Page 65 of Bound

Wren adjusted her pack, trying to keep hold of her temper. “Firen,” Wren managed, her voice tight and not at all friendly. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it’s different for me. Always has been. It wouldn’t have cost me anything to let him be curt and think me foolish.”

They were moving, at least. Further up the street, which should have felt like a privileged upgrade in position, but only added to the feeling of being too penned in.

Firen stooped just a little so she could catch Wren’s eye. “It wouldn’t?”

Wren huffed. Walked a little faster, even though she did not know the exact direction. “Wren, I’m sorry. I interfered. How can I mend things?”

She wanted to tell her to go back and make sure that the official knew Wren did not approve of his treatment. She wanted to tell her to point out which stall was to be hers and leave her be, that they could talk again next market and hopefully things would be better for it.

But she took a deep breath, her hands tight upon the straps of her pack. “Just... show me the way, please.”

She was not unaware of the anxious glances Firen gave her. And as they manoeuvred the crowds as stall-keeps mixed with early patrons, some of the anger seeped out of her.

Firen cared. About... about her.

Cared how she was treated. Perhaps she had stopped chiding their neighbours when they were curt or gossiped openly about her, but Wren had no desire to punish her for being kind. If there were consequences after then she would deal with them. Perhaps... perhaps even be forced to ask her father to intervene on her behalf.

Her stomach gave another lurch at the thought.

“You seem different,” Firen observed, after another of her less than covert glances. “Are you all right?”

Wren shrugged, the motion stunted by her pack. “Tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Which was true. Every movement from Merryweather had been waking her, every creak through the house as the breeze caught the open windows. It made early mornings even harder, and by afternoon she longed for a nap.

She worked instead.

A fresh coat of whitewash on the south wall of the house. A bright coat of green trim around the stable door simply because.

All old. She couldn’t recall purchasing the powders herself. Which meant the pouches had been selected by her mother, the colours her own choices. Perhaps if she’d more coins, ones not mentally allocated for special fence oil, she could have made her own choices. Perhaps the house would look cheerier with a tinge more yellow. If the windows boasted new curtains for the winter, something thicker to draw over the shutters and keep out more of the cold.

Not that she minded the chill so much. Not when there was a fire in the hearth and the loft drew most of the heat, and Merryweather was cuddled up against her throughout the night.

“I know you don’t care much for Old Henley, but he has draughts that can help with sleep. I could purchase one for you, if you’d rather not have dealings with him directly.” Firen gave her a little smile. “I can’t front the coin, though. I spent all of mine on fabric for a new outfit for next fete.”

“Firen,” Wren groaned.

“I know, I know,” Firen insisted, her hands outstretched as if to ward off Wren’s arguments. “You can’t force it. But... well, won’t I make the odds better if I make sure he notices me in something particularly pretty?” She huffed out a breath. “I’m lonely. I don’t mind who knows it.” Wren believed her. There was no shame in her voice. A simple admission without fear of censure.

Yet still, Wren’s stomach clenched. “Just be careful,” Wren cautioned. “Don’t...” she didn’t finish. Because she remembered why they were different. Firen did not have to fear anything at all. She had two parents that would oversee the bonding. She was full-blooded and would know her mate just as well as he knew her.

She tugged at her breath. “Don’t make it anything too garish. You wouldn’t want to frighten him first thing.”

Firen nodded adamantly. “Course not. That can come later.” She spoke of it all so easily. She admitted freely to the want of it, and there was not a hint of fear in her eyes. It was love and family and it couldn’t possibly lead to pain and betrayal and...

Wren’s smile was forced, and she braced herself for Firen to issue yet another invitation to the fete. She should want to go, after all. Should long to glance across the room Wren had imagined with a wistful sort of longing in her girlhood, a knot of dread come womanhood.

“Here we are,” Firen said instead. “I’m still at my usual spot, but...” she glanced about her. “Well. Maybe don’t get too friendly with these folks.” Her smile was brittle, and Wren chewed at her lip as she saw her new neighbours give withering glances from their stalls. Older. Full of knowing.

And on the other, someone from foreign parts. The words she could make out were not at all familiar, so beyond nods of greeting, there would not be much other means of friendliness.

The stall was much the same as her previous one. Except that it was all a little wrong. She couldn’t picture her mother seated on the stool. Couldn’t make out the tiny marks her younger self had etched into the counter with her thumb. Temporary, she reminded herself firmly. And then...

She swallowed.

The counter had been destroyed. She might be situated in her old spot, but it would still be new. Would still be change.

Was she supposed to like change? It had never treated her kindly, so she held no particular fondness for its prospect.