The cart clattered through the east gate and onto the Tradeway. Her companion had been right, there were people coming and going on the road even at this time, many with lanterns. It was more than bright enough to see, and busy enough to keep any but the most mischief-bound kelpies away.

She pulled at the edges of her cloak, twisting her fingers into the fabric. “I don’t even know your name.”

He kept his eyes on the road but said. “Cadan, apprentice to Matthew Forester of Woodbine Village, son of William Ranger of the Highfells.”

That told her everything and nothing. She’d never heard of either man. She sighed and responded. “Eleanor, daughter of Darius Marchant of Gandry.”

It was hard to tell in the cold silver light, but she thought he blushed when he said. “And now, my wife.”

His words were arrows of ice, shot through her heart and stomach. She bit down on a sob. “I don’t know how to be a wife. I’m not ready for this. Please take me home.”

Cadan transferred the reins to one hand, then, shockingly, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I can’t, Eleanor. I’m sorry.”

The pain his words brought was strangely soothed by the warmth of his arm, and his cloak, blocking the wind against her back. She bit her lip as another sob surged up. He squeezed her shoulder. “My mother says there are times the best thing to do is let the tears come.”

It was too much, she curled over the hurt and let her misery loose.

She cried for what felt like forever. Cadan didn’t fuss, or scoff, he simply sat beside her, arm across her shoulders, and watched the road ahead. Her breath slowed, the tears eased, she felt so heavy. She slumped into his side but couldn’t find the energy to sit upright. She closed her eyes, what was the point in keeping them open? The sounds around her began to fuzz and blend. She sank into sleep.

She grumbled back to wakefulness when the warmth across her back disappeared. Cadan murmured. “We’re nearly at our stop for the night, Eleanor, then you can sleep properly.”

Still in a befuddled half haze, she said. “It’s Nora if that’s easier. I’ll stab you if you call me ‘Ellie’ though.”

He chuckled at that. “I’ll keep that in mind. Will you tell me why tomorrow?”

No. No she wouldn’t, she’d never tell in a million years. She mumbled an incoherent non-committal and straightened, peering at the long, low buildings they were plodding towards. “Where are we?”

“Stoney Hill Farm. Farmer allows those from Woodbine to stay over on our way to or from town in exchange for lumber.”

Eleanor stretched. “Thank goodness, a proper bed at last.”

Cadan cleared his throat and guided the horse towards the largest of the structures. It looked like one of Papa’s warehouses, all stone and no windows. He pulled up outside a broad set of doors and jumped down. “Stay where you are, I’ll bring us into the barn.”

She frowned, why should she go into the barn. The horse and cart were best left there, no doubt, but would she be better heading straight for the house and comfort?

She moved to the edge of the seat and slid down, swallowing a startled cry as her legs folded beneath her, refusing to work. Cadan was at the horse’s head. He looked at her, in an untidy pile on the ground, and shook his head before coming to help her up.

Rather than offer her a hand, like a gentleman, he put his hands under her armpits and heaved her upright. “Alright, now slow steps until you’ve got your feet talking to you again.”

He walked her forward, supporting her like a toddling child until she stepped away from him and tried to regain a little dignity. “Thank you. Should I go on to the farm house and let them know we’ve arrived?”

Even in the shadow-strewn moonlight of the farmyard, she saw the shock in his expression. “The family are long abed, we’ve no call to be waking them.”

“But where are we to sleep?”

Cadan tipped his head towards the barn. “It’s warm, dry, safe, and the hay makes a proper cosy sleeping spot. Come and see.”

He pulled the doors open just enough to admit the cart, then lit the lantern hanging from the front rail and handed it to her. “Here, guide us in and then you can explore.”

She didn’t want to explore, she wanted to sleep, with pillows and sheets and lavender-scented blankets. She heaved her most put-upon sigh, held the lantern out in front of her and stepped over the threshold.

It was warmer than outside, there was that, but it was full of strange noises and smells. She raised the lantern higher and turned, trying to find the sources of the huffs and shuffles and snuffles.

The clop of hooves behind her sent her into a quick scurry forward and sideways as Cadan led the horse inside. In his silhouette against the moonlight, she saw a sudden flash of the bird’s nest man, but no, he was different, and not just in the close crop of his hair and not-yet-beard scruff of his cheeks. They spoke differently, Cadan’s countryman’s lilt softer and more flowing than the awkward syllables of the stranger at the dance, and Cadan moved with more assurance as well – as if he knew himself and his place in the world.

She turned her back on him.

The barn held two horses, a pen full of goats, now scrambling and bleating for attention, and an anxious-looking cow. The three larger animals stood in their own stalls, with two more to spare. Cadan led their, his, horse into one of them and began rubbing it down with a handful of hay.

“Can you fetch some water for Bashful here? He’s got food enough here but the trough’s empty.”

“Your horse’s name is Bashful?”

Cadan replied. “He belongs to the Village Head, and I’m told was named by her daughter as a foal. Pump’s outside, there should be a bucket by the door.”

Eleanor stared at him. He wanted her to do servant’s work? She stayed where she was until Bashful dipped his head to the water trough, and came up looking sad, although that was really just a trick of the shadows in the dim light of the lantern.

She sighed and headed for the door. Yes, there was a bucket there, a large, heavy, wooden thing with a coarse rope handle. Putting the lantern down, she picked up the bucket and wrestled the door open. She hoped he noticed how considerate she was being, leaving the lantern with him while she braved the outside dark for the sake of silly horse.

The pump was easy enough to spot, much harder to operate. It took all her strength and a certain amount of body weight to get the handle moving, only to find dhe’d left the bucket in the wrong place. The stream of water knocked it over instead of filling it, and drenched her boots and the lower part of her cloak.

She glared at the barn, repositioned the bucket and tried again. This time it worked, but the bucket, now full, was too heavy to carry more than a few steps at a time. She heaved it across the yard in stages, further soaking her boots in the process. Finally, she made it to the door and dragged the bucket through. “Here you are, and if I die of chills from being wet through, I’m sure you’ll be happy it was in service of your stupid, plodding mule.”

Cadan came over and picked up the bucket with one hand. “I’ve put my cloak out for a bed, over the far side. Get out of anything wet and I’ll see about drying them.”

She glared at his back, which proved to be annoyingly broad and capable-looking without the all-enveloping cover he’d been wearing. She spun on her heel before she could notice he was well formed all the way down and spotted a splash of dark laid out across a pile of hay. That was her bed? It was a good thing she was all out of tears, or she surely would have started crying again.

Was a proper mattress and soft wool blankets too much to ask?

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