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1
I shield my eyes against the brilliant sunshine, peering through the colorful hubbub of the market. I can’t see my brother, and that worries me. Mistress Godward is taking far too long to inspect the loaves of bread I brought her, which means Prain has had several minutes to escape my sight, and that’s more than enough time for him to find a whore or a gambling table or some other luxury we can’t afford.
“They’re perfect loaves, just like last time,” I say brightly, trying not to let my impatience seep through my tone. “Six bits apiece.”
“Five,” she grunts.
“Six, like always, or I’ll take them to Mistress Andworthy.”
“Fine.” The little woman snaps her fingers at her tall husband, who hurries forward to pay me, then retreats meekly to his spot at the back of the booth.
“Thanks.” I walk away from the stall, tucking the coins into my pocket. I want to keep the incoming and outgoing funds separate: earnings in my pocket, and the money for today’s purchases in the basket I’m carrying.
“Juliette!” A familiar voice shouts from a nearby booth.
“Good morning, Ambrew.” I smile at the freckled farmer’s son, who nearly trips over his feet in his haste to reach me.
“Juliette, I picked these just for you. The choicest blooms in my mother’s garden.” Ambrew smiles at me, flushed, bright-eyed, and earnest.
“So sweet of you.” I smile back while looking over his head, scanning the clusters of market-goers for Prain. “Forgive me, but I must find my brother. Here—take a muffin.” I reach into my basket for one of the apple-cinnamon treats. Bits of crumbly brown-sugar topping sift over my fingers as I hand it to Ambrew. “We’ll talk later, yes?”
“Oh yes!” He gives me a rapturous grin. He proposed two months ago, and my gentle refusal doesn’t seem to have dimmed his ardor at all. He’s hoping for another chance.
As I continue through the market, another man calls to me—the fishmonger, ten years Ambrew’s senior and just as keen on marrying me. While Ambrew appreciates my ample curves and my friendly nature, the fishmonger appreciates my business sense. Recently he told me about the pub he wants to open—a place to sell his fish and my bread. The two of us, running a thriving business. It was tempting… or it would have been if I were even slightly attracted to him. But he’s too... oily. His hair shines with pomade—looks as if a bright beam of sunlight might set it on fire.
Besides, I can’t accept any offers of marriage. I’m the miller’s daughter, the one who maintains Pa’s legacy. With his usual wisdom, Pa left the mill to me, not Prain, and I keep the place running. I pay the workers, I deal with the farmers who come to grind their corn and wheat, and I use flour from our own crops to create the delicious baked goods that are so popular with the eateries in our large town of Maystead.
I’m the one who turns the golden wheat from the field into the coin that keeps us fed and clothed, not to mention paying for repairs and labor. We should be well-off by now—not wealthy, perhaps, but comfortable—if it weren’t for my brother’s foolish, expensive indulgences. Indulgences he’s probably balls-deep in right now…
Where the fuck is he?
Our town is a well-known stop on the way from the border villages to the royal city of Giltos, and for many visitors it’s a destination of its own. Maystead has a weekly market, good inns, jolly pubs, and well-kept streets, thanks to the Lady Mayor, who took over management of the place fifteen years ago, after her husband’s death. But with the regular influx of visitors comes the demand for other establishments—dice halls, gambling houses, brothels, peep shows, and even a naughty marionette theater. Those lie on the west side of town, past the market. Before I venture there, I’m determined to search this area thoroughly.
The sun beats down on me as I hurry between the brightly-colored booths, waving to acquaintances, forcing myself to return merry greetings. I’m full-figured, my shape a testament to my excellent cooking, and between the sun, my anxiety, and my hurried pace, I’m starting to sweat. Finally I pause to rest, seating myself on the edge of the fountain in the town square. There’s a breeze here, thank the goddess.
I set my basket at my feet, dip my fingers into the fountain, and pat my neck, arms, and cleavage with the cool water.
Why would Prain abandon me like this? He knows I have errands to run, that I need his help to carry supplies. He can’t have much coin of his own, and the purse with the supply money is with me, in the… in the basket…
Oh no.
I grab the basket and fold back the cloth cover. Inside there’s a square wooden dish with several muffins. Tucked beside the dish are my small notebook and a jar of cinnamon sticks I purchased. In the corner there should be a bag with the money for today’s market excursion.
Except it’s gone.
Prain knew I needed that coin for essentials. Yet he took the money anyway. All of it.
Fuck.
Tears gather in my eyes as I set the basket down again. I bend my head forward, letting my long brown hair fall around my face to conceal my expression, which probably reflects what I feel—betrayal, hurt, anger, frustration, desperation.
My brother takes everything. No matter how hard I work, we never get very far ahead—we still struggle, because he can’t say no to himself. He can’t resist the lure of risk and pleasure, the thrill of compulsion racing through his blood.
And in spite of it all, I love him. I just don’t know how to help him.
I don’t know what to do.
There’s a sob swelling in my chest, more tears burning in my sinuses. The first tears overflow, trailing down my cheeks. I whisk them away quickly, but two more follow.
