CHAPTER 540: TWO TREES FOR ONE (3)

She laid her clothes out by function, narrating them to herself as if the day were a problem set. A sensible blouse—white but not blinding, linen thick enough to forgive a drop of stew, thin enough to breathe. It would not complain if a bit of mud found it. A riding skirt with hidden pleats and strong stitching so she could swing a leg over a saddle without performing a show for the whole gatehouse; the hem had been weighted with a line of tiny lead beads last winter so gusts wouldn’t turn it into a flag. Sturdy boots that looked dull until you loved them long enough to learn how soft they were; she’d rubbed a little beeswax into the seams last night, and it had drunk the light like cream.

And beneath all that, the winning set she almost never wore because it felt like an argument with herself. The silk was a shade between ink and midnight, smooth under her thumbs as she hesitated. She had bought it a year ago with her first real bonus—the one Lichia had pressed on her with a brisk "don’t be ridiculous, take it"—and then tucked it away because some days she was still twelve, measuring her usefulness by how invisible she could be. She allowed the old thought to pass through, then let it go like steam lifting off a kettle.

Not for seduction, she told the quiet room. For confidence.

She spritzed the lavender ink water into her hair and laughed at herself because it was such a ridiculous habit—who scents their hair with something meant for quills?—but the mist settled like permission. It still made her feel ready, as if words and scent agreed and would walk with her. She used two pins more than necessary to twist her dark, bluish-black hair into a coil that would not shake loose in wind—she imagined Lara’s approving nod and added a third, just in case. The silk slid cool against her skin. She let herself enjoy the feeling and did not apologize to her reflection for it. She had spent years pretending curves were a problem to be solved—flattened with belts, hidden under cloaks, disguised as stacks of paper. Today they were simply hers, carried like she’d finally learned how to stand inside her own life.

She set her spectacles on the bridge of her nose, adjusted them a breath, and met her own eyes. The woman in the mirror looked back with a quiet steadiness she recognized—sleepless weeks had carved a little hollow under her cheekbones, yes, but there was color there again, and a sly light at the corner of her mouth that had not belonged to her a season ago.

"Perfect as usual," she told the woman, and the woman’s lips tipped at the same moment, as if they were sharing a secret. Then she softened her voice and added, "and useful."

The seesaw in her chest quieted. Warriors split logs. She balanced books. Today she would balance both and come home with soil under her nails and a plan in her pocket. She fastened the throat clasp of her traveling cloak—wolf head to laurel loop, the new Grafen crest catching the early light—and took one measured breath. It steadied everything.

She pulled open her door to the low thunder of a waking keep. The great hall was awake and loud with morning; sound bounced up to the rafters and back down again, sprinkled in flour and laughter. Bakers ferried honey rolls with steam still fleeing their spiraled tops. A spit turned and shone, dripping fat into a pan with a rhythm like a sleepy drum. The gossip birds on the beams cooed in smug little bursts about dragon eggs and nobles with more envy than sense. Someone had hung a paper egg over the bread table with a ribbon so pink it hurt; the egg was speckled with charcoal dots and a doodled tail. It was ridiculous. It made the soldiers laugh harder as they reached for second slices.

Arielle slid sideways to avoid a pair of apprentices mock-fencing with ladles and nearly collided with Josephine, who had been—there was no other word—lying in wait. The jester made a show of popping from behind a pillar, looping a red ribbon around a honey roll like a medal, and pinning it to Arielle’s satchel with scandalous ceremony.

"Field date, steward?" Josephine asked, eyelashes fluttering so aggressively a pigeon on the nearest beam preened in sympathy. Her ribbon today was tied at her throat like a general’s sash, which made the honey-roll pin look like a campaign medal.

"It’s work," Arielle said, but the corner of her mouth lifted like it had a mind of its own.

"Work," Josephine repeated, as if tasting the word for hidden sugar. "Mmm. Spicy."

Belle glided up with a menu held like a fan—where had she even got a menu?—and fanned Arielle with outrageous tragedy. "Ugh, jealous," she sighed, collapsing bonelessly against Arielle’s shoulder for one theatrical beat. "I was promised mud and romance and you stole both."

"I stole nothing," Arielle replied. "I filed for it."

"Oh, even worse," Belle said, fanning harder. "Administrative theft."

Raine came at a run and tried to stop a pace early, failed, and skidded the last step with a squeak of boot leather. She pushed a tin of barley cakes into Arielle’s satchel with both hands as if the cakes might crawl out on their own and hide under the table. "For when numbers crash," she said, earnest, cheeks pink. "Or when people do. Also they have currants."

"Thank you," Arielle said, touched deeper than she liked to admit. The tin was warm through the leather. She took one cake, wrapped it in paper with the care of someone bundling a bird’s egg, and pressed it back into Raine’s palm. "Fair trade. For when stars go missing."

Raine looked down at the cake as if Arielle had given her a small moon. "I... I’ll guard it with my life," she whispered, then immediately hid it behind her back because Josephine had leaned in with the gaze of a woman who could smell currants at twenty paces.

