1
ELOWEN
Istay later than I should.
The light outside the apothecary windows has long since turned the color of bruised plums, and the marsh fog has begun to gather in pale ribbons along the ground, pressing against the glass as though curious about what keeps me inside. I know I ought to close before full dark. The wiser women in Briarthorn do not walk alone after sunset, not even on familiar roads.
But Mrs. Talren’s boy was burning with fever again, and old Brenn cannot wrap his own knee without tightening the bandage so fiercely he cuts off his circulation. There is always one more knock, one more plea, one more reason to remain.
I cork the last vial of willowbark tincture and wipe my hands on a linen cloth stained green from crushed marshmint. The scent clings stubbornly to my skin, sharp, clean, alive. My mother used to say that if you smelled of herbs, it meant you had done something useful with your day. I hold onto that thought as I move through the small shop, snuffing candles one by one until the room dims into shadow.
Usefulness has always been my shield. If I am needed, I am tolerated. If I am gentle, I am left mostly in peace.
Mostly.
I gather my satchel, lock the door, and step into the evening air. The marsh hums with its nocturnal chorus, broxs croaking in uneven rhythm, insects buzzing near the reeds, the distant creak of wood settling as the village prepares for sleep. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys, carrying the smell of peat and supper fires.
The path home is short. I have walked it so many times I could navigate it blindfolded: down the narrow lane between the storage houses, past the tannery wall, and out toward the road that curves gently toward my cottage at the marsh’s edge.
I tell myself not to hurry. Hurrying invites attention.
Still, when I turn into the narrowest part of the alley and see a figure leaning against the stone wall ahead, my steps falter before I can disguise it.
“Evening, Elowen.”
Garruk Voss straightens slowly, pushing himself away from the bricks with a lazy ease that makes it clear he has been waiting. The fading light catches in his bloodshot eyes. Even from several paces away, I can smell the sour bite of ale clinging to him.
“Garruk,” I answer, careful to keep my voice even and mild. I have learned that tone matters more than words. “It’s late.”
“That it is.” His gaze drifts over me in a way that makes my skin feel too tight. “Lucky for you, I don’t mind the dark.”
I attempt a polite smile and shift to move past him. He steps neatly into my path, blocking the wider end of the alley with casual precision.
My pulse lifts, just slightly.
“I should get home,” I say. “There’s still boiling water to set for tomorrow.”
He tilts his head, studying me as though I have presented him with something amusing. “You’re always tending tosomeone else. Always so busy being good.” He takes a step closer. “Don’t you ever get tired of that?”
I do not answer. Instead, I try to step around him on the left.
His hand closes around my wrist.
The contact is not violent. Not at first. His grip is firm, warm, almost companionable to an outside eye. But the alley is narrow, and the wall is suddenly very close to my back.
“Let go,” I say quietly.
He chuckles, leaning nearer. The scent of tannery chemicals and stale drink settles heavily in the air between us. “You act like I’ve done something terrible. I just want to talk.”
His thumb presses into the inside of my wrist, brushing the delicate skin there in a slow, possessive stroke.
My breath catches. I have endured wandering hands before. In the marketplace. During festivals. A touch that lingers too long beneath the guise of jest. I have always swallowed the discomfort, reminded myself that anger only escalates things. That silence keeps peace. Peace is safer.
But the alley feels smaller by the second, and there is no one passing at this hour. No witness. No interruption if something happens…and I feel like something is about to happen.
“Garruk,” I try again, and I hate the tremor that threads through my voice. “Please.”
He leans closer still, his body effectively caging mine against the wall. “You think you’re too good for me?”
