Helen leaned over and dipped in a spoon of her own. She blew gently before tasting. “Mm! I think it’s perfect!”
They carefully hauled the hot pots to the long dining table, resting them on folded towels to spare the polished wood. They didn’t let the fire die, only swapped in wide, shallow pots filled with water to start boiling the jars. As the kitchen steamed up again, Helen uncovered a fresh loaf of bread, and the scent of it mingled with the berries—warm, yeasty, soft. Dragonfly’s stomach growled.
While they filled each jar with slow precision—ladle, wax, lid, twist—they tore small hunks of bread and dipped them into the bowl of preserves. The sweetness melted on her tongue, sharp and wild from the blackberries but mellowed by heat.
For a while, they didn’t talk much. Just the scrape of spoons, the hiss of boiling water, the soft click of glass. It was work, yes—but also a kind of ritual. And Dragonfly liked the way it made her feel, useful, trusted, part of something good.
Helen’s enormous seadog puppy, Dolly, soon plodded into the dining room, her thick paws thudding softly against the stone floor. Even with all the windows thrown wide, the heat had driven the shaggy creature out earlier in search of cooler air.Now she returned with her nose lifted, nostrils twitching at the scent of hot fruit and fresh bread.
“Hello, my darling girl,” Helen cooed, reaching down to offer her a plain slice of bread. Dolly accepted it with regal solemnity, then flopped her heavy body on the floor.
“I love your puppy,” Dragonfly said, wiping her hands on her apron. “How old is she?”
“Maybe five or six months. The Blue Isle captain wasn’t sure exactly. Nic came with me to Nereid to pick her up—back at the end of May.”
Dragonfly smiled at the image. “How did you ever get your parents to agree to it?”
As she spoke, she twisted the lid onto a jar—but it scraped wrong. Too loose. She sighed and reached for another.
“My father said I could have a seadog if I paid for it myself,” Helen replied. “He said if I wanted something so frivolous—something impractical, instead of clothes or shoes or jewelry—then I had to figure out my own way.”
A Blue Isle seadog... That was no small indulgence. Imports from the isles were notoriously expensive, and one look at Dolly—with her thick silver-touched coat and soulful eyes—told Dragonfly just how rare and prized she must be.
“How did you manage to get the money?”
Helen lifted her wrist, jangling half a dozen glittering bracelets. “I made these. Earrings and necklaces too. I’ve been selling them to the Blue Isle sailors when they come through to trade. It took almost two years to save up. My parents loaned me the money for the materials, and once I’d paid them back, I had just enough for my puppy.”
Dragonfly blinked, surprised. She’d assumed the jewelry was a hobby, not a business.
“Have you ever met Arion’s father’s seadog?” she asked, curiosity stirring.
Helen nodded quickly. “I admired his dog for years. But his dog is elegant and mature. Dolly’s more of a... monsterette, as Nic likes to call her!”
Dragonfly laughed, carefully placing the next round of jars into the water bath. “She seems well behaved to me.”
Helen brought over more jars. “I have Nic to thank for that. Even though he pretends he’s not fond of dogs, he has such a way with her.” She paused, her eyes lighting up. “Do you want to see what he gave me for my coming-of-age?”
Dragonfly nodded, her curiosity piqued.
Helen darted off into the next room, skirts whispering along the polished floor.
Dragonfly adjusted the jars, steam curling up from the water bath and clinging to her cheeks. Her hands moved by habit, but her thoughts drifted.
The more she learned about Helen, the more the edges of envy softened into admiration. She wasn’t just the steward’s beautiful daughter—she was clever, kind, quietly determined. There was something luminous about her, the way sweetness didn’t make her small but expansive.
Maybe that was why she and Nic—so different in shape and spirit—fit so well. Her softness smoothed out his rough corners, and his boldness lit a fire in her.
The stern voice of an older woman drifted faintly down the hall—Helen’s mother. Dragonfly stilled, hands frozen over the last jar. The muffled exchange was hard to make out, but the tone left no doubt, Helen was being scolded.
A minute later, she reappeared in the doorway with her hands tucked behind her back. The light in her face had dimmed. Her eyes—those bright, dancing blues—were glassy now, rimmed with the shimmer of unshed tears.
Dragonfly’s chest pinched with concern. “Were we too loud? Should I go? I don’t want you to be in trouble.”
Helen offered a wan smile, but her voice betrayed her. “Oh, it’s not that. My mother doesn’t mind you’re here. It’s alright. Really.”
Dragonfly hesitated. They barely knew each other—was it too soon to ask? But the moment felt fragile, and honesty might be the only thing strong enough to hold it. “Why was she scolding you?”
Helen blinked fast, then wiped her cheek with the hem of her apron. Slowly, she pointed to the red blemish on her cheek.
