The village market of Harrowbend was a river of sound and color. Stalls bloomed with bright cloths, baskets brimming with fruit, and the scents of spiced bread and roasted chestnuts wound together in the spring air. Marian had always loved markets—the noise, the clatter, the endless stories carried in passing voices.
Today was different. Today, she walked among the stalls with a purse heavy at her hip: her first pay from the Baron's household.
"Don't spend it all on seeds," Rossetta murmured at her side, her tone dry as ever.
Her cloak was pulled close against the breeze, though her steps were steady.
Marian grinned, tilting her head toward her.
"What else would I spend it on? Silk ribbons? Fancy trinkets?"
Rossetta's mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile.
"You'd buy ribbons for others, not for yourself."
It was true, and Marian didn't bother to deny it. She tugged Rossetta closer to a stall selling jars of honey and spoke with the old woman tending it, her laughter weaving easily into the hum of the crowd. Rossetta stood nearby, listening, her gaze flicking not at the honey but at the people—the faces, the hands, the undercurrent of movement. Always watchful, even here.
But as the sisters moved through the market, a sharper sound rose from the crowd—a cluster of voices speaking low but quick, urgency cutting through the laughter of barter.
"…in the forest, they said—"
"—bodies, can you imagine? Not killed clean. Tampered with. Like someone—"
"A witch. They swore it was a witch. Slipped away before the patrols came."
Marian slowed, her hand tightening briefly on Rossetta's sleeve. The words reached them in pieces, carried by the flow of gossip.
"…cabin… no survivors…"
"…warned to stay cautious, especially women alone…"
"…two found drained, another marked with runes. Experiments, they said."
Rossetta's eyes narrowed, her shoulders taut beneath her cloak.
The chatter spread like wildfire, each retelling darker than the last. Some claimed the witch had been hunting children, others that the bodies were only the beginning. One woman hissed that the witch could take the form of a beautiful maiden, luring men into the woods. Another insisted she had wings like a crow and drank blood straight from the vein.
They moved on before the murmurs could become questions pointed too directly at them. Marian forced a lighter note into her step, tugging Rossetta toward a stall selling woven baskets.
"Let's not let shadows ruin the day," she said, more firmly than she felt.
"It's market day. And my first pay deserves at least a little celebration."
Rossetta arched a brow.
"Celebration?"
"Bread. Honey. Maybe even a ribbon." Marian grinned at her sister, and for once Rossetta didn't argue.
They spent the morning weaving in and out of stalls, Marian haggling cheerfully, Rossetta carrying the smaller bundles with her usual quiet efficiency. Marian bought a jar of golden honey, a sack of flour finer than the one they kept at home, and even—despite Rossetta's faintly exasperated sigh—a small carved comb with flowers etched along its spine.
"Something for you," Marian said, pressing it into her sister's hand.
Rossetta looked at it as though it were a puzzle.
"I don't need—"
"You'll use it," Marian interrupted, tone gentle but firm.
"Not everything has to be about need."
Rossetta held the comb for a moment longer before slipping it into her cloak pocket. She said nothing, but Marian caught the subtle shift in her expression—something warmer, softer, like a candle flame carefully shielded from the wind.
By noon, they paused at a bakery stall to rest. Marian's attention was caught by a voice she recognized, bright and eager.
"Two loaves, fresh from the oven—careful, still warm!"
She turned sharply.
"Luke?"
The young man looked up from behind the counter, tray balanced on one hand, his apron dusted with flour. His eyes widened, then lit with surprise.
"Marian! Rossetta!"
He nearly dropped the tray in his hurry to set it down.
"I didn't know you came here!"
Marian laughed, delighted.
"I didn't know you worked here!"
Luke ran a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of flour near his temple.
"Started last month. My uncle owns the place. Said I should learn an honest trade before I go running off with swords."
Rossetta's lips curved, almost imperceptibly.
"Wise uncle."
Luke flushed but grinned anyway, handing Marian a small roll wrapped in cloth.
"On the house. Your first visit deserves something sweet."
Marian thanked him warmly, biting into the roll—soft, buttery, with just enough sugar to melt on the tongue. Rossetta accepted hers more slowly, but Marian saw the faintest lift in her sister's brows at the taste.
They lingered by the bakery, Luke chatting easily about the market, the bakery's customers, the odd characters who passed through. Marian listened, laughing, her shoulders loosening. For a moment, the rumors of witches and bodies in the woods seemed far away.
That evening, as they walked home under a sky brushed with violet dusk, Marian glanced at her sister.
"You've been well these days," she said softly.
"No fainting. No pain."
Rossetta's steps slowed, her expression unreadable.
"…Yes."
"Do you know why?"
Rossetta's gaze drifted toward the horizon.
"Two possibilities. Either he has grown strong enough to protect himself from poisons and assassins… or he is already dead."
The words hung between them, heavy as stone.
Marian did not know which truth frightened her more. But when she looked at her sister—walking steady, no tremor in her hands, no shadow in her eyes—relief won over fear.
"Whatever the reason," she whispered, "I'm grateful. It's the longest you've been without pain."
Rossetta said nothing, but her silence was not sharp this time. It was softer, like a pause between heartbeats.
Marian reached for her hand, giving it a quick, quiet squeeze before letting go.
For tonight, that was enough.