A quick shift to adjust the iron where it heated in the coals let me hide my relief. It was only Powell’s normal suspicions making him look at me that way. “I gave Phillip a bucket of nails and told him the rest would be ready by the end of the week.”
I’d have had the order completely done by tomorrow if I hadn’t spent most of my time working on jewelry. But Powell wouldn’t want to deliver it until the end of the week, anyway. It would support the story that he had made everything himself.
Though why he bothered, I wasn’t sure. The villagers always found a way to justify their belief that I couldn’t make anything worthwhile. But even after years, Powell still showed that hint ofnervousness every now and then, a fear that one day his lies might crumble around him.
I only wish I knew what prompted his moments of extra vigilance.
Powell walked away without another word. He knew I’d handle the work, and now that he had assured himself that nothing had gone wrong in his absence, his interest in the forge waned. Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I simply refused to craft the items for the village. Would he make them himself?
A humorless chuckle escaped as I checked the temperature of my iron. He’d probably spend as little time as possible making everything, then blame the poor quality on me.
The metal glowed a bright cherry red. I carried it over to the anvil and resumed shaping it.
I’d never test my theory. My pride as the last Smythson in Skorsa was too strong to let inferior work flood the village. It didn’t matter that the villagers never believed that I made any of the tools they used; I knew. Every time I forged a piece, I proved to myself that their insults were unfounded.
I needed the work to keep me sane. I had nothing but the clang of hammer on metal, the heat of the fire, and the ache of well-used muscles in my life.
Hazel eyes, bright with wonder, flashed in my memory. Maybe I could find a way to speak with Mina again. If I was careful, Powell wouldn’t notice.
I watched the house through the open doors as I finished the hinge. Just as my stomach started rumbling, I spotted Powell leaving. I put aside the iron and brought out my gold once more. Supper could wait. Mina had mentioned wanting to see what I might make out of the remaining gold. Finishing this piece would be the perfect excuse to seek her out.
Six
Mina
???
By the timesupper came, the fact that I had forgotten to wear a hat while I sat spinning all afternoon concerned me more than the blacksmiths. Despite the shade of the apple tree, I knew my nose and cheeks had turned red from the sun.
While eating with the Wrisons, I realized I had been ridiculous to think I should find another excuse to visit the forge. I was a visitor in Skorsa. An outsider with no knowledge of the history of the smiths. Why should I doubt an entire village’s impression of one man?
That wasn’t what I was here for.
I had one month. A single month to learn how to live as someone without rank and influence.
Many of my peers would call my desire to hide my identity foolish. I’d never be a person without rank. I’d always have influence. But I needed to understand.
Nemya had a unique set of inheritance laws for the royal family. I had to marry before I turned twenty-five next spring. Those same laws decreed that I must marry a commoner. For my father, the law had demanded a noble consort. My grandfather had been required to marry a foreigner.
Every generation it rotated through the three. Centuries ago, when the Devaoile family ascended the throne, my ancestors had enacted the marriage laws to prevent the previous dynasty’s mistakes. The first Devaoile king had believed the rotation between noble, commoner, and foreigner for royal consorts would give his descendants a better understanding of all factions and lead to better governance. So far, it had worked.
But there had been very few instances in the past where circumstances led to a female inheriting the throne. The law making the eldest child regardless of sex the heir had only passed during my grandfather’s reign. The rare queens who had inherited before that had done so in the generations dedicated to marrying a noble or foreigner. I was the first who had to marry a commoner.
From what I had gleaned in the palace archives, the heirs before me had simply chosen the prettiest woman they saw as their consort. The traditional ball before their twenty-fifth birthday deadline gave them a chance to meet the women. Then they made their choice after a single evening of dancing. Men.
My mother had decided we would do things differently. Meeting a stranger at a ball—one to whom I could not relate—spelled disaster. Before my ball, I needed to meet the type of men who would attend and learn how they lived. I spent my thirteenth summer as a deckhand on a fishing boat. The next year, I rode with a trade caravan. I knew how to interact with citizens throughout Nemya, from farmers to courtiers.
But I didn’t understand what such lives were truly like. Rank always formed a barrier between me and the people I visited. Sometimes that barrier was a brick wall, other times little more than a line in the dirt, but it always existed. With my birthday looming, I wanted one last chance to experience something similar to the only life my future husband would know. Some common ground to stand on as he was thrown into the life of royalty.
So, I wouldn’t stir things up and doubt the wisdom of an entire village.
By the next day, I forgot about the smiths, my attention focused on soaking up every new experience I could, like cooking. Mistress Hervor, Kayla’s mother, had offered to teach us how to make cherry pie.
Before coming to Skorsa, I had never cooked much. I had been in kitchens across the kingdom. During my summer visits, I had stirred a pot or two of stew and chopped a handful of vegetables, but nothing more. In Skorsa, the kitchens were still predominantly the domain of the women, and I worked with food often. I loved it, even if I wasn’t particularly talented. I was even willing to spend the afternoon in Kayla’s company for this opportunity.
I walked into the tavern, looking for Kayla, a basket dangling at the crook of my elbow. Neither Mistress Hervor nor her daughters were in the common room when I entered. I spotted Old Gordy bent over his usual mug of ale in one corner. One of Kayla’s beaus stood talking to Gordy.
“Mina, are you looking for Kayla, too?” Jeffrey Rennwaithe asked me.
