Chapter 11
Eleven
Never mind. Oaklin was definitely leaving Mossley’s Rest, but it wasn’t because of the Inquisitor.
It was because of the cranky old ghost lady who thought she could run their life, and Oaklin. Was. Done.
“I’m not going,” Oaklin said, stoking the fire under their tea kettle with a combative jab.
“You definitely are,” the ghost replied.
Oaklin scowled. “It’s not even been a week since the Inquisitor.”
Granny leaned back against the wide oak table, running a finger along the lid of the tea tin with something like envy. “Sammy’s daughter just went through a breakup and rumors are flying. No one even remembers the Inquisitor.”
Oaklin sighed, flopping back on the floor and staring up at the tiny hole in the roof they really needed to fix. The fire gently warmed their side as they cast about for a new argument.
“I don’t even need anything though,” they tried.
“You do. I already told you,” Granny shot back.
“Flower seeds and honey are not critical farm supplies.”
The ghost huffed, offended. Somewhere outside, a goat bleated its displeasure. Possibly at Oaklin.
“Who’s the experienced farmer here?” Granny challenged. “You need to get those flowers planted before you harvest for the market.”
“I’m not going to the market this week either.”
“You are.”
“You can’t make me. Probably.”
The scent of a barn that seriously needed to be mucked out drifted into the conversation via the cool morning breeze, reinforcing Oaklin’s point.
There was plenty to do at the farm, where it was safe, where no one would be talking about any inquisitors.
Alas, either ghosts couldn’t smell or Granny didn’t care.
“Remember how we talked about knowing?” she asked. “I know you’re going to go into the village today.”
Oaklin scoffed. “You’re just saying that. You can’t use your mystical ghost thing against me like that.”
“I certainly can. But in this case, I don’t need to.”
It turned out she was right. She didn’t need to, because Oaklin, weak-willed and susceptible to manipulation as they clearly were (see: cult), eventually gave in.
“You’re going to be okay, Oaklin,” Granny said, more gently this time, as Oaklin shoved their coin purse in their pocket.
They snorted. “Yeah. Right. You keep saying that, and yet an inquisitor just showed up.”
“No one would care if they—”
“If anyone so much as mentions the Inquisitor while I’m in there, I’m coming straight back,” Oaklin insisted.
They’d been doubting their decision to stay in Mossley’s Rest anyway.
All it would take was a push.
***
Oaklin slunk into the edge of the village and fended off eye contact at all costs.
They’d been hoping to avoid it entirely for at least two weeks, feigning illness until everyone fully moved on from talking about the Inquisitor.
Failing that, they would avoid talking to anyone they didn’t have to, if only to keep their heart from fleeing town without the rest of their body.
That didn’t stop people from talking about them, though. As soon as they were first spotted by a trio taking their lunch outside Ryn’s bakery, the whispering began.
“That’s them, right?”
“Ooh, they’re even nicer looking than you said.”
“Those eyes!”
“I do love a strong farmer type.”
Ominous giggling.
Oaklin walked faster.
Alas, it was too late. A figure stepped into the road in front of them, and Oaklin nearly crashed right into them.
“Hey Oaklin!” she said, voice bright. She flashed them a dimpled smile and pushed her hair over her shoulder in a shining wave of thick brown curls. “It is Oaklin, right? I’m Ms. Chanda’s niece, Bhet. She’s told me so much about you.”
“Uh, hello,” Oaklin mumbled, casting about for Ryn, Jules, or Lior, sensing the need for another rescue.
Alas, they were alone.
“Shameless,” a young man said, imposing himself half in front of Bhet with a long-suffering sigh. “Using your aunt like that. Sorry about that, Oaklin. I’m Eri, one of the village tailors—”
“Tailor’s apprentice,” Bhet interrupted, scowling.
“Prill is planning to have me take over the shop in a few years, I’ll have you know,” Eri shot back.
Bhet rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s not yours yet, is it? What do you think, Oaklin? Does it count if it’s still ten years away?”
“It’s not ten years,” Eri insisted, turning his brown eyes on Oaklin for assistance.
Oaklin stammered. “I-I…”
Oh, gods and grains, free me from this fresh hell, Oaklin thought desperately. Perhaps a bit dramatic after a literal cult but, well. How had they ended up drawn into this minor drama between two people they’d met ten seconds ago?
“Come off it, both of you!” someone snapped from the crowd on the sidelines. “Ryn said to let them get settled before you descended like vultures. Go spend some quality time with yourself if you’re hurting that bad for it.”
