Arion’s stitches were neat, close, and perfectly straight. “Where did you learn to sew like this?”
His cheeks flushed. “I can sew better than my mother. She was a seamstress before she married my father. She taught me hems and buttonholes before I could even walk.”
She gestured to the cluttered table. “You may know how to sew, but clearly you’ve never learned to clean. A cluttered house is a cluttered mind.”
“Ah—that must be why my mother says I’m a scatterbrain! Don’t look in my room—it’s a disaster zone.”
He finished mending the blouse and stashed the sewing kit beneath the table.
She turned the blouse over in her hands, quietly impressed. Most everyone learned the practical skill of sewing as children, but it went no further than replacing a button or fixing a hem. Arion’s expertise proved that he had a great deal of practice. “Why do you hide your skill? I’ve never seen you sew before.”
He poured another cup of tea, not meeting her eyes. “When I went to school here as a boy, some of the older boys used to mock me for helping my mother with mending. After a while, I just stopped showing anyone.”
She folded the blouse carefully in her lap. “Well, I won’t tease you. In fact, I think I might have more things you can mend.”
Arion’s grin brightened. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll do your mending if you go to the Autumn Celebration and help me show my entries.”
“I’ll think about it.” She stood. “Call me when lunch is ready. I don’t want to miss it.”
Dragonfly carried the final bucket of steaming water to the tub and poured it in. She tied her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head and slipped off her old threadbare robe, hanging it neatly on the chair.
The cold stone floor bit at her bare feet. A shiver ran through her as she quickly climbed into the warm water.
Oh, heaven.
She slowly eased herself into the tub until the water lapped at her chin. As she sank deeper, her breasts lifted, buoyed by the gentle waves, as though they, too, were trying to rise above the day.
When she was finally settled, she stared at the shimmering surface. Beneath the ripples, her body was warped and wavering—a stranger’s shape. Her gaze drifted across every bruise, every scratch, every flaw her mind refused to forgive. A bitter compulsion swept over her—a desperate urge to hide even from herself.
Fragrant steam curled around her face, warmed her lungs, soaked into her bones. She lay in the stillness for a long time, breathing deeply, her eyes fixed on the wood-beamed ceiling. The room was so quiet she could hear the smallest splash of water as she shifted.
Slowly, she sat up, letting her body rise from the water’s weight. She picked up the washcloth, soaked it, and gently rubbed the dark bruises beneath her breasts and along her arms.
The soreness stung her skin, but it was the anger that overtook her. Rage swelled in her chest. She would not live in fear. She would not shrink away from the woods, from her chores, from this life. She would stay in White Wood until she was good and ready to leave. She would never forget her knife again. And she would not run from the man who had attacked her.
He would not get another chance.
Autumn Celebration
Collin knelt, lowering himself to the child’s height. The little girl beamed as she set a ring of bright, crinkling leaves over his head—red, orange, gold, with one stubborn green. It smelled like rain-damp bark and a sweetness beneath. He smiled for her, but his eyes had already moved past, scanning the crowd.
Gray clouds pressed low, but the square pulsed with warmth. Shoppers bustled through the stalls, arms full of dried fruits, bright ribbons, spice jars, and trinkets that glinted like treasure. A pot of stew bubbled somewhere nearby, rich with garlic and herbs. Laughter carried above the din—children darting between legs, couples swaying close to the music. Collin took it all in with a kind of breathless ease. The world felt generous.
He'd been coming here since boyhood, overwhelmed by it all—the noise, the colors, the sense that somethinggoodwas happening and everyone knew it. Even now, years later, that feeling lingered. The festival had grown over time—small village contests turning into grand traditions: best onion, sweetest jam, fattest hog. It was silly, really. But also... beautiful. Proof that the simplicity of life could still be shared. Still be held.
