Chapter 5

A fter breaking camp the following morning, Evelyn intended to return to the harborside city to find new lodging first and foremost, but instead found herself distracted by the sound of music, drifting from the direction of the wide dirt road that veered left of the city gate.

"What's this?" Archie asked as he burrowed in closer against the side of her neck so her hood could cover them both from the drizzling rain. Evelyn waved a hand toward him and scowled as his feathers tickled her. She thought he was acting quite like an owlet, and had told him so over their fireside breakfast, as he'd fussed and complained and preened his feathers in between bouts of cursing the low-hanging gray clouds. "I thought we were off to find another inn? I was promised marmalade!"

"Hush," she said quietly as she stepped off the stone road onto the one made of dirt. She made a misstep and wobbled, her boot sinking into one of the well-worn trenches made by wagon wheels.

Archie made a rude sound that was akin to a snort of laughter. "See? You should stick to the road, not wander out into this muck!"

A cluster of people in simple clothing walked ahead of her, while still more pressed in behind. After the unfortunate scene at the inn the night before, she was no longer quite so willing to carry on conversations with the talking owl in public, lest she draw too many wary glances.

The road curved along a dense line of fir and spruce trees, eventually leading to open farmland. Clusters of wildflowers decorated the grass between the tree line and the road, but as she neared the small village ahead, the flowers vanished, along with large swaths of grass. Split-rail fencing sectioned off the grazing pastures and fields of crops, and while some looked the way she would expect for late spring, others looked as though a fire had blazed through at some point, leaving the soil unable to recover. Where grass and crops should have been, she instead saw barren rows with more rocks and hard clumps of soil than vegetation.

Likewise, the orchard pressing up against the tree line of the woods was divided, some rows showcasing trees with modest new growth, while others had bare branches, and a few trees looked scorched, their bark blackened and shriveled .

The cheery music couldn't banish the sinking feeling in Evelyn's stomach as she continued along the pathway. Eventually, the pastures shrank in size, and simple homes and cottages stood more closely together, with some homesteads only having space for a pair of goats or a solitary cow, or a coop of chickens. At the village center was a rustic square, where vendors had set up for the day's market.

A band of farmers stood to one side, playing their stringed instruments. The tone was lively as people buzzed from stall to stall, and children danced and gave chase around the outskirts of the marketplace. Some of the vendors were selling prepared foods, fruits and vegetables that were pickled or canned, in glass jars. Others sold fresh fruits and vegetables in netted bags and burlap sacks. One stall offered an assortment of salted meats and fish. A stooped woman sold woven baskets and sun hats adorned with flowers preserved by some type of magic, while her neighbor, a tall man with pointed ears, sold leather gloves and aprons. Evelyn ran her finger along the stitched edge of a leather apron, admiring the quality.

Archie's small taloned feet clutched her shoulder a bit tighter as he leaned near her ear once more. "Mind that purse of gold," he said, then briefly peered out and around the fabric of the hood to stare at those in step with Evelyn. "I'm quite sure these folks would take it from you in a hurry."

Evelyn's eyes narrowed at the owl's cynicism, but she offered a reassuring nod, if only to keep him from carrying on.

In truth, the purse of sunmarks was stashed at the bottom of her enchanted satchel, hidden away under a spell's protection, the same as her more rare potions and magical supplies. If someone were to steal the bag from her shoulder or force her to turn out its contents, they would only find a woman's sundries—and hopefully be so embarrassed over waving unmentionables around the square, they'd give the bag back and slink away empty-handed. She'd kept only a pinch of fernels and rivermarks from the purse, tucking them into her cloak's innermost pocket.

She knew better than to spend all of her new fortune at once, but as she wove through the stalls and admired the clay pottery, dyed linen, and paper cones filled with roasted nuts and dried fruits, it was tempting to turn her pockets inside out and spend every last bit of coin. And that was before she found a stall selling slices of spiced cake!

Archie rode on her shoulder, drawing more than a few curious glances as they made their way through the market. Whether it was at seeing such a bird so domesticated or at seeing an owl out in broad daylight, she wasn't sure.

