Eighth of Frostfall, Year 1413 AGC

To say Adela overflowed with excitement was an understatement. She spent much of the day leading up to the festival bouncing about the tavern in delighted anticipation — "Can we leave yet?" and "How much longer 'til we get goin'?" a constant drone among the bustle of the afternoon crowds. Everna wished she could say she was just as excited.

Yet that nasty feeling of something stirred in her gut. She'd woken with it again, that inexplicable but utterly certain sensation that something was amiss. It'd taken three mouthfuls of whisky to stem it, if only enough for her to go about her day without crumbling into a nervous wreck. As it was, she could hardly focus on the task at hand.

"Miss Everna, why do I have to wear green?" Adela asked, looking at her through the vanity mirror.

"As a predominately agricultural town, Pendel relies heavily on the blessings of the nature deities," Everna said, twisting Adela's hair into the traditional twin waterfall braids. "And those deities believe the seasons extend beyond agriculture to various stages of life. You're young and green is the color of spring, of new and budding life."

The ensamble Adela wore was one of her old ones, a pinafore dress her mother had kept safely stored along with several other things from her childhood. The crisp white blouse, puffed at the shoulders, offered a stark but refreshing contrast to the deep emerald green of the pinafore. A cluster of delicate flowing vines, embroidered in vibrant shades of bright green, red, and pink, crept up from the hem of the skirt, which was ringed by a small, latticed band sewn of gold thread. The skirt stopped just above her ankles and the sleeves extended to her wrists; the ends folded into perfect cuffs. A loose leather bodice completed the outfit.

"I don't like green. It's borin' and reminds me of the plains. Why can't I wear blue? And why do you get to wear gold?" Adela asked, her cheeks puffed. "You look younger than Dain!"

Most women would take that as a compliment, but Everna had to resist the urge to roll them. Perhaps when she was older she'd appreciate her youthful appearance, but at twenty-four, being mistaken for a child was more of an annoyance than anything.

It certainly complicated romantic endeavors, and never mind trying to get a drink in a tavern that wasn’t her own.

"Because while I might not look it, I'm an adult," Everna sighed. "I'm in the age of summer."

She'd missed every Harvest Festival since her twentieth birthday. Though sixteen was the age of adulthood, when young adults began their apprenticeships, the color correspondence for the Harvest Festival did not change until twenty. By the time she returned from the capital, that year's Harvest Festival had already passed. With the recent events being what they were, she hadn't a chance to find a dress of the proper color for this year. The solution to her plight sparked quite a heated argument between her parents.

Pendel had four festivals a year, but the Harvest Festival in the fall and the Yuletide in the winter were the only two during which the townspeople traded their usual homespun clothes for their finest. Her mother had dresses of shimmering silk and bedazzled with jewels tucked away in her wardrobe — many of them immodest, but not to the point of tasteless. Finding one that both fit Everna and adhered to the traditions had been an arduous task in its own right. Her mother was not fond of the color yellow.

After nearly three hours of indecision, the one she settled on sat a touch too tight on her frame for her father's liking. The plunging neckline, which showed a generous amount of cleavage, nearly sent him into a fit when her mother pushed her into the living room, asking for opinions. Her brother threw in his own unwarranted remarks as, but in the end, her mother emerged victorious, and a touch vindictive. It took Everna nearly an hour to convince her not to cut out the back of the dress just to spite them.

While the front left little to the imagination, the dress was relatively modest compared to many she'd seen in the past. Young women used the Harvest Festival as an opportunity to attract the subjects of their fancy, as it was one of only four times of the year when the whole town gathered in one place. Even with the chill of winter, Everna knew there'd be no shortage of cleavage, bare arms, and exposed backs discreetly hidden beneath woolen cloaks. At least her sleeves covered her arms, and the skirt stopped at her ankles.

But gods help her feet. Her mother found an old pair of heels — ridiculous things worthy of Vina’ fancy — and wedged them onto her feet before she could protest. They squeezed her toes and the angle at which the arch of her foot bent was anything but comfortable. It was like walking on the balls of her feet, but far less unstable.

If she made it down the stairs without breaking her neck, she'd consider it an accomplishment.

Twisting the last piece of Adela's hair in place, Everna slipped two flowered pins into her braids to hold them in place. "There. Now, go show your brother your new dress. And don't drive everyone batty asking when we're leaving; the Festival doesn't start until sundown. We won't be leaving for another hour."

With an excited squeal, Adela slid off the vanity chair and hurried out the door.

Shaking her head, Everna pulled one of her nicer cloaks from wardrobe and threw it over her shoulders. She stepped out of her room and found Wil leaning against the archway to the living room. He hadn't bothered to dress for the festival; he wore the same blackened leather and dark cloak he always donned. Now that she thought about it, she'd never seen him wear anything else.

When she had asked if he was accompanying her — as a precaution and nothing else — he had begrudgingly affirmed that he was.

"Don't tell me you're going dressed like that," she said. "It's a festival, not a war zone."

