Page 64 of Bound

He did. It was in every bit of his posture as he reordered the papers in his hands, presumably looking for where she was meant to go. “There is a dispute over who should pay for the repairs. Until it is sorted, you and your neighbours will have to make do with new locations.”

She chewed at the inside of her cheek. “And our customers, they will know where to find us?”

A weary breath. A tired roll of his eyes. “I will not remain here the entire day, if that is what you are expecting. A placard should suffice, would you not agree?”

Her insides squirmed with old worries. Twisted smiles and a firm grip on her hand as her mother would placate and smooth and make apologies for things that were far outside her control.

Don’t make trouble.

How many times had she heard that?

She was tired. So weary of it all that she very nearly wanted to tell him that a placard would not be necessary since she would no longer be making use of this market or this city and...

She closed her eyes. Tugged fiercely at her braid just the once.

Had it been so hard for her mother? She could not remember. There had been no ranting on the journey home, no flash of eyes and pursed lips to suggest that she resented her treatment.

Her mother had been a gentle soul. Eager to please, with a hatred for any sort of tension—or the conflict that followed.

Wren however...

“My apologies,” she bit out, reaching for calm. Finding only a tangle of too many emotions that likely had nothing to do with this man at all. “I—”

“Wren!”

Wren did not grimace, but she felt a moment’s regret at hearing Firen’s exuberant call. No matter what Firen seemed to think, nothing but embarrassment trickled through Wren at having her business with the under-proctor witnessed by anyone else.

“I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find you. They banished Old Henley almost to the outer gates, although personally, I think they’ve been looking for an excuse to do that for ages.” Firen turned, her eyes narrowing as she landed and tilted her head toward the official. “Did you? Banish him, I mean. On purpose.” She peered at his list, and he pulled it away with an indignant sniff. “Wren should be somewhere nice. Maybe close to me.”

She smiled at him. As if charms and warmth would mean anything at all.

They’d put her where they put her, and they’d receive no argument.

She reached for Firen’s arm and squeezed it lightly. “It is fine,” she urged, hoping to quiet her...

Her friend.

She frowned softly. Tried to imagine Firen at her home, at her table. Beneath the tree by the pump. She could, but just barely. The images wanted to contort, wanted the guest to be taller. Bulkier. A quiet presence rather than Firen’s fearless optimism.

“It might be,” Firen agreed. “Depending on where he put you.” Her smile broadened. “Were you going to escort us?”

A huff. Perhaps even an eye roll, except Wren couldn’t bring herself to look.

“Never mind,” Firen added with a hint of impatience souring her tone in ways that were quite unfamiliar. “I’d rather have no escort at all than a rude one. What’s her stall number?”

Wren opened her mouth, although she did not know what she meant to say. Chide Firen? Apologise for something she agreed with but dared not say herself?

“Eight-seven,” the under-proctor bit out, clearly offended. Wren’s stomach churned, and she feared what a visit from the actual Proctor might mean later, and her hand retreated from Firen’s arm. “As reflected by the placard.”

Firen hummed lightly. “Much obliged, I’m sure.”

She took Wren’s arm, and Wren very nearly resisted, frustrated beyond reason. “Firen, I do not know their numbers,” she whispered lowly, afraid it came out more of a hiss.

Firen blinked at her. “I do,” she answered calmly, her head tilting ever so slightly. “Are you angry with me? He was terribly rude.”

Wren’s heart was racing, and she tugged harshly at her braid as she fought for calm. “He was,” she agreed. “But I cannot afford to make the officials angry.”

Firen sighed, her eyes flitting upward briefly. “You don’t have to be so afraid of them,” she insisted, her voice gentle. “You pay your yearlies, same as everyone else. You should be treated fairly.”