The morning sunlight spilled through the wide windows of Veltryn House, warm and gold and altogether too cheerful. Fran stood barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the nearly empty pantry with arms folded and a scowl that deepened with each passing second.

  “No eggs,” she muttered. “No flour. No salt. We’ve used up half the bread. And someone,” she added, voice raised, “ate four buns in a single night.”

  “I regret nothing,” came Gale’s lazy response from the parlour, where he was sprawled on a faded velvet chaise, flipping through a poetry book with all the dignity of a bored cat.

  Fran sighed. “We’re going to the village.”

  That got his attention. “Now?”

  “Unless you’d prefer to forage. I’m sure your culinary genius can do wonders with pinecones.”

  Gale rolled to his feet with theatrical groaning. “Very well. But if we’re going out in public, let it be known that I made peace pastries. I am owed affection.”

  “You are owed groceries,” she said, already walking away.

  Their path to the village was soft and shaded, the dirt road lined with thick grass and birdsong. Fran carried a basket. Gale carried nothing but charm. The summer air was already warming, but not yet stifling, and for once, there was no urgent plan to follow, no secrets to unearth — just an easy walk, hand in hand when no one was watching.

  They didn’t talk much, not at first. The silence between them had grown comfortable, the kind filled with half-formed thoughts and quiet amusement.

  Eventually, Gale glanced sideways at her. “So,” he said. “Would you say last night’s activities rank among the top five moments of your vacation so far?”

  She smirked. “That depends. Are we counting the pastries or the part where you tried to quote love poetry at me while still—”

  “Please don’t finish that sentence. There are squirrels listening.”

  Fran chuckled, but then fell quiet again, frowning slightly. “You know… after. When we were—lying there. You were about to say something.”

  He blinked. “Was I?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Don’t pretend you forgot.”

  “I wasn’t pretending,” he said too quickly, then added, “I read Darin’s journal, actually. The way he wrote about you and your mother… it was very sweet.”

  Fran looked ahead. “That’s not what you were about to say.”

  “No,” he admitted, smiling faintly. “But it was close enough.”

  She didn’t press him further. Whatever he hadn’t said, he would say eventually. Or not. For now, the morning was too peaceful to ruin with expectations.

  Virevale appeared beyond a gentle hill, the village nestled in a shallow green valley between low mountains and thick forests. It looked more like a storybook painting than a real place: cobbled paths, flower boxes on windowsills, tidy fences, whitewashed walls. A few children ran barefoot across the square, chased by a shaggy brown dog who looked far too noble for the job.

  The square was unusually lively. Dozens of wooden stalls had been set up along the road, bright cloth awnings fluttering in the breeze. Baskets overflowed with apples and cherries, fresh loaves steamed under linen wraps, and the sharp scent of herbs and pickled vegetables drifted through the air.

  “Market day,” Fran said.

  Gale whistled low. “We picked the right time to run out of salt.”

  They made their way into the square, Fran heading straight for a vegetable stall while Gale trailed behind, examining jars of honey and muttering critiques about the labeling. It wasn’t long before they attracted attention — mostly because Fran, in her simple dress and tied-back hair, did not look like a duchess.

  “Morning,” said the stall owner, a woman with sun-reddened cheeks and a winning smile. “You the maid the duchess sent ahead to clean up the old place?”

  Fran’s eyebrows twitched.

  Before she could answer, Gale leaned in. “Careful. She charges double for windows.”

  Fran handed over a few coins and walked away without a word, the corner of her mouth twitching.

  The next stall sold tools and cleaning supplies. She picked out a sturdy broom and a new bucket. The vendor, an older man with a mole the size of a pebble on his cheek, asked cheerfully, “So when’s Her Grace arriving?”

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  “Soon,” Fran said, deadpan.

  “Tell her we’re glad she’s finally come back to us. And you, miss—don’t work too hard! That place must be haunted with how long it’s been empty.”

  “Haunted by someone’s cooking,” Gale murmured as they left. “Perhaps the ghost of burnt onions.”

  At the third stall, two children were poking at a stack of apples. The older girl looked up at Fran with wide eyes. “Do you really know the duchess?”

  Fran blinked. “I suppose you could say that.”

  “My name is Seraina,” the girl said proudly. “And that’s my brother, Thorne.”

  Thorne, a freckled boy of maybe five, pointed at Fran’s face. “If the maid is this pretty, the duchess must be beautiful!”

  Fran choked on her breath. Gale nearly doubled over.

  Their mother called them away before she could respond, and Fran was already turning toward the next row of stalls when a curly-haired boy shouted after them: “Aren’t you scared of the ghosts? Everyone says the old house is cursed!”

  “We’ve survived worse,” Gale called back.

  “Have we?” Fran muttered.

  “Depends on your definition of worse.”

  She shook her head, lips quirking, but her eyes scanned the square for an escape. The market was charming, yes — but the stares, the questions, the assumptions were beginning to fray her nerves. Then she saw it: a narrow wooden shop tucked between two houses, with a painted sign swinging gently overhead.

