CHAPTER 1
The spinning wheel hummed its familiar lullaby, the rhythm as steady as a heartbeat, as Jessa guided the fiber between her fingers, watching the twist climb the yarn. Morning light slanted through the cottage windows, catching dust motes that drifted like tiny stars. She’d been at this for two hours already, working through the pile of carded wool that sat in its basket beside her stool. The thread pooled onto the bobbin in neat, even layers—nothing fancy, but it would fetch a fair price at the weekly market.
Behind her, Dani coughed.
The sound was soft, barely audible over the wheel’s drone, and Jessa forced herself to keep her hands moving.Don’t fuss. She hates when you fuss.
Another cough, louder this time.
Unable to resist, she glanced over her shoulder. Her sister sat curled in the reading chair near the window, a blanket tucked around her thin shoulders despite the mild morning. Dani’s darkhair fell loose around her face as she bent over the book in her lap, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“You should eat something,” she said gently.
“Already did.” Dani didn’t look up. Her finger traced the lines on the page, lips moving silently as she read.
“Half a biscuit isn’t breakfast.”
“It is when you’re not hungry.”
She bit back the automatic response. The village medic said forcing food would only make things worse. The medic also said Dani’s constitution was weak, and that she needed warmth and rest and medicine—medicine Jessa couldn’t afford even if it were available in their small village.
But I’ll find a way to get it,she thought fiercely, turning back to the wheel. This batch needed to be done by afternoon if she wanted to start weaving tomorrow.
The familiar quiet of the cottage settled around them. Their mother’s loom dominated the main room, its frame worn smooth by decades of use. Baskets of fiber and half-finished projects lined one wall—rust-dyed wool waiting to be spun, a partially woven blanket still on the loom, hanks of linen thread hanging from ceiling hooks to dry. The air smelled of lanolin and woodsmoke and the faint herbal tang of the tea she had brewed earlier.
The cottage wasn’t large, but it was theirs. Free and clear, paid for by their mother’s skill and their father’s careful savings before the fever took them both.
Dani coughed again, harder this time.
Her hands slowed as she looked over her shoulder again.
“I’m fine.” Dani’s voice carried that edge of exasperation that meant she’d caught Jessa’s worried look. “Stop hovering.”
“I’m not hovering. I’m spinning.”
“You’re spinning and hovering.”
Despite herself, she smiled. Ten years old and sharp as a tack. Dani saw things other people missed. Like the fact that Jessa woke three times every night to check if her sister was still breathing.
The wheel found its rhythm again. Thread, twist, pool. Thread, twist, pool. She had a commission due next week—a merchant from the port town two valleys over who wanted quality linen for his daughter’s wedding trousseau. The job would pay well and, more importantly, it had been arranged without her uncle’s contacts which meant she wouldn’t have to give him any of the profits. She couldn’t afford to miss the deadline.
A loud knock at the door shattered the fragile peace, making her jump. The thread snapped, and the bobbin wobbled. She stomped on the treadle to stop the wheel’s whir, her heart thudding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Who was calling at this hour?
Probably just one of the neighbors, she told herself, but her stomach churned as she went to open the door. The sight of her uncle Gerhard on the threshold, his broad frame blocking most of the morning light, did nothing to ease her concern. Mr. Petras and Mrs. Webb, two other members of the village council, stood behind him, along with a tall thin stranger wearing traveling leathers.
“Jessa.” Gerhard’s practiced smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Good morning, niece. I hope we’re not disturbing your work.”
“I’m afraid I am rather busy this morning,” she said, keeping her voice calm and reasonable.
“I should have sent word ahead, I know. But opportunity waits for no man.” He gestured to the stranger. “May we come in? I’d like to introduce you to Trader Halwick. He’s traveled all the way from Port Cantor.”
Port Cantor?While the trading caravans that brought goods north originated at the spaceport, few of them made it this far. Her hand tightened on the door handle, her unease growing, but she had no justifiable reason to refuse her uncle’s request.
She stepped back. “Of course.”
Her uncle strode confidently into the room, the brass buttons on his formal coat straining over his stomach. The councilors trailing behind obediently, Mr. Petras stooped with age and Mrs. Webb stout and comfortable. The trader surveyed the room, his eyes lingering on the loom and the bolts of finished cloth on the shelves behind the loom.