He heaved a sigh and turned to face her. "I'm only going because someone has to keep an eye... on you..."

Wil was not the most expressive person, but the moment his gaze settled on her, the first instance of genuine surprise took hold of his features. He seemed stunned, his eyes wide and brows arched. She might have taken it as a compliment, if he wasn't staring directly at her cleavage.

"I do hope you remember there is more of me than just my chest then," she snorted. "Remember, three gold per second."

That seemed to snap him out of his daze. He rolled his eyes and turned quickly towards the stairs. "You're ridiculous."

She chuckled and stepped past him, picking her way down the stairs on wobbly heels. The tavern was more or less empty, a rarity for the evening. They closed the doors two hours prior, and they wouldn't open again until tomorrow afternoon — if her parents weren't too hungover to bother.

Her father busied himself behind the bar, muttering under his breath as he loaded bottles of liquor into a small crate. Across from him sat Adela, sipping at a mug of apple juice. Corden must still be trying to find something for Dain to wear, as she didn't see either of them anywhere in the taproom. Her mother, dressed in a far more revealing gown of burnt orange, hurried past with several pies in her hand. One of her legs peeked out from beneath the massive slit in the skirt.

Everna prayed she still looked as good as her mother when she reached her age — if she reached her age.

"I hear one more complaint from you and tradition be damned I'm putting her in the red dress," her mother hissed, throwing Ronan a scathing glare.

"You do and I'm divorcing you," her father shot back, though there was no real malice in his words.

"Keep tempting me," her mother said as she set the pies on the end of the bar. "I'd love to see you try to survive without me to fold your socks for you."

"Oh gods, he'll never survive without the socks," Everna snickered. "You think this is bad, Mom, but he'll probably have a heart-stop when I get married, and gods above, how's he going to handle grandchildren?"

"You're adopting," her father said, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

"I will throw every pie in this stack at your ugly mug if you don't quite down," her mother jeered. Then she turned to Everna and said, "Ah, it looks as good on you as I hoped. Tight, but you're a bit more blessed than I am. Lucky you. 'Bout time you started showing off those hips a little more."

Everna rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to the festival to look for a husband. I'm going because Pala will drag me to the square by my ear if I try to stay home."

"No reason you can't look while you're there. I still expect grandchildren from you. Don't think because Corden's engaged that you're off the hook."

"Yeah, because with you know who on my ass, now's a good time for that," she said dryly.

Her mother raised an amused brow. "That's exactly how I met your boneheaded father, actually."

"If by met, you mean you tried to take my head off with a dagger and snatch my coin purse, then I suppose that counts."

"But did I take your head off?" her mother asked sweetly as she set the pies on the counter. "No, I didn't, so shut up about it."

"She's still adopting," her father grumbled.

Before Everna could tell both of them to knock it off, Adela, in all her childlike innocence, asked the one question any parent feared.

"Where do babies come from?”

The sudden silence that gripped the tavern nearly had her cackling. Her father froze, his eyes wide with panic. Her mother wasted no time in muttering something about a forgotten pie and bolted up the stairs. Wil, who'd followed her down into the taproom, took a sudden interest in a rather large knot in the wall paneling.

"Well," Everna said, fighting back her laughter, "when a man and a woman love each other very much, the Red Lady blesses them with a child."

"Red Lady?" Adela asked, her head tilted.

"The goddess of love," Everna clarified.

"Why's she called the Red Lady?"

Everna snorted. "You'll find out when you're older."

Leaving her to ponder the conundrum, and with a pointed look at her father to remind him it was entirely his fault that Adela asked, she stepped out of the tavern and onto the narrow curb beside the street. In the hour before the festival, the streets were nearly barren beyond the occasional Guard patrol and the odd elderly couple out for a stroll. Those who weren't at the square finishing the last-minute preparations kept to the warmth of their homes as they readied themselves for the evening.

The Harvest Festival began at sundown and lasted until midnight, though most years the last of the stragglers didn't return home until a couple hours past. Perhaps she could stay for an hour or two, just long enough for Pala to notice, then head back home while her parents inevitably drank themselves into a stupor. She'd have the house mostly to herself until Adela returned. Wil was at least quiet enough not to bother her most of the time.

"You're making that face again," Wil noted after following her outside.

"What face?"

"The one that's all scrunched up like an orc.” The corners of his lips quirked slightly. "The one you make when you're thinking too hard."

She pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose. "To be honest, I have a bad feeling about tonight."

His smile dropped as he glanced over his shoulder. He took her hand in his. She tensed, half-expecting the world to dissolve into shadow. Instead, he pulled her further down the road and onto one of the side streets. Snow piles crawled up the sides of the buildings, the vague outlines of crates and storage barrels barely visible beneath. Without the usual bustle of the town, ice crunched underfoot, uncomfortably loud in the silence.

Halfway to the next street, and after a quick glance at their surroundings, Wil said, "The Guard found Windmore dead in his cell just before sunrise. Throat slit."

