouch of her lozenges to hand over. A coin was pressed into her hand, and Wren smiled back in sympathy as the woman did not wait before popping one into the child’s mouth.

He quieted quickly.

“It’s the season,” the mother added apologetically. “The air, you know. I try not to take him up, but...” she shrugged and her feathers ruffled back into place.

Wren did know. They could walk. There were paths and streets enough for it—for the carts that would come from other lands, other people, ready to do their trades.

But flying...

It was easier. It was in their nature.

She remembered her father taking her. The sun on her skin, the wind ruffling through her hair as she laughed and held her arms out, pretending she was doing it all on her own.

He’d kissed the top of her head and chuckled and told her that soon it would be her. When she was stronger. When her wings grew to match her size.

Wren added the coin to the pouch at her waist while the mother and now-quiet fledgling wandered down to look at other stalls. They would be back. Summers were even worse, and it was only the beginning of spring.

She moved the second stool over so she could rest her feet on it. She took out a ball of yarn from her basket and her hook and kept busy while she waited for more mothers to appear.

More waste, her mother would say. When she’d tucked away each of the articles that her mother had made. Preserving them as best she could in a wooden trunk with sachets of oiled wood-shavings to keep anything from nesting within. The idea of them deteriorating, of being poked full of holes that accompanied daily use, was not tolerable.

So she started new. New stockings, a sweater for the cold season. Even a blanket to wrap herself in when the evenings turned chilly. If she had a larger flock, she could sell such things as well. For all that the Harquilpossessed, this particular skill did not seem to be one of them.

But it took time. Lots of it. And this was a private skill. Taught by her mother, who was taught by her mother, in a land far away.

The next to approach was not a customer at all, but the keeper from two stalls down. A pretty girl, with silvery wings and hair that seemed often to forget that they were to keep Wren at a distance. They would allow her to come and sell if she had the coin for it, just as they would any other merchant. But she was an other. Not supposed to exist at all.

Firen did not seem to remember that. She came and chatted just as she did with any other of her stall-neighbours—no matter how many times she was reminded to keep a careful distance.

“Fair morning to you, Wren,” she greeted with a bow of her head followed by a bright smile.

“And to you,” Wren offered politely. She also took her feet off the neighbouring stool and stilled her hook. She could not remember if she should stand as well. Her father had only gone so far in teaching her the customs she should know. The rest came from her mother.

If Firen was offended, she did not show it in the least. Her hands were clasped neatly in front of her and she leaned forward ever so slightly, the better to catch Wren’s eye. “I wanted to make sure you knew of the fete tonight.”

Wren heard a snort from the stall beside hers, and could well imagine the shaking of Old Henley’s head. Firen glanced leftward briefly, and her smile faltered for just a moment before she smoothed it over again. “And that you are most welcome.” She gave a breathless sort of laugh. “By me, anyway.”

So she had some sense, at least. And was kinder than she needed to be.

A fete. Where men and women who hadn’t found their bond-mate would mingle and hope to suddenly be struck with knowing. Mystical and beautiful. Something to long for.

She’d heard it all before.

But that was not Firen’s fault. She was younger, and did not know Wren’s history, and she would try to be gentle about it. “Thank you,” she offered with something that she hoped was close to a genuine smile rather than a grimace. “For including me. I’m afraid there are a great many chores waiting for me at home.”