Verity held the ledger open. A quill had materialized from behind her ear and hovered over a half-filled page expectantly.
Varek's hand pressed briefly against Mab's lower back. "Stay with Verity. I'll find you when the smith is done with me." He held her gaze for a beat, then turned toward the forge with Targesh already moving beside him, the two of them falling into conversation before they'd crossed half the courtyard.
The crowd was thinning. Warriors led horses through the stable doors. The orc child had climbed out of the supply cart and was running back toward the tannery. Drogga was hauling a crate of supplies onto her shoulder, saying something to a smith's apprentice who'd come out to help unload.
"Name?" Verity prompted, drawing Mab's attention back to her.
It was a simple question, but Mab found herself hesitating.
She had been Mab the whole of her life. Mab the scullion. Mab who scrubbed pots. Mab who kept her head down and her hands busy and her name small enough to fit in the corner of a kitchen where no one looked twice.
But that wasn't who she was standing in this courtyard.
"Mabel," she said. The name felt strange in her mouth, too big, like a dress she'd outgrown in reverse. "But everyone calls me Mab."
Verity's quill scratched across the page. "Mabel, called Mab. Surname?"
"I don't have one."
The quill paused. Verity looked up. "That's fine," she said. "We'll leave it blank for now. And the children?"
"The children are Tibbs and Annie."
"Tibbs," Verity repeated, writing. "Surname?"
Tibbs's hand went to the leather cord at his neck. The wooden disc his mother had carved. "Don't know it," he said. "She died before she finished teaching me."
Verity's quill stopped and she looked up. "Tibbs, then. We'll find the rest when you're ready." She turned to Annie, who had drifted over from the cart with Bramble still tucked under one arm and her other hand already reaching for the quill. "And you, love?"
"Annie. I don't have a surname either. Or a birthday." Annie peered at the ledger. "How do you write that fast?"
"Practice and poor penmanship." Verity glanced at the supply cart. "Are those dogs?"
"Those are Annie's," Mab said, before Annie could launch into the full account. "One mother, five puppies. They came with us from the holding."
"The mom is called Brownie," Annie added. "I'm not sure about the puppies yet, except for Bramble. She's the mean one."
Verity wrote this down. She wrote everything down, in handwriting so compressed it looked like a fence made of letters.
"Ages," Verity said, not looking up.
"Thirty-two. Tibbs is thirteen. Annie is twelve."
"Twelve and three-quarters," Annie corrected.
Verity added the correction without comment. "Prior occupation?"
"Kitchen work."
"Kitchen work," Verity repeated, and the quill paused. "You'll want to meet Kira."
"So I've been told."
Verity tucked the quill back behind her ear. "Come on. I'll show you around first, then I'll point you at the kitchen and get out of the way."
She turned and walked toward the main doors. Mab followed, with Tibbs falling into step on her left. Annie handed Bramble to him, took two running steps to catch Verity, and asked, "Is there really an orchard?"
"Three, technically. Apple, pear, and a scraggly plum that produces about six plums a year."
