Turning, I headed for home.
The evening continued to descend around me, sliding into night. There was nothing soft about the air as it thickened and deepened into sticky and cloying darkness.
I broke through the tree line to face the twinkling lights of the village nestled in a valley of velvety white. Light glowed from the many windows, and torches burned in sconces outside the meetinghousewhere they would burn long into the night. They never went out. The meetinghouse remained lit, a guard positioned high in the spire. Someone stood on duty at all hours, looking out and ready to give alert at the first sight of soldiers or bandits. The sight of me, if spotted, would be no cause for alarm.
I advanced on my house. Smoke wound from its chimney in a plume of gray against the inky sky. Typically, it was a welcome sight. Except tonight I felt no welcome in my heart.
I closed my fingers around the latch and pushed open the door. Stepping inside, I was greeted by a wave of warmth and the savory smell of stew.
I glanced to the table. Everyone sat around it still eating: my brothers, Meya, and Da. They ate and conversed easily, the rumble of voices revealing none of the strife from earlier. Apparently, my outburst had done nothing to sour their appetites or moods.
I closed the door behind me with deliberate force, making certain they heard my entrance.
I paused there a long moment, waiting expectantly. Meya, at least, would attend to me and encourage me to eat.
No one looked up.
With an annoyed sniff, I approached the stove and the simmering pot there. The appetizing aroma of meat and herbs wafted on the air, and my mouth watered in response. I could almost taste it. My stubbornness, however, won out.
I would not indulge in the simple pleasure of food and act like nothing was amiss.
I would not have them think all was forgiven or that I was at peace with being forced to remain in Isstad.
I shot another resentful glance at the pot, as though it were to blame for my unhappiness, and took a seat on the bench beside Jens, crossing my arms and ignoring my aching belly, and fighting a cringe as my brother slurped loudly, the rich brown broth dribbling down his bristly chin.
I waited, ready for my family to inquire why I wasn’t eating. Childish perhaps, but I wanted them to know I wasnotfine andwould notbefine anytime soon. I would not be surrendering quietly to the fate they had decided for me.
Except...no one asked.
Henrik and Meya discussed their plans for moving west to the Borg in a week’s time as though I wasn’t even in the room.
Da remarked his concern for them to get on the road before the worst of winter struck.
Jens replied that it already felt as though the worst of winter had arrived.
I studied each of their faces, marveling that they would ignore me thusly.
A lull fell in the conversation, the only sounds that of the popping fire in the hearth and the stew bubbling in its pot. The wind howled outside, banging against the windows like it wanted entrance, and Meya glanced to the walls of the house with a worried look as though fearing the relentless cold might find its way inside.
I didn’t understand why she had not yet remarked upon my arrival or lectured me for staying out so long in the cold—without a coat, no less. Whatever game or punishment they were playing at was unlike her.
“Should take the south road, then swing northwest.” Da scraped his spoon against the inside of his bowl. “Better path in winter.” Father spoke with his customary terseness. “Hopefully roads are passable enough and you don’t have to get out and shovel. Don’t know why you didn’t depart sooner.”
I snorted. Didn’t he? Even in the smithy, autumn was the busiest time of year. With everyone hard at work on the harvest, it was the last big push to prepare for winter. Henrik and Meya had stayed to help and make sure the family was well-fortified. Now that winter was here and things had slowed, they would go.
“You promised to take me with you when you left,” I reminded sharply, glaring at Henrik. I had not yet given up.
He didn’t even flick an eye at the sound of my voice. It was maddening. Why was he pretending I wasn’t in the room? This wasn’t like him.
I pounded a fist on the table’s surface, hating the plea in my voice yet unable to stop it. “Henrik!”
Nothing. Not even the smallest flash of reaction.
“Can’t recall a night as bitter as this so early in the season. Coldest one in memory,” Da blithely continued. “Not the best weather to set off in.”
“Well, we can tarry no longer,” Meya offered.
Da nodded.