  Emaen’s Herbs and Potions

  She turned to Gale. “I need a quieter place.”

  “Go,” he said. “I’ll see what their honey actually tastes like.”

  And she slipped inside.

  The bell above the door let out a gentle chime as Fran stepped into the shop, grateful for the sudden hush that fell around her. The marketplace had been far livelier than expected, and her patience — never the longest-lived creature — was already wearing thin.

  The interior smelled of dried lavender, lemon balm, and something deeper — anise, maybe. Shelves lined every wall, filled with jars of powder and leaf, tinctures and salves, each neatly labelled in elegant script. The wooden counter was unoccupied, though soft voices and a clatter of glass came from the back room. Fran took a moment to breathe and wandered toward a familiar section: digestion aids.

  She found the right shelf almost instinctively. Her fingers brushed a jar with crushed fennel, another with dried mint, then stopped on one filled with a coarse green blend. Sorelle’s mix. Or close enough.

  Before she could read the label, a voice floated in from behind the curtain. “One moment!”

  A few seconds later, a woman emerged from the back and settled behind the counter. She was a few years younger than Fran, maybe, but looked as though she had stepped out of a painter’s most indulgent dream: porcelain skin, thick black hair cascading down her back in dark waves, a waist so narrow it looked sculpted, and a bust that frankly defied nature. Her green eyes sparkled warmly as she looked up. “Can I help you? Something for the hands? Or for sleep, perhaps?”

  Fran opened her mouth, but before she could respond, the door opened again with another soft chime.

  Gale.

  He looked around, blinked, and then lit up like a lantern. “Emaen?”

  The woman’s face broke into a wide smile. “Dekarios, you bastard!”

  They crossed the room in two strides and hugged — a brief, laughing embrace with just enough closeness to make Fran want to knock over a display shelf.

  “You haven’t aged a day,” Emaen said, pulling back and inspecting him. “Maybe just more smug.”

  “I age on the inside,” Gale replied solemnly. “Deep spiritual erosion.”

  “I believe that.”

  Fran cleared her throat pointedly.

  “Oh, right! Sorry.” Gale turned, still grinning. “Fran, this is Emaen, a dear friend and the best potion-maker I’ve ever had the pleasure of dragging through marshes and bandit camps. Emaen, this is—”

  Before he could finish, the shop’s door opened again. A tall, broad-shouldered man ducked inside, sunlight catching his golden hair. His presence seemed to fill the room in an instant — not just height, but presence. He moved with a slight limp, but there was no mistaking the strength in his frame or the gentleness in his eyes.

  “Welcome back, honey,” Emaen said, glancing over her shoulder. “How’s the arm?”

  “Fine. But you should rest, little witch, you know that.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Where are the children?”

  “Out back, probably mixing dirt and daisies.”

  Fran, to her embarrassment, had not yet managed to inhale.

  Gale’s voice slid into her ear. “Remember to breathe.”

  She elbowed him sharply.

  The man turned toward them with a courteous nod. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just wanted to check in.”

  “Stay a minute,” Emaen said, then looked toward Fran. “This is my husband, Namos.”

  Fran blinked. Beautiful and lucky, her mind muttered.

  Gale stepped forward, offering a hand. “Still built like a siege tower, I see.”

  Namos laughed, a deep, warm sound. “And you still look like you’d blow away in a stiff breeze.”

  Gale placed a hand on his heart. “Cruel. True, but cruel.”

  Emaen smirked, then looked between them. “So... are you going to introduce your friend properly, or should I guess?”

  Gale grinned. “Oh, just the woman who runs this place.”

  Fran sighed. “Gale.”

  “Practically your boss,” he continued.

  She elbowed him again, harder.

  “This beautiful, intelligent, graceful lady here is Frances Serenna Elarion. Duchess of Foher.”

  There was a pause. Emaen blinked, then snorted. “You almost got me this time, Gale.”

  But Namos was still staring. “No,” he said slowly. “She looks like the portraits. I saw one when I was in Vartis two months ago.”

  Fran cleared her throat. “I am Frances Serenna Elarion. The one who runs this place — as Master Dekarios so gracefully explained.”

  Both Emaen and Namos turned red.

  “Your Grace,” they stammered in near-unison.

  Fran waved it off, lips twitching. “No need. Just Fran is fine. As long as someone stops making jokes at my expense.”

  “I never joke,” Gale said, utterly deadpan.

  She ignored him and picked up two jars. “I’ll take these. One for digestion, one for sleep.”

  “Ah,” Emaen nodded. “That’s a good mix. The sleep one has passionflower and a trace of mageleaf. Very gentle.”

  “Perfect,” Fran said, handing over the coin. “My current sleep deprivation is entirely the fault of a very specific someone.”

  Gale looked delighted.

  They exchanged farewells — sincere ones, now that the awkwardness had passed — and stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind them.

  As they walked away, Gale leaned close. “So... still thinking about the beautiful shopkeeper’s husband?”

  Fran didn’t even look at him. “You’re sleeping in the garden.”