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* * *
I guided the mare down the rise onto the path between the homes.
The first person I passed was the baker’s wife, standing in her doorway as she beat a rug with a willow paddle. She looked up at the sound of hooves, her expression shifting. It was the look the villagers had given me for weeks, knowing I rode out alone in my finest dress and returned at dusk, suspecting my destination but never asking. To ask would be to demand a declaration, and the village still allowed me my privacy.
To make up for the time I spent away from the fields, orchards, and gardens, I woke before dawn and worked late into the night so the elders would have no cause to complain. Drystan had offered to pay the village a year’s worth of crops to ease my burden, but I refused, knowing such wealth would raise immediate suspicion among the villagers and the court alike. We agreed to maintain our quiet routine. Now, I was relieved the secrecy was ending.
The baker’s wife offered a small nod, and I returned it.
She did not ask where I had been, continuing the silence of the past weeks. A small sadness touched me, knowing she would not have the chance to ask tomorrow. She had been kind to me, especially after my mother’s death. Tomorrow I would be gone, and the village would finally realize my privacy had been the cover for something beyond their guessing.
I rode past her, continuing down the lane.
At the forge, the smith worked the bellows, unaware of my passage, but his eighteen-year-old son caught sight of me. Three years ago, the elder women’s council had brought him forward as a suitor. He had been awkward then and remained so now, having grown into a physically strong man who still carried the mind of a boy. Seeing me on the mare, he flushed and quickly lowered his eyes to the iron in his hands. I offered a greeting, but he remained silent, the lingering sting of my rejection still sitting between us. He would eventually make a good husband for another girl in the village, and I wished him well.
Near the well, three old women sat in the fading light, their conversation pausing as I approached. They had sat at that well for as long as I could remember. The eldest, who had taught me my letters as a child and had been my mother’s friend, watched me with a long, careful gaze. She was waiting for me to confide in her, but I could not, adhering to the tradition of the bonding rites.
She watched me pass without unkindness, her face carrying the acceptance of a woman who knew the truth would arrive in its own time. Her simple, grounded wisdom was something I would hold close in the court ahead.
A village dog trotted alongside the mare for a short stretch before stopping, its ears pinned back as it watched me with a quiet intensity that brought a sudden, subtle unease. It did not bark, simply observing as if it understood my secret. I rode past, and the feeling faded.
* * *
Reaching the eastern edge of the village, I pulled up at my cottage.
I stabled the mare in the shed that had belonged to my mother. It held room for the horse and the goat I had owned until six moons ago when the animal died. I had not replaced her, as it would have required extra labour tending the village children before the community granted permission for another. The space felt quiet without her. I unsaddled the mare, brushed her coat, and filled her bucket with water and her bin with grain. She nuzzled my shoulder as she ate, and I let her.
Closing the shed, I walked the short path to my door.
The cottage was small, the garden modest. My entire existence, despite its internal richness, felt small now after meeting Drystan. Yet I had never minded the humble space, for it was mine. It had belonged to my mother and would have passed to my daughter had my life remained here. The path I had been walking since my mother’s death, that of a quiet village woman inheriting her home, her pendant, and her place at local festivals, was coming to an end.
I pushed open the door.
Inside, everything remained exactly as I had left it that morning. The kitchen table where my mother dried her herbs, the corner altar with the wooden carving of Kahantsu, the clay bowl for burning offerings, and her folded wedding shawl. Against the eastern wall lay the thin mattress, placed to catch the first rays of morning light. Through the single window, I could see the back garden where I grew the herbs my mother had taught me to tend.
I stood in the centre of the room.
The space had not changed, but I had.
I felt the need to pause and honour this old life, grounding myself in its humbleness. Material wealth had never driven me. While other girls sought new dresses, I took comfort in the familiar garments I owned, valuing the care of cherished things over novel possession. Though I could not bring this life with me, paying my respects to it was necessary, for it had shaped the woman I was today, a woman I was proud to be.
Moving slowly, I touched the drying table, the back of the chair where my mother spent the last weeks of her illness, and the altar. I let my fingers rest against the wooden god, the clay bowl, and finally the folded wedding shawl.
The shawl was old, its original white faded to the soft colour of aged paper. Worn and gentle, it still carried my mother’s scent after all these years, bringing a sudden wave of comfort and connection to my line. She had worn it when marrying my father, a man I never knew and remembered nothing about. After he was gone, she folded the shawl and placed it on the altar, a quiet relic of a marriage that gave me life before ending too soon.
I held the fabric to my face and inhaled.
A small smile touched my lips as I recalled Drystan inhaling the scent of my dress earlier, a sweet parallel that crossed my mind. Setting the thought aside out of respect for my mother, I decided then that I would take the shawl to court. It was a piece of her, and taking her memory into my new life was essential.
I folded the shawl with care and set it on the table beside the altar, where I began gathering the few items I intended to keep.
I required nothing practical, choosing only tokens of personal meaning. The clay bowl, the wooden Kahantsu, and the silver hoop earrings passed down through generations of women in my family. Though the lowest lady-in-waiting at court might consider them trinkets, I was determined to honour my origins and the values they represented, values far greater than material wealth. I also took the carved comb my mother used on my hair as a child, given to me on her final night, and the small, clothbound book of herb names she had kept to protect me.
The household at the capital would supply everything else, as Drystan had assured me. I was bringing only what was mine through my mother, leaving the rest behind.
When the gathering was complete, I sat quietly.
Outside, the golden light deepened to amber, stretching long shadows across the floor. I lit the oil lamp on the kitchen table, letting its soft yellow glow fill the room.