The news brought her neither dread nor satisfaction. His death was inevitable — if he hadn't died in his cell, he'd have hanged. She only lamented the loss of potential information. He knew more about Shroud's plans than any of them. If Leah had verified the validity of his statements, it would've substantially increased her chances of presenting a compelling case to the Courts.

"Shroud silenced him," she said after a moment.

"It was a matter of time," Wil agreed. "I warned Corden that keeping him here while he sorted out the Guard wasn't a good idea. Shroud's on their back foot. Their every attempt to gain control's fallen through on them. Now, they're cleaning up the mess."

"Yet, I feel as if we've accomplished nothing. Or should I say, I feel useless. I haven't really done anything except let everyone else do everything for me, it seems."

He squeezed her hand. She stamped down the fluttering in her chest and forced back the rush of giddiness threatening to overtake her. It didn't matter if she liked the feeling of his hand in hers — and it wasn't the hand of a prince, but one belonging to a fighter, all rough skin and callouses. This was not the time. There was no guarantee she'd survive Shroud's endeavors. She had far too much to worry about without the added burden of romance. She shouldn't encourage him.

But her hand, the traitorous bitch that it was, refused to move.

"You didn't truly think you could pull this off on your own, did you?" he asked, sounding a touch exasperated.

"At first I thought I might have had a chance," she admitted. "I mean, it looked like nothing but a political assassination at first. I've dealt with those before. Now it all seems so impossibly hopeless. It feels like nothing's been done at all, though I know it has."

They turned down another side street. Darkened shops lined either side of the narrow thoroughfare, goods displayed proudly behind thick glass windows. She slowed as they passed the bookkeeper, her gaze lingering on the titles set out for passersby. Many of them she owned — they were popular in the capital; the quills couldn't write them fast enough to replace the stock before the shelves cleared. Some she waited weeks to get her hands on.

"You read too much," he said, eying her through the darkened window. "Not everything ends with a big fight and sometimes it's the ones who do the least that do the most."

"That makes no—"

Upon spotting Lyra and Gyles further down the road, she let her words trail off. Anxiety clawed at her chest as Corden's warning leapt to the forefront of her mind. When Wil found the Shroud pin in the cellar — the same cellar Lyra took refuge in during the brawl — Everna found it difficult to dislodge her doubt. While it still seemed inconceivable, intuition implored her to consider the possibility more than she had previously.

Her intuition rarely steered her wrong.

Lyra hadn't noticed her; she was complaining to Gyles, who looked as if he'd rather be with anyone else. Everna had spoken to him a handful of times in the past, and each time, he was three sheets to the wind, complaining about Lyra for one reason or the other. The one time she'd spoken to him while he was sober, he was in a foul mood.

Lyra insisted he was the problem, but looking at them now, she wondered if it wasn't the other way around. Lyra had a penchant for nagging, which grated on most people's nerves after a while. Even Everna, with her boundless patience, sometimes found her pestering a touch unbearable.

"Is that the girl who allegedly found Mayor Ashburn?" Wil asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "The one that went to fetch you from the cellar?"

"That would be Lyra, yes." Everna promptly turned down the nearest side street, dragging him along. "You haven't looked into her? I'd have thought you and the others would've looked into everyone."

"The others might have, but I haven't had the time," he reminded her. "And Osain said not to worry about her. Which makes me think we should, but I'm sure he has his reasons."

"Regardless, I'd rather not deal with her right now. I've had enough needling from nosy busybodies to last me the year. Besides, I need to get back before my parents realize I'm gone."

Wil snorted. "You're an adult. What's it to them?"

"In case you haven't noticed, my mother isn't exactly fond of you," she pointed out. "And the second my father realizes I'm out, alone, with a man, there will be an axe in your skull."

He was quiet for a moment. "At least they care."

Sometimes a bit too much, she'd say. She loved her parents to death, but they'd always been too overbearing. Corden could do as he pleased by the time he was sixteen; when she turned sixteen, her curfew went from dusk to two hours after dusk. They were proud as could be when the capital called upon Corden and granted him knighthood. When she first brought up leaving for the academy, it took months to convince them to even consider the mere possibility of the idea. While her mother was far less obvious about it, both of them smothered her in their own way.

Everna knew they meant well, but sometimes it was almost too much for her to handle. She'd have thought that with everything that happened recently, they'd have realized she was at least capable of taking care of herself.

"Though, it explains a few things," he said a few moments later.

"In what way?"

"Why you're so callow in some regards. They did you a disservice, if I'm honest."

"I want to commend you for the attempt at tact, but I also want to smack you for calling me immature."

"Inexperienced," he said, flatly. "Though, if I'm completely honest, keeping you alive is a bit like trying to manage a child. A very intelligent child with a very sharp knife."

Everna scoffed, indignant. "I didn't ask to have a surly gremlin as a babysitter."

"Get used to it, sweetheart. There'll be a lot more in life you didn't ask for, especially with Shroud on your ass."

Uncertainty

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