She had been ten when she fled the little town of Needle Falls, fled the scene of blood and sorrow that splashed the walls of their ramshackle house. Her brother, Hugo, was dead, crushed in a logging accident, and her father, already predisposed to drink himself into oblivion, drank just the wrong amount. Whiskey and grief filled him in an angry cocktail…too drunk to know what he was doing, but not drunk enough to pass out. When the first blow fell that night, it felt like all the others, but she knew. Knew that it was different. Because Hugo would never be back to protect her. They would never flee this place. This would be her life. Day in and day out. Cleaning up her father’s messes by day, dodging his fists by night. So when he came for her to land the second blow, she hit him with their cast-iron skillet. And while his lifeblood slowly seeped out onto the dirt of their floor, she prepared to run.
Wren gathered what small amount of money they had, a spare dress, some mealy apples, and a hunk of cheese. She slipped into the night, saddled their one old horse, and galloped through the night into Maradis. She didn’t know what she expected to find there, but it had been Hugo’s plan, so it was good enough for her.
Wren lasted three nights in the city before she fell prey to the kids who ran wild in the street, thieving and fighting. She had sold her horse to a blacksmith near the city wall who she knew now swindled her out of much of what she deserved. She’d had enough to sleep in the hayloft of an inn for those first few nights, to garner a bowl of soup and a heel of bread. But then a lanky boy with stringy black hair hanging in his eyes pushed her over into a puddle and took her purse. Not without giving her a swift kick in the stomach for good measure. She learned later that had been to keep her from giving chase. She learned much eventually. But that day, she was naive and alone and penniless. Maradis was a millstone, and she would be ground to dust beneath it.
A part of her had no regrets. It would be better to have a quick death in Maradis than a slow death under her father’s belt.
Wren wandered for hours, her belly aching with emptiness, her feet numb with cold. She found herself in the Lyceum Quarter, standing in a patchwork of light pouring out from the open door of a building. Music emanated from inside the building, a sweet trio of harpsichord, violin, and some type of flute. It was the cleanest thing she’d experienced since she’d arrived in the city, and it brought tears to her eyes. She found herself through the doors without realizing her feet carried her there.
And that was where she first saw him. Brother Brax. Tall and flaxen as the Sower himself. Dark and twisted as the devil.
“Hello,” he said. “You look lost. Are your parents around? Can I help you find them?”
To her horror, her lips quivered, and the tears that had started at the song began to pour. That was the way with tears. Once they started, they felt free to have their way. “My parents died,” she finally managed, her voice thick.
“An orphan!” Brax said, his gentle brown eyes wide in exaggerated surprise. “Well, the Sower has blessed you today.”
“The Sower?” Wren hasked. She hadn’t been raised in a religious family. The only gods her father worshiped had been at the bottom of a bottle.
“Yes,” Brax said, ushering her farther inside with a gentle hand. “This is his temple, and I am one of his priests. He provides grain and provision for the world.”
“Oh,” was all Wren could manage.
Brax strode to the altar at the front of the room where the musicians were practicing and returned with a small loaf of pumpernickel bread. “He provides even for orphans.”
Wren snatched the bread from the man, tearing off the first bite with gusto.
Brax sat down, taking her by the waist, squaring her to him. She didn’t like the feel of his hands on her, but the bread was really all she was concerned with at the moment.
“Do you have a place to stay tonight?” he asked. “A bed to sleep in?”
She paused mid-chew, her alarm bells ringing.
He chuckled. “I ask because I run an orphanage on behalf of the temple. The king himself finances it. I think you could be very happy there.”
“An orphanage?” she said through a mouth thick with bread.
“There are other children there, like you. Who have lost their parents. You would have friends, clean clothes, warm meals. A bed to sleep in. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
She nodded slowly. It did sound nice. It sounded like heaven on earth. Surely, such a place could not exist.
“Would you like to go there tonight? Just to try it out? If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay.” He stood, reaching out his hand to her.
“All right,” she said, cautiously setting her hand in his.
At first it was as he promised. There was hot food, a dry bed, a warm bath. There were other children there, though there was something haunted in their eyes that set her on edge.
“It’s not a good place,” a little boy told her the first night over a bowl of thin stew. “But it’s better than outside.”
There were lessons by sour-faced priests who switched the back of their hands with rulers if they squirmed at all in the hard, wooden seats. There was time to play outside in the muddy courtyard, though Wren mostly hugged the stone wall, watching warily. She had never been coordinated, and this didn’t seem to be the time to improve.
There were chores: polishing silverware, scrubbing floors, washing clothes, peeling potatoes. She didn’t mind chores so much, it gave her something to do, but she liked working in the kitchens best. It was warm, where the rest of the orphanage was bitter cold and soggy in the gray Maradis winter. Plus, the orphanage’s cuisinier sometimes gave her extra helpings, saying that she looked so painfully thin she’d poke someone’s eye out with her elbows. Not that the sentiment made any sense, as her elbows were significantly lower than anyone’s eyeballs.
