"Different how?" She steadies a wobbly table leg while I adjust its position.
"Less like you're preparing for battle."
"Maybe because I'm not." Her smile carries an edge of challenge. "Though give it time."
The easy rhythm of work and conversation pulls me into something I haven't felt in years—belonging. When Mrs. Penwhistle calls out measurements for banner spacing, I find myself holding one end while Calla manages the other, our movements synchronized without discussion.
"Careful," she murmurs when I lean too far over to secure a corner. "You fall and crush someone, I'll never hear the end of it from Maddie."
"Touching concern for my welfare."
"Purely practical. Replacing you would require paperwork."
But there's warmth in her voice, and when our hands brush reaching for the same rope, she doesn't pull away immediately. The contact lingers just long enough to register as intentional.
As the sun begins its descent, painting the square in deeper golds and ambers, I see what she's been protecting. Not just buildings and businesses, but this—the intricate web of relationships where Mrs. Penwhistle knows exactly how Liora takes her tea, where Granda Oltar remembers which children need extra encouragement, where everyone understands their role in keeping the whole thing functioning.
"Now you're getting it." Calla follows my gaze across the bustling square. "This isn't just a town. It's a living thing."
"And you think my article would damage it."
"I think panic spreads faster than truth." She leans against the table we've just positioned. "These people trust each other. They trust me. If I publish something that destroys that trust without offering a solution..."
"The web falls apart."
"The web falls apart."
For the very first time since arriving, I understand her resistance wasn't about control—it was about consequence.
CHAPTER 15
CALLA
As we round the corner toward the Guild Hall, I spot Thornak's familiar silhouette near the building's side entrance. He's unloading split logs from a wooden cart, his movements efficient despite the weight of each piece. The late afternoon light catches the grain of the wood—rich oak and maple that speaks of careful selection.
"There's Thornak." I gesture toward the hall. "Probably delivering for the festival preparations. They'll need extra wood for the cooking fires."
Brakkor stops walking, his attention sharpening in that way I've learned means his mind is making connections. "That's interesting."
"What? Thornak delivering wood?"
"No." His voice carries a new tension.
His tone makes me look closer at the wood Thornak is stacking.
"What did you see out there today?" I ask, though part of me already knows I won't like the answer.
"Someone's been harvesting trees on his land. Clean cuts, professional work, but not his doing." Brakkor's eyes track Thornak's movements. "He showed me the stumps. Fresh ones."
The pieces click together with an almost audible snap. "Wait. Thornak mentioned stolen trees a few days ago. He was talking to Maddie, said someone was taking timber without permission. I thought it was a separate issue." My mind races through the timeline we've been building. "But if someone's stealing his trees and selling them..."
"Through Garron Pike." Brakkor's voice holds the certainty of a journalist who's found his thread. "Remember what he said about changing suppliers? New source, better prices, but he didn't tell us where he was getting the wood."
I watch Thornak lift another log, noting the care with which he handles each piece. He's spent his life protecting these forests, managing sustainable harvests, ensuring the balance between need and preservation. The idea of someone stealing from his land—selling his trees without permission—makes my stomach clench.
"Garron's been stealing lumber." The words taste bitter. "Using Thornak's own trees."
"Which explains how he's making such a big a profit." Brakkor crosses his arms. "Question is, does Thornak know his wood is ending up in Garron's yard?"
