A week passed, with Martha appearing in Maggie’s workroom on the days Eleanor was there, Tilly said she stayed at the forge or roamed about the village on the other ones. On healing days, she chopped and ground and mixed and stirred and strained. It was tedious work, and for all Sarah claimed to experiment with new ideas and improvements, Eleanor never saw it happen.

She asked about it one day, Sarah blew a strand of hair off her face and kept beating at the base paste for her soothing balm. “We’re coming into winter and I’m behind. We’re going to need more stock of this, and cold tonic, and burn paste to get through. I’ve barely enough to supply the castle as it is.”

Eleanor frowned. “Don’t the castle have their own healer and still room?”

Sarah smirked. “Aye, but he’s not as good as me.”

He probably wasn’t, Sarah’s treatments were unusually effective, but the castle would have more space, better equipment, and assistants. “Why don’t you spend a week or so there, rather than making it all here?”

Sarah shrugged. “I’ve always done it this way. The only reason I’m behind is because my assistant decided to become a travelling potion-seller back in the summer and life on the road has agreed with him more than I thought it would.”

So people did leave the village. Although it was unlikely a forester could find work anywhere other than a place in the middle of a lot of trees. Just once, she’d have liked to visit the Court-of-All-Nations and seen the Kings’ Stone and listened to the diplomats and courtiers dodge and weave their way through alliances and treaties.

Enough. This was her life now, she’d just have to find something about it that set her alight, the way healing did Sarah, and the forest did Matthew and Cadan.

On weaving days, Eleanor’s spinning slowly improved. Too slowly for Maggie’s taste, she moved Eleanor onto dying when the next batch came through. It took three sessions in the bath house – two baths and one of laundry, to get her hands back to their normal colour.

Daren continued to abscond with her spindle and turn wool into enviably fine yarn as he listened to Eleanor’s stories. Martha stopped sniggering over it when Maggie said his yarn was better than hers and she’d do well to ask for his technique.

That was the afternoon the rain finally started to clear, it had been days of alternating drizzle and downpour and their small river was running high and fast. She’d made it as far as Port Watch, in the Scattered Isles, in her story for the children and she walked home full of thoughts of Grandma Ruth, who’d come to Gandry from there. Did she have as much trouble adapting and fitting in as Eleanor was in Woodbine? Everyone was pleasant enough, but even Tilly didn’t turn to her with gossip or news from the castle. She was an afterthought at best in conversations and none of her true skills had any value here.

That evening, after dinner, Cadan said. “We’re taking the day off tomorrow.”

Eleanor frowned at him. “You and Matthew?”

“You and me. Sarah can get help from Tilly or Martha. They’ve both taken turns in the still room. It’s going to be one of the last nice days before winter and you’ve never had a chance to actually see the forest.”

Eleanor shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve been here very long.”

Cadan looked at her. “Tomorrow, it’ll be four weeks since you arrived in the village.”

Matthew grinned at her. “Feels like you’ve been with us forever, but at the same time only yesterday.”

He meant it in a nice way. It didn’t stop the weight settling on her shoulders; the expectations she wasn’t fulfilling, the hopes she wasn’t meeting. She’d have to try harder over winter, make herself care about healing or weaving.

She realised Cadan was looking at her expectantly and she tried to sound excited. “What are we going to do? Isn’t everything in the forest more-or-less asleep by now?”

He grinned. “It’s a surprise.”

She hated surprises. “Oh.”

He said. “You’ll love it.”

She doubted that. In her experience, even surprises that started out well enough ended up awful. But what could she say that wouldn’t sound bitter and ungrateful? She bit her tongue and concentrated on the wobbly scarf emerging from her knitting needles.

Cadan nudged her leg with his shoulder. “Are you alright? Sarah promised you didn’t have anything urgent to do tomorrow.”

“I don’t.”

Eleanor finished the row of knitting and counted her stitches. There were two more than when she’d started it. Fine, she’d lose them again soon enough.

“But…”

She started a new row. “It’s fine.”

He peered up at her face. “Do I need to have words with Martha?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I am dealing perfectly well with that, don’t interfere.”

He said nothing more but kept looking at her, like she was some sort of puzzle he had to solve. She finished the row and refused to check the stitches. Instead, she bundled wool and needles together and tucked them into the side of the chair. “If I’m to have an exciting day tomorrow, I’d best get to bed.”

Sarah and Matthew bid her goodnight and she retreated to the bedroom. If he’d just tell her his plans, she’d be able to go to sleep looking forward to something, instead of dreading the unknown.

There were murmurs in the room beyond, but Cadan didn’t follow her in. She got ready for bed and pulled down the blankets. When the door still didn’t open, she glared at it and turned off the lamp hanging over the chest. If he didn’t want to talk, he could get himself to bed in the dark.

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