Sometimes Brother Brax came to visit, and he always took pains to see how she was doing. He was free with his affection, brushing her tangled hair back from her neck, pulling her onto his lap while asking her for a full report. He complimented her and told her what a beautiful woman she was becoming. She didn’t known why it bothered her, but it did.
Often, Brax brought friends and colleagues with him to the orphanage. He stood them in the front of the dining hall, introducing them as this important member of the nobles’ council, or that patron of the orphanage. They were always men, and they looked over the room with hawk’s eyes, roaming as if searching for a mouse. Sometimes the men asked to be introduced to the children and Brax crouched down, as he often did, and spoke gentle words to the child, asking them to shake hands with the kind benefactor. Brax told them that his friends were interested in adoption, and so the children were to be on their best behavior and look their very best. But very few children had been adopted in Wren’s several months at the orphanage, only one in fact. And when the boy’s carriage had pulled out of the orphanage’s drive, Wren had sworn she’d seen terror in his eyes rather than joy.
Looking back, Wren knew she had been painfully naive. But though her father had been mean and even violent, she had never been exposed to the reality of exploitation of children. His had been a self-directed hatred, and she’d had the misfortune of being within the periphery of the hurricane of his self-loathing.
Wren learned the truth her third month at the orphanage, when one of those older gentleman benefactors turned his hawk’s gaze on her. Three months of good enough food had softened her, filled her out, though she was still thinner than most of the other children. The first hints of the woman that she would become were blossoming. Apparently, it was enough. Enough for him to see her. Really see her, through the sea of bleak faces.
Brother Brax ushered them into his office, filled with a desk, two chairs, shelves full of books, and a settee sofa against the far wall. There were mint tea and cookies on a tray on the desk, hearty biscuits coated with chocolate. Wren munched on one beneath wide eyes while Brax explained to her that this gentleman was looking to adopt a daugh
ter. He had a large nose and a bushy gray mustache. They were to talk and get to know each other.
And then Brax left, the door clicking ominously behind him. And the man slid his hand onto Wren’s knee in a way that was even more familiar than Brax’s motions. Suddenly, Wren knew that this man was not there to adopt a daughter after all—
“Wren.” Fingers snapped before her. “Wren, are you all right?”
Wren started, shaking her head, focusing on Lucas standing over her, concern etched across his face. He rested his hands on the arms of the chair around her and suddenly she was overcome with a wave of claustrophobia. She pushed past him abruptly, turning away, sucking in air until her lungs were full to bursting. She blew it out slowly until her diaphragm clenched trying to push out the dregs. The feel of the man’s hands on her lingered, as if the memory was fresh instead of six years distant. Thank the Beekeeper his hands hadn’t roamed farther than her knee that night, but it had been enough. She had run from the orphanage hours later, before the man could return for her, and had never looked back. Some children would choose that life over starvation and cold, and she could not judge them for that choice. But she had not been one of them.
Wren did her best to stifle the memory, to shove it back into the black box that was her childhood. She turned and tried to paste a smile on her face, mostly failing. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well,” she finally managed.
“I’ll take you back to the Guildhall,” Lucas said, his worry palpable. It felt heavy, smothering her with its weight. She didn’t want him near her, looking, questioning. She didn’t want his kindness or his sympathy, and she didn’t want his outrage. She just wanted to forget.
“I can find my way back,” Wren said. “Really, you three never get to see each other. Stay and enjoy your time together.”
“Are you sure?” Lucas cupped her face in his hand, searching her eyes with his own.
Wren wanted to flinch from his touch, but she held herself still because she knew it would hurt him, and she didn’t want to hurt him. He wouldn’t understand it wasn’t about him. Not without the whole story.
“I’m sure,” she said. “It’s not far.”
“All right. I’ll come by tomorrow,” Lucas said. “We have a lead. A place the hostages could be kept.”
“Oh?” Wren said, curiosity cutting through her roiling emotions.
“My family has an old house by the beach on the north end of Dash Island. It’s out of the city but still easily accessible by boat. We know my father thinks between our navy and the Centese, we are superior to the Apricans at sea. So he might feel this is a safe place to keep them. Out of sight but within his control.”
“Wonderful,” Wren said. “Our first real lead.”
“We’ll find them,” Lucas said, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I promise.”
Sable had been avoiding Hale. That much was clear. Which could only mean one thing: she remembered what had happened between them and didn’t want to confront it. And that, Hale knew, could mean two things: either she was mortified because she never would have kissed him sober, or she did want to kiss him but was afraid to admit it. Hale hoped, he prayed, it was the latter.
He had learned over his three years with Sable as his sponsor that the Grandmaster didn’t like things she couldn’t control, chief among them, her emotions. Hale knew the feeling; he’d been trying to fall out of love with her for as long as he’d known her, with absolutely zero success. It would be a typically Sable move to fall in love and then run from it. After all, hadn’t he been doing the same? But when she’d almost died…something had shifted inside him. He couldn’t avoid the hard conversation anymore, not with her. He needed to take the leap and pray she would be there to catch him on the way down.
He found her in one of the teaching kitchens, surrounded by dried cherries and chocolate. “I thought you might be here.” He poked his head around the corner, flashing what he hoped was a dazzling smile.
