A month has passed since the night of the carnival, yet the memory clings to me like the scent of cedar on my skin.
Every evening, when the lamps burn low and the air hums with crickets, I find myself tracing the ring’s cold surface with my thumb, the sigil glinting faintly beneath the lamplight. It lies hidden beneath the loose board under my bed, wrapped in a scrap of linen I stitched myself, as though secrecy could guard me from my own thoughts.
Father knows nothing. He believes that the night of the prince’s celebration was just an evening when I wandered the city and came back with tired feet. He never asks what I saw, and I never confess that I lost far more than my sense of restraint.
The days since have been quiet, almost cruelly so. The village is the same—smoke curling from the chimneys, hammers echoing from the smithy, and our little stitchery smelling of thread and sweat and old fabric. But inside me, something has shifted.
The memory of his gloved hands, his voice—soft, teasing, unguarded—lingers like a spell I cannot undo. I do not even know his name.
***
Father hums as he works beside me, bent over a pile of coats. “You seem far away again, my girl,” he says without lifting his head.
“I am here,” I answer, keeping my voice even, my fingers pulling the thread through a customer’s tunic. The stitch slips; I prick my finger and hiss softly.
He glances up, frowning. “You’ve been pale since last week. Eat more. You’re fading like old linen.”
“I am well,” I insist, though the truth is that lately my body feels no longer my own. My mornings begin with a wave of nausea that sends me stumbling from bed. By midday, my strength wanes. Sometimes, I cannot even trust my hands to stay steady.
Still, I work. I fold, stitch, patch, and smile at customers until my lips ache.
By the second month, Father’s worry sharpens into fear.
One afternoon, I’m working at the front table, trying to mend a soldier’s torn sleeve. The light sways and blurs; my needle trembles in my hand.
“Lara,” Father says quietly, stepping closer. “You are trembling again.”
“I am fine.” I force a smile, but it breaks halfway.
“Are you certain?” His voice cracks in the middle, a sound I’ve never heard from him. “You’ve been ill for days. Let me fetch the hedge-healer.”
“No,” I whisper quickly, shaking my head. “It is nothing. Just the heat.”
He studies me with the kind of gaze that can see through fabric and lies alike. “Your mother used to say that when she was with child,” he murmurs absently. “Always pale, always claiming it was the weather.”
The words make my throat close. “Father—please.”
He sighs. “As you wish. But promise me you’ll rest when this shirt is done.”
“I promise.”
***
The next day dawns gray and heavy, the clouds swollen with rain. The smell of wet earth fills the air. I wake before Father, my stomach twisting so violently I barely make it to the wash basin. My body rejects the morning like poison. When I finally rise, dizzy and weak, he’s already setting up shop.
I force myself to work anyway. Hours blur together. Customers come and go. I keep sewing, keep pretending, until the world begins to tilt. The voices around me fade into a low hum. My vision darkens.
“Lara?” Father’s voice sounds distant. “Lara!”
Then, nothing.
When I wake, the air is thick and smells faintly of smoke and rain. My father’s arms are around me, his voice frantic near my ear. “Hold on, my girl. Hold on.”
I try to speak, but my tongue feels heavy.
A man’s voice cuts through the ringing in my head. “Tailor Durden! She’s fainted clean away.”
“Get a doctor!” Father shouts.
“But this is a village!” the man stammers. “Where do I find a doctor qualified enough?”
Father’s breath trembles against my hair. Then I feel him stand. “There is one,” he mutters. “There’s always one.”
The sound of rain thickens outside as he lifts me in his arms. I catch fragments of motion—his coat flapping, the village road blurring by, people gasping as we pass. My head lolls against his chest, each heartbeat thunder in my ears.
The scent changes: damp wood, wild herbs, river water. We are near the forest. Then, the sudden screech of a door being kicked open.
“Ysabet!” Father’s voice echoes through the cramped room. “Help my daughter. She’s been ill for weeks—now she’s collapsed!”
Through my half-closed eyes I see her: the hedge-healer. Ysabet Thornwell. Her skin dark as oiled walnut, her hair coiled in long black ropes, her gaze sharp enough to slice the air. She doesn’t look startled.
“Tailor Durden,” she says calmly, setting down a glass filled with something red and shining. “Lay her here.”
Father obeys, his breath uneven. Ysabet sweeps her arm across a cluttered table, sending jars and roots scattering to the floor, and gestures for him to step back.
“I’ll see to her. Wait outside,” she orders.
He hesitates. “But—”
“Go, Durden.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.
When the door shuts behind him, the room grows quieter except for the whisper of rain on the thatch. Ysabet’s hands move over me with surprising gentleness—checking my pulse, pressing her ear against my chest. She lifts a small crystal from a chain around her neck and lets its light play across my eyes.
“Hmm,” she hums under her breath, not unkindly, only thoughtful.
I cannot find words, only the hollow ache in my stomach and the strange flutter beneath my ribs. She touches my wrist again, measures my breath, and finally steps back.
“Rest,” she murmurs. “Do not move until I return.”
And the world drifts away.
***
When I open my eyes again, soft light spills through a small window, painting the shelves of jars in muted gold. The air smells of rosemary, iron, and something sweet like crushed berries. My limbs feel heavy, but the faintness has eased.
I shift slightly, and the old healer’s voice answers from somewhere behind me. “Ah, you are awake.”
Ysabet steps into view, her sharp gaze assessing. She carries a bowl of dark liquid that steams faintly. “You frightened your father,” she says, stirring the bowl with a wooden rod. “He is pacing holes into my floor.”
I try to sit up. “Did I faint?”
“Indeed.” Her tone is steady as stone. “But not without reason.”
I blink, confused. “What reason?”
Ysabet studies me for a long, quiet moment before answering. “You are with child.”
The words strike like a blade through cloth. For a heartbeat, I do not breathe. “What?”
“You heard me.” She sets the bowl down carefully. “You carry life, Lara.”
I stare at her, the walls of the room blurring. My hands clutch the edge of the table. “That cannot be.”
“Cannot?” Ysabet arches one brow. “The body seldom lies, even when the heart would prefer it.”
I shake my head, trembling. “No. I—I only met him once.”
Her gaze softens slightly. “A single night can change many things.”
I press a hand to my mouth. The ring—hidden under the floorboard—the memory of his voice—every piece floods back all at once. “Does my father know?”
“Not yet.” She turns toward the door. “He will, soon.”
“Please,” I whisper, though I don’t know what I’m asking for—for silence, perhaps, or for time to make sense of what cannot be undone.
Ysabet says nothing. She picks up the bowl, watching as the colors swirl—red mixing into gold until it turns the hue of sunset. Then she calls out, her voice calm but carrying. “Durden.”
The door opens at once. Father rushes in, his face drawn with worry. “Lara!”
I can barely look at him.
Ysabet meets his gaze squarely, then flips the glass in her hands, letting the colors settle into one. Her voice is steady, clear, almost ceremonial.
“Your daughter is pregnant, tailor Durden.”