Wilhelmina sat at the end of the trestle, cutting bread the way you cut fate when it refused to obey—clean, decisive slices that dared the loaf to crumble. She did not look up as she spoke. "It’s work," she said, and then she did look up, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face like a quick bird across a field. "But try not to count fence posts out loud. It frightens horses."

"I would never," Arielle said, and then, because honesty was a troublesome habit, added, "I will try very hard not to."

Belle and Josephine sang the refrain together as if it had been rehearsed in a tavern. "It’s work... and you’re going to flirt hardcore all the way."

"It’s agronomy," Arielle protested, stealing a cup of coffee from the edge of the board and nearly coughing when it turned out to be stronger than sense.

Josephine wagged a finger. "Which is ancient for ’hold on tight, the saddle is bumpy.’"

"It truly is," Raine put in, straight-faced, then blushed to her ears when everyone laughed.

An old seamstress Arielle knew by her thimble scars pressed a small pouch into Arielle’s hand as she passed—the weight of buttons, smooth as pebbles. "For luck," the woman said in a voice that sounded like thread through cloth. "You always lose one when you least want to."

"I’ll sew them to my patience," Arielle promised, and the woman cackled, delighted.

Sigrid strode through the hall like a siege tower that had learned to laugh. People parted for her without realizing it, the way wheat leans for a wind. She gave Arielle’s shoulder a slap that would have knocked her over if it had been meant to. It wasn’t. It was gentle—for Sigrid. "Eat," Sigrid advised, pressing a wedge of cheese the size of Arielle’s hand into her palm. "Food is faster than pride."

"Not always," Josephine murmured. "But today: yes."

Tara slipped between two squires with the ease of smoke through rafters and slid a tiny sachet into Arielle’s palm. "Thyme," she said. "For luck. And for the stew if the Guardian cooks and the stew needs help."

"The Guardian’s stew always needs help," Belle intoned.

"His stew is earnest," Raine defended, then looked appalled at herself. "I mean—good earnest."

"Earnest is not a flavor," Josephine said, solemn. "Write that down."

Lara came last, calm as a low river. She set Arielle’s cloak clasp straight and tied the knot with a sailor’s neat hands, tugging once to test it as if the knot had feelings. Up close, Arielle could see the soft lines the sun had drawn at the edge of Lara’s eyes, not age so much as weather. "You’re with us," Lara said, and the simple shape of the words steadied Arielle’s breath the way a steady bank steadies a boat.

They laughed. They buttered bread. Someone popped a grape and missed their mouth; Josephine caught it without looking and bowed to the pigeons. It felt like being chosen and chivvied at once, which was, she discovered, exactly what she needed. She tucked the sachet into her satchel, looped the button pouch to the inner tie, and finished the coffee in three determined swallows that made her eyes water and the world sharpen.

Outside, the courtyard hummed with the kind of work that looked like nothing and meant everything. There was a rhythm to readiness: buckles clicked, girths tightened, a groom’s murmur smoothed a nervous gelding’s ear. The air had that bright edge the mornings got after rain—the stones dark with memory but already warming, the sky a clean slate that invited chalk lines. Arielle paused under the lintel to blink in the light and took a moment to see the mountain trio the way outsiders did, because seeing clearly was her trade.

Lara’s red hair burned in the morning sun; her skin was sun-brown, freckled along the bridge of her nose. She hummed under her breath while checking bowstrings, and the sound put patience into the air. Her fingers moved with the economy of someone who trusted their tools and their hands in equal measure. Tara, fair-skinned and brown-haired, had knelt beside a travel crate and was packing bundles with neat labels in mountain glyphs. The scents coming off them were clean smoke and thyme and something warm she could not name—bearberry?—and she could feel her lungs uncurl just standing near them. Sigrid’s blonde ponytail swung when she moved, and she moved like a woman who forgot to stop growing stronger. She carried the tent alone. It looked heavy; she looked happy, as if weight were a kind of joke only she could hear and she was always the punchline.

Sigrid set the tent down with a satisfaction that shivered the dust, then stepped close enough to check the load of Arielle’s satchel the way a friendly old sergeant checks a recruit’s belt. "Too much weight on the left," Sigrid decided, not unkindly, and adjusted the straps until the pull balanced. She shifted the tin of barley cakes to the center, tucked the button pouch to the right, and tightened the top tie with fingers as deft as a weaver’s. "There."

"Thank you," Arielle said, genuinely surprised by how good it felt to be checked like that. Not doubted; checked. It reminded her of Lichia’s best days—sharp eyes and a hand already passing you the right form before you knew you needed it.

Tara rose in a fluid line and, before Arielle could protest that she was not a shrine, tucked a sprig into Arielle’s pinned twist. "Wind indicator," she said. "And pretty."

Arielle reached up instinctively. The sprig smelled green and bright. "If it flies off?"

"Then the wind was rude," Tara said, perfectly serious. "And we will tell it so."

Lara watched the gate and the light and the line of the ridge in one sweep. "Gorge gusts," she warned, pointing with her chin. "Wrap your scarf like this."