37. Chapter 37
37
Chapter 37
Bronwen
I walked beside August, my steps measured but steady. I felt far better than I had hours ago, though a faint ache still lingered in my limbs. My cloak was wrapped tightly around me, not just to stave off the cool breeze but to conceal the leathers I still wore beneath—a stark reminder of the events from the night before.
“So . . . Augustus. ” I glanced at August to see his jaw tick before he quickly changed his expression.
“I thought you might have missed that,” he mumbled.
“No, but it was the least important thing I heard, Augustus.”
“Please do not call me that.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So you can call me Winnie, but I can’t call you by your real name.”
He stopped and turned to me. “My mother called me August, and my father calls me Augustus if that tells you anything about the opinion I have on those names.”
I looked at him for a moment, realizing now more than I ever have why he had been so adamant with calling me Winnie.
Market was alive with activity. Booths lined both sides of the street, their colorful awnings flapping in the gentle wind. Merchants called out to passersby, their voices blending into a symphony of bartering and chatter. The scent of fresh bread and roasting meats filled the air, mingling with the sharper tang of herbs and spices displayed in woven baskets.
My eyes drifted over the bustling stalls. One was stacked with an array of wooden carvings—miniature animals, intricate figurines, and delicate ornaments that seemed to come alive in the sunlight. Another displayed an array of polished trinkets and jewelry, the metal gleaming as the merchant gestured animatedly to a customer. A few steps away, a booth brimming with jars of honey and jams drew a small crowd, the golden contents glinting enticingly.
It seemed like everyone was here, knowing the unforgiving winter would soon limit their chances to buy and sell goods.
Despite the lively atmosphere, I kept my focus forward, my hand brushing the edge of my cloak. My muscles were tense, and I was acutely aware of August walking close beside me. His presence was steady, his gaze scanning the crowd with quiet vigilance.
Mama’s smile brightened as we approached, giving me a sense of normalcy that I so desperately needed.
“Oh, I see where you have been.” She glanced at August. “I was worried considering Shadow was still in his stall.”
My stomach dropped so fast it felt like the ground beneath me had vanished. How could I have forgotten Shadow? The one thing Papa always checked on first. The one thing that would give away my early departure. I had carefully thought out what I was going to say when seeing Mama, but this had my lie crumbling. A dozen excuses tumbled through my mind, each one faltering before it could form properly. I opened my mouth, but the words tangled in my throat, a lump of fear blocking any coherent thought.
Just as the panic threatened to bubble over, August stepped in smoothly, his expression shifting into something effortlessly charming. “I came and got her this morning,” he said, his voice carrying a teasing warmth, laced with just enough casual arrogance to sound believable. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk just shy of smugness. “Couldn’t possibly let her make the trip alone, could I? What kind of gentleman would that make me?”
Mama’s brow furrowed for a moment, her sharp eyes flicking between us. August met her gaze evenly, offering an easy grin that softened the suspicion in her expression. After a beat, her lips twitched, and her smile returned, though it didn’t quite mask the lingering concern.
“Well, next time, bring her back with a full wagon to save us both some work,” she said with a teasing lilt, though the hint of exasperation remained.
August nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he placed a hand lightly on my back.
“I’ll make a note of that.” He steered me around the booth with an ease that made my earlier panic dissipate slightly. His hand lingered for just a moment, a quiet reassurance that he had things under control.
Mama began sorting through bundles of material, her movements quick and efficient. I glanced back at August, his calm demeanor unshaken, and felt a flicker of relief. It wasn’t often that someone could deflect Mama’s questions so effortlessly.
“Winnie,” he said, picking up a crate loaded with folded clothes. “Why don’t you handle something lighter while I deal with this?”
I rolled my eyes but complied, reaching for a smaller basket filled with spools of thread. The weight was manageable, but the distraction it provided felt heavier, grounding me as I busied myself with the task.
As the morning wore on, a handful of customers came by, browsing through the bundles of fabric and admiring Mama’s work. It felt almost normal, the familiar rhythm of Market calming me. But the spell of normalcy was broken when I noticed Mrs. Reeves heading in my direction.
“Bronwen,” she called out, her voice trembling slightly as she approached. Her hands clutched the sides of her shawl as though trying to hold herself together. “Have you seen Lowen?”
My stomach sank, my breath catching in my throat. “No,” I said carefully.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she glanced between me and Mama. “It’s been a few days since he came home. The last time I saw him, he said he was going to see you.”
The weight of her words pressed down on me, my mind scrambling for an answer that wouldn’t betray me. “No,” I said quickly, the denial falling from my lips before I could think twice. “I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Mrs. Reeves’ eyes narrowed, flicking to August standing silently by my side. Her expression hardened, anger seeping through the cracks of her worry. “It must have something to do with you,” she snapped, her gaze piercing me. “He was fine until he mentioned coming to see you.”
My heart twisted, but not with guilt. Lowen had made his choices—dark ones—that had nearly cost me everything. I forced myself to keep my face neutral. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm brewing in my chest. “We haven’t spoken.”
