Without warning, my late husband’s face appears in my mind, and my throat abruptly burns. Harry. I miss him. Terribly so. If he were here, he would pat my back and promise all would be well. Between the two of us, he was always the optimist, while I tended to see the darker eventualities in life. Still do. Even though I didn’t always believe him, I used to find comfort in his gentle, steadfast presence and his encouraging words.
I blink quickly to keep the tears from falling. It’s been almost a year since he died, almost a year since he wasmurdered, but sometimes it feels like yesterday that he met a grim end. I’llnever forget how worried I was when he didn’t come home. I’ll never forget the shock and the sorrow that consumed me when I learned of his death. His body was discovered in an alley, stabbed over a dozen times, his money bag and wedding ring missing.
Swallowing hard, I blink back more tears. I must be brave, and I must stop feeling sorry for myself. I have a roof over my head, and I have a job. Harry’s old job, to be precise. It took some convincing, but the postmaster eventually took me on as the first female mail carrier in Braemar. With uncharacteristic optimism, I remind myself that things could always be worse. I mean, I could be leg-shackled to a man who makes my skin crawl.
Just weeks after Harry’s murder, his younger brother, Peter, tried to pressure me into marriage. When I refused, he invoked a long-forgotten law about sonless widows not being allowed to inherit their late husband’s propertyifthere was at least one living male relative on the husband’s side. And so, I was forced to leave the little cottage I’d shared with Harry.
But at least I’m free. At least I didn’t have to marry Peter.
My stomach twists every time I consider the possibility.
By the time I left the cottage, I’d already secured the job as a mail carrier, and I’d had enough money saved to rent a room elsewhere. As I’d walked down the street struggling to carry the few belongings I’d managed to pack, I’d noticed a ‘room for rent’ sign in the window of Sinclair’s Bakery. Thank the gods for small miracles.
I glance over my shoulder. Isabel is almost finished preparing the tea, and my stomach growls when I notice the plate of scones she’s assembled. I almost laugh at my earlier worry about affording enough food to fill my cupboards upstairs. The truth is, Isabel and her father wouldn’t let me starve. Even if I was late paying rent, I don’t think they would evict me. But Idon’t want to take advantage of their kindness, and I resolve that I’ll do whatever I must to keep earning my own living.
Isabel joins me near the fire. She sets a tray containing two steaming cups of tea, small containers of sugar and milk, and a plate of blueberry scones on the table between us. She sinks into the opposite chair and heaves a weary sigh.
“Thank you,” I say with a nod at the refreshments. “You really are too kind. I daresay you and your father are the most accommodating landlords in all of Braemar.”
Isabel snorts delicately as she reaches for a cup of tea. She adds a dash of milk and a generous helping of sugar, then brings the beverage close to her face and savors a deep inhale.
“You’re a good tenant,” she says after a moment. “And you’re a good friend too, if you don’t mind me saying so. You talk to me even though… even though…” Her voice trails off, but I know what she’s thinking.
She’s thinking about the time she was briefly taken prisoner by a group of marauding orcs. I’m not sure if the orcs violated her during the two days she spent in captivity, as she shuts down whenever anyone broaches the topic, but the entire city of Braemar assumes she’sspoiled. People are outwardly polite to her, and business at the bakery remains steady, but all her childhood friends have ceased talking to her. I think what torments her most is that her fiancé, a young soldier named Ian, broke their engagement only hours after helping to rescue her.
Life can certainly be cruel at times.
Ah, there it is. My usual pessimism.
“I will never stop talking to you, Isabel. I promise,” I finally say. As I prepare my own cup of tea, I give her what I hope is a comforting look. The poor thing. She’s a few years younger than I am, and I fear she already believes her life is over just because she’ll never marry or have children.
“You’re an absolute dear.” She smiles, though I can’t help but notice the sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Did you hear the battle horn and notice the sudden frost?” I ask just before taking a sip of tea.
She nods. “Yes. I was standing on the porch accepting a delivery of milk when the snow started and the frost came. Then… the horn.” A shadow crosses her face. “Papa ran off to see if he could find out what’s happening. Hopefully he’ll return soon, and hopefully the news isn’t bad.”
I reach across the table and give her shoulder a quick squeeze. “At the first sign of danger, you can hide beneath the floorboards,” I tell her.
She swallows hard and grows pale. “Orcs like to burn things. I appreciate that Papa created a hiding place beneath the floorboards. I know he meant well and thought it would help me feel safer. But if Braemar is attacked by orcs and they have catapults with balls of flame…” She sighs before taking a long drink of tea. Her hands tremble around the cup.
My sense of foreboding deepens, and not just because her words are making me think of burning buildings. It’s because I’m not really worried about orcs at all.
Orcs can’t influence the weather. They can’t make it grow unseasonably cold in a matter of moments, bringing frost and snow and violent winter winds.
But the creatures who can command the weather are too terrifying to mention aloud. So, I keep my concerns to myself. Isabel has enough on her mind. Besides, her father should return soon, and then we’ll know for certain.
Perhaps I am only envisioning the darkest possibility out of habit.
“I guess battle horns are bad for business,” I say with a gesture at the empty seating area. I’m trying to lighten the mood, and thankfully it works.
A smile tugs at Isabel’s lips, and she reaches for a blueberry scone.
“More treats for us,” she says with a wink.
I grab a scone too, and we eat in companionable silence for a few minutes. The wind is now blowing so hard that it’s rattling the shutters, and we aren’t able to hear the shouts of soldiers or anyone else who might be in the street. But each time I peer out the window, I glimpse no one, not a single soul, though I am startled by how heavily it’s snowing.
The steady crackling of the fire helps soothe my rattled senses, if only a little. I say a silent prayer to the gods for the safety of Mr. Sinclair, Isabel’s father. If the storm grows worse, he might not be able to return to the bakery as soon as hoped.
