Page 63

He hefts Elise higher on his hip and takes Alina’s hand and heads back towards the barn, encountering the man again on his way out.

“You, boy, how old are you?”

Fenrir blinks up at him because he’s—he’s not actually sure. It’s been two planting seasons since they arrived here, and his birthday is coming up so he thinks he must be—“Nine? Ten, maybe?”

The man looks him up and down and narrows his eyes like he doesn’t quite believe Fenrir, then heads for his horse without another word.

Inside, Mum is pacing back and forth, hand on her belly. She’s big this time. Bigger than she was with Elise.

“It’s not right, Eric. He can’t expect us” —she catches sight of him and his sisters and cuts off.

“I’m hungry,” Fenrir announces, Elise reaching for Dad while Alina begins to whine that she is too. “Can we eat supper early?”

Mum’s lip quivers and she spins towards the door and stomps off.

Fenrir goes still, not understanding what he did wrong.

“Wanna help me get started?” Dad asks after a beat too long, taking Elise from his arms while smiling down at Fenrir. Something about it seems forced.

“What did that man want? Who was he?”

“This is his farm. He was checking on Mum and I.”

His farm? But this is their home.

“How can it be his if we live here?”

“Great question, I don’t have an answer though.” Dad smiles again and places Elise in the chair he’d built from a fallen tree. It’s got knots the size of Fenrir’s fist—or used to. He’s grown a lot these last few seasons.

Alina drags a box of linen and button dolls out from under the kitchen table while Dad pulls a cast iron skillet from a hook and crouches down before the stone hearth they’d built last winter. Fenrir picks at one of the chair’s knots while Elise reaches for his hair. “Why’s Mum mad?”

Dad stills, just for a second. “She’s not upset with you.” He stokes the cooling coals so they turn orange. “She’s just worried.”

“Worried about w—” All of a sudden, Elise starts squealing. “Hey!” Fenrir yelps when she grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks.

Dad’s at his side in a second, laughing as he untangles Elise’s chubby kid fingers from his already mussed up hair. “Searching for rats in that nest I see.”

“It’s not a nest,” Fenrir grumbles. “And I comb them every morning.”

Finally free of Elise’s grip, Dad sinks his hand into Fenrir’s curls and gives them a shake. “You’ll grow into them, just wait and see.”

While Dad counts out carrots and places half into the skillet and Alina sits crossed-legged on the floor with two dolls in her lap, Fenrir imagines what he might look like one day, if he’ll have flowing sun-spun hair like the hero on the cover of the book Mum reads when she thinks no one is looking, and loses himself to the fantasy—rather than the hunger gnawing at his gut.

Chapter XVIII

King Rawkner

Mercer did, in fact, return the next day.

What he did not do was barge to the front of the long line of merchants and nobles also demanding an audience with their newly appointed king despite the lack of official receiving hours, no matter how much Fenrir really wished he would.

“—I’ve built my whole business around the vineyards’ projected profits and with this new stock driving those down I cannot afford to keep employing all those whose livelihoods depend on my grapes—“

“I don’t think individual profits are the Empire’s main priority right now,” Fenrir cut in. He knew the man by name if not reputation. Everyone in the Empire likely did. Claremont’s Vintage Casks were a staple at every tavern from the Labs down to the Stacks, Fenrir just didn’t expect the man himself to be as sour as the piss he called wine. “I actually don’t think they’re the throne’s concern at all. If you can’t compete with the southern orchards then maybe make a better tasting wine people will pay more for?”

The court erupted into smothered snickers, an anonymous, “He’s not wrong, your wine’s definitely shit!” rising above the rest.

Like the color of said wine, the man’s face turned a rich red. The whole throne room erupted in laughter.