If only she knew what her son had tried to do to me—what August had stopped.
She glared at August, as though his mere presence was further evidence against me. “And who’s this? A new friend of yours?” she spat, her tone sharp enough to cut. “It’s no wonder Lowen’s upset.”
August shifted slightly, his posture rigid. He didn’t respond, letting her words hang in the air like a challenge. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until I finally spoke, unable to let her leave without a response.
“You’ve got some nerve, Mrs. Reeves,” I said sharply, my tone cool and measured, but the edge in it was unmistakable. My fingers tightened around the fabric of my cloak, nails pressing into my palms as I forced my expression into something neutral, something controlled. I wouldn’t let her see how deeply this affected me. “Lowen’s a grown man. If he’s upset, maybe it’s because he realized he can’t live under your thumb forever.”
“How dare you!” Her eyes widened in shock before narrowing into a glare. “You think you know my son better than I do?”
I crossed my arms, tilting my head slightly as I met her glare without flinching. “You’d be surprised,” I said, my voice calm, almost indifferent. The truth was, I did know her son—better than she ever could. Better than she was willing to admit.
Her nostrils flared. “Watch your mouth, girl.”
I tilted my head. “Or what? ”
Mrs. Reeves shook her head sharply, her face reddening, but I saw the flicker of doubt that passed through her expression. She didn’t know the truth, but she sensed it—something had shifted, and she didn’t like it. “If you hear anything,” she snapped, her voice trembling, “you know where to find me.”
“Oh, I’ll let you know,” I replied, my words dripping with sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want you losing more sleep.”
She stormed off without another word, disappearing into the crowd. Mama watched her retreat, then turned to me, her brows knitting together in disapproval.
“Was that really necessary, Bronwen?” she asked.
I crossed my arms. “She came here accusing me of upsetting Lowen. What was I supposed to do? Smile and nod?”
“You could have handled it with a bit more grace,” Mama replied, her tone sharp enough to make me flinch. “That woman is worried about her son. You don’t have to like her, but you could have shown a little compassion.”
I let out a huff, turning away slightly. “She had no right to come at me like that.”
“And you had no right to speak to her the way you did,” Mama shot back. “I raised you better than this.”
I looked down at the ground, guilt prickling at the edges of my frustration.
Mama sighed, her voice softening slightly as she added, “Just think before you speak next time. She’s a mother worried about her child. You understand that, don’t you?”
I nodded reluctantly, but part of me rebelled against the idea of giving Mrs. Reeves any pity. Lowen wasn’t an innocent victim. He’d been dangerous, and if August hadn’t intervened, I might not even be standing here.
Mama studied me for a moment longer before turning back to the booth. I glanced at August, who had remained silent through the exchange. His expression was blank, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes—approval, perhaps. I couldn’t tell.
As Market began to wind down, August stayed close, helping load the wagon with the last of the goods. His strength didn’t go unnoticed, drawing curious glances from other merchants. After grabbing the final crate from our booth, we made our way to the wagon where Papa was waiting, his arms crossed and his face as stern as ever.
His sharp eyes immediately landed on August, his gaze cool and assessing. “And who’s this?” he asked in the kind of tone that could make grown men shift uncomfortably.
August stepped forward slightly, but instead of offering his hand, he clasped them behind his back. “August,” he said smoothly, nodding politely. “W—Bronwen’s friend.”
His hesitation before saying my name was barely noticeable, but I caught it—and so did Papa.
Papa’s eyes flicked down to August’s hands, his brow lifting slightly. His expression didn’t change, but I knew that look—the subtle shift of someone testing for weakness. “Not one for handshakes?”
August’s lips curved into a small, measured smile. “I’ve never been a fan of germs,” he said lightly. His fingers twitched slightly, then flexed once before settling, as if resisting the urge to shift under Papa’s gaze.
Papa didn’t move, but something about his presence sharpened, his stance becoming subtly more rigid. “A strange thing for a young man to worry about,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet suspicion, like he was weighing August’s words against something unspoken. His fingers drummed once against his forearm before stilling, his stare unwavering.
I stepped forward quickly, forcing a smile. “Papa, he’s just helping me out. Don’t scare him off.”
“Scare him off?” Papa said, his tone feigning innocence as he looked up at August, something he’s never had to do to another man before. “I’m just trying to get a sense of the company you keep.”
August met Papa’s gaze evenly, not a flicker of unease betraying him. “I’d do the same if I were you,” he said, his voice steady, unhurried. “It’s good to be protective of your family.”
The tension between them hung in the air like a taut rope. Finally, Mama cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “We’d better get going,” she said, her tone pointed. “August, thank you for your help.”
Papa gave August one last measured look before turning to climb into the wagon.
August leaned in, his voice a quiet promise. “Go home and rest, Winnie. I’ll come for you tomorrow.”
With no sense of objection left in me, I nodded.
As I began to walk to the front of the wagon, I glanced back at August, who offered me a faint smile. There was something in his expression that made my chest tighten. Whatever game he was playing, he was good at it. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Papa wasn’t done trying to figure him out.