She turned briefly to acknowledge him before returning to her work destemming the cherries. “Hale,” she said.
She was wearing a simple emerald dress cinched about her trim waist with a leather apron. Her tresses were pulled into a loose bun, tendrils escaping around her face. She looked as beautiful as he had ever seen her, here in her element.
Hale crossed the room to stand beside her, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. He had imagined this conversation a thousand times and a thousand ways, but now it was happening and he wasn’t sure he was ready.
“Found Thom yet?” she asked.
He stifled a wince. The woman did have a way of cutting to the core of a man. “Not yet. Wren’s brainstorming locations with Lucas and his siblings, as far as I know.”
“Good,” she said, continuing to work.
“Sable. We need to talk.”
Her motions slowed at that, but she continued. “What about?”
“You know what about,” Hale said, willing his voice to stay strong and even. Not to betray his nervousness. “Us.”
“What about us?” Sable asked. Her hands were still moving, her eyes still fixed. Gods, would the woman just stop and look at him?
“About the fact that I’m in love with you. And I think you love me too.” There, it was out. He felt like there should be fanfare. A parade. Three years of being too chickenshit and he had finally said it. Whatever happened now, at least he had said it.
Sable’s hands slowed, then stopped. But she didn’t look at him. She set her hands on the counter, blowing out a breath that fluttered the tendrils of her hair.
He had meant to wait for her to speak, but her silence unnerved him. He closed the distance between them, placing his hands on the counter on either side of her slim hips. Her fresh sea air washed over him—familiar yet forbidden. “If you don’t feel the same, look me in the eye and speak those words. Tell me the truth and I will never trouble you with this again.”
“I won’t say that. I can’t.” Sable’s voice was weary. She turned to face him and he tried to read the expression on her face—equal parts resignation and regret. And something more. Love? “You know I feel the same, you oaf. Even though you are a stubborn, self-absorbed, womanizing ass of a man.”
“Quit flattering me. I’m blushing,” Hale replied, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face, so wide he thought it might break his cheeks. Sweet caramel, she loved him!
His elation was short-lived.
“But we can’t be together. I’m your sponsor, your grandmaster. It’s not appropriate for us to be romantically involved.”
“I don’t give a fig what’s appropriate. I’ll have Callidus take my sponsorship. I’ll leave the Guild. We’ll find a way. If we care for each other, we should be together,” Hale protested.
“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? You’re a man. Do you know how hard it is for a woman to make grandmaster? At my age, no less? It took years of me smiling at those worthless old men in this Guild and pretending I couldn’t cook circles around them to get them to vote for me. Even if you leave the Guild, everyone knows what our relationship is. People talk. I’m not going to throw it all away for…whatever this is.”
“Love?” Hale’s voice was tender. He understood why she pushed him away, but he wouldn’t let her. Not now that he knew she felt the same. They’d find a way. “What if this is destiny? A chance to be happy? Against all odds, a Magnish girl and an Aprican boy meet in the Confectioner’s Guildhall. It’s a tale from a storybook!”
“This is real life, not a storybook, Hale,” Sable said, her dark eyes flashing. “There are no happy endings.”
“Flame it, Sable, I refuse to let you give up on us before we even begin.” Hale didn’t know what else to say, how to show her how much she meant to him. So he kissed her.
Sable stiffened beneath him for a moment before her body melted against his like caramel, her soft curves pressing into the hard planes of his body. And then her hands were on his neck, heat r
ising between them as they fell into each other in a tangle of limbs and tongues. Need pulsed in him, deep and low. He needed her closer, needed to demolish all barriers between them. His hands roamed down the length of her and he grabbed her firm backside, spinning and depositing her on the island in one lithe motion. She let out a little noise of surprise that only threw fuel on the fire that burned within him.
But he felt her pulling back, felt her hands untangle from his hair to push against his shoulders. “Hale.” Sable broke off their kiss with a ragged gasp. She pounded a fist against his chest. “You can’t just make your point by kissing me.”
“I think that’s exactly what I can do.” Hale chuckled throatily.
“No, Hale, I mean it.” Her hand hovered before her mouth as she looked down. He stepped back slightly, giving her room. “Sable,” he said gently. “I wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I’m not going to give up on us.”
Sable looked up at him. Tears shimmered like dusted sugar on her dark lashes. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s a pleasant dream. But that’s all it can be.” Then she pushed past him into the hallway.
Hale slumped against the counter, emotions warring within him. Sable felt the same. She loved him. That kiss—he felt like he needed to put his head in the icebox. Or another part. But she said they couldn’t be together. Disappointment curdled in him, flaring to anger. How could she love him back yet not want to be together? Didn’t she understand that sometimes you had to take risks? You had to bet big if you wanted to win big. He thought she understood that.
“Hale?” A quiet knock sounded. He turned to find Wren there, a haunted look in her eyes.
“You all right?” he asked, donning his normal jovial air like a mask.
“I will be,” she said. “You? I saw Sable storming out of here.”
“Nothing to worry about.” He forced a smile. “Learn anything?”
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