Oaklin nearly collapsed in relief…right up until their defender walked up and held out their hand.
“I’m Rory,” they said, making intense eye contact as they gripped Oaklin’s hand, holding on far longer than was socially appropriate. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
“I HAVE TO GO TO THE LIbrARY,” Oaklin practically shouted, then fled the scene. They were halfway down the street before they remembered to add: “Nice to meet you all!”
It was not, in fact, nice to meet them. But Oaklin Nettlewood, Model Citizen Who Had Never Been in a Cult, would never say so.
Mossley’s Rest wasn’t a large place, but once Oaklin dove into the back alleys to lose the crowd, they found themself thoroughly lost and on the wrong side of the village.
It took Oaklin several long minutes to find their way to the library by doing something they never thought they’d do: following the towers dedicated to the Three Above.
Normally they’d do anything to get far, far away from a temple of the Three, and yet here they were, using it as a landmark.
To be fair, there was a very hot paladin with very nice arms at the end of this particular quest, and so Oaklin decreed it worthwhile.
As the library finally came into view, Oaklin wiped sweaty palms on their trousers and took a deep breath. Being around people again was nerve-racking. Seeing Lior again was…also nerve-racking? Exciting, maybe?
Getting ahead of yourself, Oaklin thought. Calm down and don’t be weird.
As soon as they walked through the door, Lior looked up from their book and beamed a bright smile.
“Oaklin!” she said, slamming her book shut. Oaklin’s gaze zeroed in on the book—a steamy romance, by the looks of it—and they blushed fiercely.
“Do you often use random leaves as bookmarks?” Oaklin quipped to distract from Lior’s knowing look. She smiled, running a finger gently over the edge of the leaf in a way Oaklin couldn’t seem to look away from.
“Whatever’s at hand,” Lior said. “I’ve used far more unusual things, trust me.”
Oaklin had no idea what to make of that, but it made them blush deeper all the same. They looked around, hoping to collect themself, and noticed three things all at once:
One: Everyone was staring at them;
Two: The library was filled with far more whispers and murmurs than it had been a moment ago, and;
Three: They had been unconsciously leaning over the counter into Lior’s space, and Lior had definitely noticed. She leaned in to meet Oaklin halfway, mouth quirked in a mischievous smile and eyes dancing.
“You seem worried,” she said.
It took Oaklin a moment to find their breath.
“I feel like everyone’s talking about me,” they said, glancing at the gossiping folk from the corners of their eyes, at least in part to avoid blushing even deeper.
“Oh, they are,” Lior said, waving it away as if it were nothing. “Don’t mind them. Your ‘new in town’ shine will wear off by the end of the summer.”
“End of the summer?” Oaklin hissed, horrified.
That was an awfully long time to be the focus of an entire village’s rumor mill.
Perhaps they’d get lucky and another new person would move in soon.
Someone who wasn’t an inquisitor, of course.
All at once, the whispers took on a much more threatening susurration.
“What do you think they’re saying?” Oaklin asked, voice trembling at the rate of their racing heart. Lior snorted.
“Probably speculating on whether we’re about to kiss,” Lior said with a laugh. “Their favorite topic of gossip. I wasn’t kidding when I said the entire village would be either talking about your love life or trying to force their way into it.”
“Yeah, I figured that part out,” Oaklin said with a grimace, thinking back to Bhet, Eri, and Rory. “Does no one in this place get subtlety?”
Lior’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Oh, I can be subtle…when I want to be.”
Oaklin flushed, eyes lingering on the quirk at the corner of Lior’s mouth. “You’re just as bad as they are,” they said.
“I never claimed to be otherwise,” Lior shot back, grinning. “Now, my famous and desirable friend, what brings you to the library today?”
Desirable? Oaklin? Really? Surely Lior was only teasing; between the sweat that soaked their chest bindings and the layer of field grime they could never completely scrub away, Oaklin had never felt less attractive in their life.
There was nothing more unattractive than self-pity, though, so they turned instead to Lior’s question.
“I found an old journal from the person who owned the farm before me,” Oaklin said, spinning the story they had come up with on the way over.
“It said that she planted a border of flower seeds she got from someone named Kell and it was a huge help to the farm every year, though she didn’t say why.
I figured I need all the help I can get though.
Do you know someone named Kell who might sell flower seeds? ”
“Oh, of course! You need to meet Sibling Kell!” Lior said, flying around the desk to march purposefully toward the door. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. You can get yourself some honey while you’re at it.”