Normally she wouldn't mind the attention, but after the night before, she found herself shrinking further into the folds of her cloak's hood in an attempt to hide the flush of heat radiating across her cheeks that bloomed whenever she thought of the way she'd been cast into the street.

She could almost hear her mother's voice telling her that it said more about the character of the establishment's owner than it did about her, but that didn't do much to ease the sting of shame.

"Hoot," Archie cooed, as though feeling her frayed emotions.

"I'm all right," she assured him, slowing her steps to consider a table covered in an assortment of woven tunics and cloaks.

"Hoot!"

The second hoot came with a slight needling of talons and Evelyn winced, lifting her gaze from the intricate stitching along the hem of a linen dress, dyed azure blue. "That's quite enough of that," she scolded, jabbing a finger in the owl's direction. She made contact with the bird's soft feathered tummy, before realizing what had him so worked up.

Her mouth fell open as people moved and parted, revealing a stall with a tapestry bearing the painted seascape and inky logo she'd run her finger over so many times, it felt as though it must be tattooed into her skin.

Like a gildenmoth to a lantern's glow, Evelyn all but floated across the modest square, and it seemed as though a flurry of the golden-winged moths had also taken to flying around inside her stomach.

The stall for Salt & Sage was rather plain in comparison to its neighboring booths. The herbal wares were neatly presented, a stark contrast to the table beside it, overflowing with stacks and columns of woven baskets in all manner of shapes and sizes. Dozens of the blue-hued bottles stood in a row, with bound bundles of dried herbs and botanicals hanging from a length of twine hung along the top of the stall's wooden structure.

The booth's merchant had his back turned at Evelyn's approach, but from what she could see, he was tall and auburn-haired. His dark tunic stretched across broad shoulders, the linen simple and unencumbered by complicated designs or embroidery work. He stooped down to retrieve something for a customer, and Evelyn got into line behind a short, plump woman with intricately braided hair and a young child resting on one hip. The child clung to his mother, his eyes watering and puffy. He peered up at Evelyn before rubbing his red eyes with the back of one sticky-looking hand, clutching a hard candy.

"I tell you, we can't make heads or tails of it," the woman told the herb merchant. "But my neighbor swears by starthistle root. She told me to grind it into a fine powder and sprinkle it on little Brodie's pillow every night for a week, and it will set him right again."

Evelyn canted her head, considering the sniffling boy. Starthistle? It was a common enough plant, but she'd never heard of it being ground up and sprinkled on fabric of any kind, let alone a child's pillowcase. For one, even when ground to a fine powder by a patient hand and a strong pestle, it would be abrasive and could even scratch an eye.

"That so?" The rumble of a reply came from the merchant, and he turned, holding a small glass jar containing a tangle of starthistle, the small bulbous roots still attached at the tips of the wispy stalks. He was the kind of man her mother would have called salt of the earth. Which, considering the name of his herb business, seemed fitting. Evelyn would have noticed him in a crowd, with his strong jaw and deep-set eyes, a piercing gray, the color of the sky after a good, strong rain.

His hair was copper and had a bit of a wave, though he kept it closely cropped, unlike many of the men Evelyn had seen since arriving in Shieglas, who wore their hair longer, some even long enough for intricate plaits. Likewise, he kept a neatly trimmed beard, cut close enough to not obscure his jawline.

"That's what Hannah Eleby said," the woman insisted with a firm nod.

The man lifted the jar, considering the hard roots. "I've only heard of them going into cleaning paste, meant for getting mud off boots and such."

The woman vaguely nodded, distracted as she dug a coin purse from a deep pocket in her rather threadbare cloak. "How much do I owe you, Coren?"

"Three fernels," Coren replied, setting the jar in front of the woman .

The little boy wriggled, growing restless as his mother squeezed him more tightly, needing both hands to dig through the small copper coins in her leather pouch.

Evelyn bit her lip, but her eyes darted from the mother to the boy's sad expression, and to the tangled roots inside the glass bottle.

Archie gave a low hoot of a warning.

She lunged forward, momentarily placing a hand on the jar. "I'm sorry—" she faltered, looking from the woman to Coren, and back again. "I don't mean to stick my nose where it doesn't belong?—"

Archie hooted a second time, this one far more resigned.

