"Two classes, one month. Let's see if we can survive it."
Tristan shuffled the sign-up slips, his brow furrowed as he counted. Eight students in the morning, eight in the afternoon. That was the absolute limit. Any more and there would be no violins left to lend.
The notice he had posted at the town hall and market had worked far better than expected. Most applicants were from Hearthstead, though a few had walked or ridden in from Altruiz.
The first day was chaos—laughter, questions, and the scrape of chairs across the floor. Children from the morning class lingered to peek at the afternoon group, while parents crowded the doorway with questions about schedules, fees, and recital dates.
Tristan was still figuring out how to keep order when Marla appeared with a steaming cup of tea.
"You need help," she said, pressing the cup into his hands. "Or two."
By the end of that week, two applicants had stepped forward.
The first was Bridgitte. She introduced herself without ceremony, standing in the doorway with her hair neatly tied back.
"I'm seventeen and willing to assist with violin lessons," she announced.
Tristan looked up, blinking. "Where did you hear that an assistant was needed?"
"I assumed. Classes like these must require help from someone who knows at least the basics." She spoke confidently.
"I can tune instruments, guide beginners through daily exercises, and keep the younger ones focused.
The advanced students can remain with you. If it's alright, I'd like to assist in the mornings."
Her family owned a gift shop in Altruiz. She listened carefully as he explained her duties and nodded in agreement, her eagerness plain. Tristan decided to give her a trial period.
Two days later came Gino. He was fifteen, tall for his age, with a grin that seemed permanent.
"I can carry chairs, set up, fetch things—anything, really," he said brightly. "I'm a guitarist. Sadly, I don't play the violin, but I can learn if you want me to."
He mentioned in passing that his older brother worked at a manor in the city. At the time, Tristan thought little of it.
Gino preferred afternoons, claiming he could manage his family's errands in the morning that way.
Bridgitte proved efficient almost immediately. She kept the class on time, helped children tune their violins, and even adjusted music stands before Tristan asked.
Her flaw was eagerness: she often corrected students mid-lesson without waiting for his cue.
"Chin lower, Liza," she instructed one morning.
Tristan gave her a look. "We'll get to posture in a moment, Bridgitte."
She only smiled, unbothered. "Just thought I'd help."
Gino, on the other hand, brought energy to the afternoons. His jokes made the children laugh, keeping the mood light.
Yet Tristan noticed habits that needed correction. Twice, during breaks, Gino wandered outside to laugh with older boys near the road when he should have been setting up exercises.
By the second week, Tristan divided the classes into two skill groups: those ready for recital work and those who needed more practice.
Lessons flowed more smoothly, but the difference in ability became obvious.
Bridgitte grew curious in quiet moments, asking small questions while putting away sheet music.
"Did you grow up here?"
"No," Tristan replied.
"Where did you learn music?"
"In the city."
She never pressed further, but there was a steady rhythm to her curiosity, like she was collecting small notes for a tune she had yet to play.
Gino caused different ripples. On market days, he began arriving late. "Sorry, I had to pick up bread for my mother," he would say.
Later, Tristan overheard him telling a villager, "Our teacher used to live at the manor with Lord Shannon. Fancy place."
He said it casually, as though it were nothing, but Tristan noticed the villager's raised brows.
During a break, one of the parents pulled Tristan aside. "I overheard your assistant in the market talking about 'strange visitors' at the cottage," she said. "Maybe she only meant your friends, but I thought you should know."
That same week, Gino repeated his manor comment to a traveling peddler.
He also added, "Sometimes Lord Shannon drops by without warning." It was said with boyish pride, but Tristan disliked how quickly gossip could spread.
He began keeping the cottage door closed during private conversations.
Then, one afternoon, a courier arrived mid-class with a letter for Bridgitte.
She slid it quickly into her bag without opening it. Tristan noticed but said nothing. He had not seen the seal clearly; it was turned away before he could read the mark.
Two days later, he spotted Gino standing with a man near the road. They parted quickly when Tristan approached.
"Friend of yours?" Tristan asked.
"Not really," Gino replied, a little too quickly. "Just someone asking for directions."
Recital planning began that same week. Bridgitte kept the sheet music neatly stacked and labeled. Gino arranged chairs and kept the children laughing to calm their nerves.
Outwardly, both were useful. Inwardly, Tristan could not shake his unease.
Were they simply careless? Or had someone planted them here to watch him?
That question stayed with him until Shannon arrived late one afternoon to see how the new month's classes were faring.
He leaned against the porch post, listening quietly as the advanced group rehearsed. When the last notes faded, he gestured for Tristan to step aside.
"They seem helpful," Shannon observed.
"Bridgitte runs the mornings, Gino the afternoons," Tristan explained. "Both from Altruiz."
Shannon's expression shifted, just slightly. "From Altruiz? I see."
He looked toward the cottage again. "Keep them for now, but be careful what you share. I'll make some inquiries."
"Do you think they're a problem?"
"I don't know yet," Shannon said. "But I'd rather you not be caught off guard."
That evening, after the students left, Tristan sat at his small desk, staring at the neat columns in his attendance book.
He had agreed to trial periods for Bridgitte and Gino, but trials had to end eventually.
Part of him wanted to believe they were simply careless. But another part, sharpened by years in the mining camp, whispered that vigilance was safer than trust.
If they had come by chance, fine. If not…
He rubbed his eyes. Running the classes alone would exhaust him, yet trusting the wrong person could cost more than time.
As Shannon rode away from the ranch, the names Bridgitte and Gino lingered in his thoughts.
He knew the Steward in Altruiz well enough to distrust him. And Gino's brother, Randell, working at the manor—too neat a coincidence to ignore.
By the week's end, Shannon resolved to send word to his contacts in Altruiz. If either assistant had a reason for being here beyond helping with music lessons, he would know.
His visit ended with a short warning. "Stay aware, Tristan. And if anything feels wrong, send for me."
Tristan nodded. "I will."
That night, the wind shifted through the trees at the property's edge. Tristan stepped onto the porch, his eyes drawn to the dark line of forest beyond the fields.
He thought, for the briefest moment, that he saw movement.
The shadows held still.