"Okay," she breathed. "Okay. Let's do this."
The morning passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments and small crises that somehow resolved themselves. A vendor whose tent had collapsed. A child who wandered away from her parents and was found happily petting the goats in the adjacent petting zoo. A brief shortage of cups at the lemonade stand, remedied by a quick trip to the general store.
Through it all, she moved with a focus she hadn't known she possessed. This was what she was good at—the logistics, the problem-solving, the quiet competence of making things work. She barely noticed the crowd growing, the music starting up from various corners of the grounds, the smell of roasting meat and spun sugar filling the air.
But she noticed when Silas appeared.
He stood at the edge of the wine-tasting booth—Thallos's booth—looking uncomfortable in a way that was almost satisfying. Whatever had passed between the brothers the night of their confrontation had clearly changed something. Silas wasn't prowling around like a predator anymore. He was… hovering. Uncertain.
Thallos, pouring samples for a group of enthusiastic women, caught her eye and gave a small nod.It's fine,the gesture seemed to say.He's behaving.
She wasn't entirely convinced, but she had bigger things to worry about. Specifically, the opening ceremony that was now thirty minutes away.
She found a quiet corner behind the main stage, pressing her back against the wooden support beam and focusing on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way Lila had taught her months ago, back when panic attacks were a regular occurrence.
"Hiding?"
She opened her eyes to find Winnie Sanderson regarding her with knowing amusement.
"Preparing," she corrected. "There's a difference."
"Of course there is, dear." Winnie settled beside her, adjusting her flowing purple skirt. "I used to do the same thing before every performance. Tell myself I was 'preparing' when really I just needed a moment to remember how to breathe."
"You performed?"
"Decades ago. Voice like a nightingale, or so I was told." Winnie’s smile turned nostalgic. "Before I realized my true talents lay elsewhere. But that's neither here nor there. I came to give you something."
She pressed a small object into Marigold's palm—a smooth stone, roughly oval, shot through with veins of copper and gold, on a thin cord.
"It's a grounding stone. Blessed by the grove, years ago. It won't make you brave—nothing can do that except you—but it will remind you that your feet are planted on solid earth. That you belong exactly where you are."
She slipped the bracelet around her wrist, the stone warm against her skin, warmer than it should have been from Eleanor's hand alone.
"Thank you," she said, meaning it. "But why—I mean, we've barely spoken. Why would you?—"
"Because I see how you look at him." Winnie’s eyes, sharp despite her age, met hers with unexpected intensity. "And how he looks at you. That boy has been waiting for someone like you for a very long time. He needs someone who'll stay. Someone who'll choose him when it's hard, not just when it's easy."
"I'm not?—"
"You are. Whether you know it yet or not." Winnie patted her arm and began to move away. "Now go out there and dance. The whole town is waiting."
The opening ceremony started exactly on time.
She stood at the edge of the dance floor, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain everyone could hear it. The crowd had gathered in a wide circle around the polished wooden stage—hundreds of faces, familiar and strange, all turned expectantly toward the center.
The string quartet began to play, a slow introduction that would build into the dance's proper rhythm. Across the floor, she could see Thallos waiting for her, his hand extended, his eyes never leaving her face.
Move,she told herself.Just move.
Her feet carried her forward without conscious thought. The dress swirled around her knees, sage green against the golden wood. The grounding stone pressed against her wrist, a small point of warmth and stability.
And then his hand was in hers, and none of it mattered anymore.
The music swelled. He drew her close, one hand firm against her back, the other clasping her fingers with gentle certainty. She could feel the heat of him, smell the wine and earth and that distinctive musk that had become as familiar as her own heartbeat.
"Ready?" he murmured.
"No."