"It's just, uh, I overheard you say you intend to put these starthistle roots on your child's pillow, and uh, well, I don't think that's a good idea."

The woman blinked, clearly taken aback. She'd located the three copper fernels, but hesitated before handing them to the waiting herb merchant. "And why is that?"

Evelyn cringed, not daring to look at the handsome merchant, though she could feel his eyes on her. "Starthistle roots are quite abrasive, and could cause irritation at best, and a scratch or rash, at worst. May I ask, what ailment it is you intend to treat?"

The woman shifted her weight, hoisting her son higher on her soft hip. "Brodie here has been sick for some time now. His eyes and nose run, and he wakes up sneezing and coughing every morning. It's gone on far longer than a simple cold."

Evelyn looked at the young boy with his puffy eyes and messy tawny mop of hair, and offered a reassuring smile before stretching out a hand. "May I?"

The woman shifted a glance to Coren, but nodded before he could interject his opinion.

Evelyn pressed the back of her hand to the boy's forehead. No fever. No sheen of sweat.

"It all started after he dragged that kitten into his bed," the woman continued, her tone growing exasperated. "I told him it belonged in the barn, with all the others, but he insisted. Do you think the little beast passed on some sort of illness?"

"Goose didn't do anything wrong!" the young boy protested through a sniffle.

"A kitten, you say?" Evelyn held back a smile, then reached one hand into her bag. "Aha, I think I may know what's going on here." She pressed her fingers to the pouch inside and willed a small clay pot, barely the size of a doorknob, to rise into her hand.

She pulled the pot from her bag and double-checked the label, ensuring it was the right one, then extended it toward the woman. "Here. Rub this on your son's chest before he goes to bed, or whenever he is around the cat. The herbs in the salve will help him breathe and clear up this puffiness."

"So, you think the cat is to blame?"

The little boy began to cry, his eyes going bright blue with the onslaught of tears. "But I wuv him! Mama, please, don't take Goose away. He didn't?—"

"Shh!" the woman hushed him.

Evelyn smiled at the boy. "He has a condition, called an allergy. It's easily managed, with the right tincture."

The woman considered the small pot, still not taking it from Evelyn. When she met Evelyn's eyes, her expression pinched and her hand clasped more tightly around the three fernels. "I don't know that I can afford it, miss. My husband is out of work, and our oldest children are only just now getting work for themselves. We mostly get by on what we can scrape together, selling eggs and goat's milk to our neighbors. Though… Avalora only knows how much longer that will last."

Avalora. The goddess of the harvest.

Evelyn's heart twisted at the implication, and she quickly shook her head. "Please, take it. I can make more whenever I need. The ingredients aren't expensive."

"And I can k-keep Goose?" the little boy stammered, once more rubbing his eyes. His little fingers smeared the melted bits of hard candy residue over his cheeks and forehead.

Evelyn smiled. "I suppose that's up to your parents, but the salve will help. I'm sure of it."

The woman beamed up at Evelyn and took the pot. "Thank you, good lady. Here?— "

She tried to thrust the fernels into Evelyn's hand in exchange, but Evelyn pulled away. "There's no need."

A tall man approached the booth behind them, and the woman tugged Evelyn's sleeve, guiding them both out of the path of the new arrival. The herb merchant wordlessly swiped the bottle of starthistle from the table, and greeted his next customer with a gruff-sounding "good morning."

Archie poked his head out from the hood and the little boy squealed with delight, reaching for the bird with sticky hands. Archie ruffled his feathers and took flight, which only seemed to delight the boy further.

"You have to let us repay you in some fashion," the woman continued. "Tell you what, you come to our farm tomorrow, and we will send you with the day's eggs. Surely you can't say no to that!"

Evelyn's stomach rumbled in agreement. She'd finished off the last of her dried fruit and hard cheese that morning before breaking camp, and the idea of a plate of fried eggs and hot bread made her want to weep.

"You have a deal," she exclaimed.

"Our farm is not far from here. Go past the square here, and keep walking until you pass the three windmills," the woman told Evelyn. "You'll see a wooden sign—my husband carved it himself—that says Branigan farm. That's me and my husband, see? Oh, and I'm Lenora. Did I say that already?" She flapped a hand, dismissing her own inquiry. "I'll have half a dozen eggs and a pail of milk set aside for you!"

Evelyn wondered if perhaps she should have taken the fernels, as half a dozen eggs and milk would surely fetch the family more at market prices.

The woman, sensing Evelyn's consternation, quickly held up her free hand. "It's the least we can do."

The woman wandered off before Evelyn could argue, chatting with her small son as she tried to scrub the candy from his face.

Evelyn hung back a step, waiting for the customer—an older man in search of some rosemary and thyme—to complete his purchase. The man thanked the merchant and ambled away, muttering a list of additional ingredients to himself.

With the path cleared, Evelyn arranged her best smile and approached the booth.

The vendor folded his arms over his chest and peered down at her, his lips set in a firm line. "Are you wanting to buy something now? Or are you simply waiting around in order to steer the next customer from my shop?"

Evelyn blinked. "What? No—no, of course—that's not what I?—"

He arched a thick, copper brow.

"You have my apologies, sir. But she needed help. If I thought she could have found the remedy in another herb or spice, I would have pointed her to it. But I'm afraid that cure requires a little more—" Evelyn stopped short and pressed her lips together, holding back the last word.

Magic .

The merchant eyed her, more skeptically than before. "More what?"

She pressed her lips together. After last night, she thought it best to be a bit more cautious about discussing her power. At least until she could get a better sense of the town's attitude toward witches—royal or otherwise.

"It's not important," she replied, shaking her head. "Look, I promise I can make up for that lost sale, and then some. In fact, I may as well buy the ingredients I'll need to make another batch of that very salve. That one clay pot won't last them forever, after all." Evelyn paused and lowered her hood before extending a hand toward the man.

Haltingly, he took it, exchanging the customary greeting in Calendra, clasping his strong fingers around her forearm, and she doing the same to his, the contact lasting less than half a moment, but long enough for Evelyn to appreciate the strength in the corded muscles running through his forearm, concealed beneath the sleeve of his tunic.

"My name is Evelyn Rosewood."

"Coren Thorneheart," he replied, his tone still rather gruff, but the line between his thick brows seemed less severe.

So, that was something .

"I don't believe I've seen you at the market before. Are you new to the harbor? Or visiting?"

"Oh, only visiting. In some way, I suppose I should thank you for the inspiration. I've long held a bottle of dried moonlace caps from your shop, and every time I would see the label, I'd dream of coming here to see… uh, well, you , I suppose."

"Me?" An amused twitch played at Coren's lips. "Well, I'm flattered, Ms. Rosewood."

A flash of heat warmed Evelyn's cheeks. "You must know what I meant."

Coren bobbed his head. "Aye. Tell me now, what is it you'll be needing?" His gaze—those storm-cloud eyes—drifted past her shoulder, and she turned slightly, finding a few more customers waiting at her back.

"Of course," she said, tearing her eyes from him long enough to consider the neatly arranged bottles and the bundles swaying in the faint breeze above their heads. After a moment of mental calculations she rattled off a list, with Coren effortlessly stacking the requested items before her, barely needing to glance at the bottles to ensure he had the right one in hand.

He gave her the total and she used two of her rivermarks—more expensive than she'd expected, but then, in Benenfar the local merchants knew to give her the king's price. Coren quickly made change and handed her a few copper fernels.

She slipped the bottles and bundle of dried lavender into her satchel, not bothering with the spell to properly organize them into the hidden depths. There would be time for that later.

When she glanced up once more, she found Coren watching her, and she got the distinct impression he was searching for something. She just wasn't sure what.

"Thank you, kindly," she said.

He returned her nod, then leaned closer. "Before you go, Ms. Rosewood, you should know there's a wooden board near the post office, where you can put up an advertisement for your wares. None of the merchants here will take kindly to you skimming customers from their stalls."

Heat crept up Evelyn's throat and she was glad to lift her hood and drop it back atop her head, hiding away in the shadows before the flush of color could reach her cheeks. "Thank you," she managed. "Good day."

She scurried between Coren's booth and the one beside it, a merchant selling squash and beans, and she could have sworn the faintest snickering reached her ears, coming from the neighboring vegetable vendor.