Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Six weeks passed. Autumn crept in slowly at first, confining itself to the early morning hours and a handful of yellowing trees.
Each day it came a little closer: another tree gone golden orange, a snap of chill in the evening breeze.
Then, in one great wave, the change came, with vibrant reds and gusting wind and frigid rain that soaked Oaklin to the bone the one time they’d pushed their luck and stayed in the farthest fields when the clouds began to roll in.
Six weeks since Oaklin’s last and worst confession.
Their friends accepted them. Forgave them. And now, with the first frost of the year looming and months of winter beyond, Oaklin had something else on their mind; something distracting, relentless, dangerous when wielding sharp implements out in the fields.
Love.
“I’m ridiculous,” Oaklin hissed, putting pressure on yet another self-inflicted cut from their pruning shears. Ripping out the spent pepper plants should not have been a difficult job—and yet. “Focus, for once in your life, Oaklin Nettlewood.”
It’s called an arcane focus, not an arcane distraction, Granny Emiline’s voice said in Oaklin’s memory, with maximum snark.
The memory brought them such a rush of fondness that they immediately had to share it with Lior, who was diligently weeding the fall-planted carrots.
She, who could hear the words just as Emiline would have said them, literally rolled right there in the field, laughing with her full body.
Oaklin whirled around to hide their absolutely unhinged smile as their heart swelled to bursting.
They’d never thought they could fall in love so fast, considering what they’d been through.
They’d been in Mossley’s Rest for a very eventful eight months, and so much had happened…
But perhaps that was exactly why their heart ached the way it did.
They’d shared more of themself, more intense and complicated emotional experiences, with their friends in Moss than at any other time in their life.
Just like the Midsummer Festival, the Autumn Harvest Festival had a tradition: present a crown of autumn leaves to someone special to declare your feelings, enjoy the festival together, and keep each other warm through the winter months.
Mossley’s Rest really did have a thing for crowns made by little kids, but the sight of the village kids sitting around the statue of Old Mossley with piles of leaves at hand, singing as they wove, only made Oaklin love the little village all the more.
But the crown Oaklin planned to buy would mean more than a partner for a fun festival night, or a warm bed in the winter.
They intended to ask Lior for something real.
A serious partnership. Not a marriage or handfast yet—even Oaklin’s runaway heart knew it was too soon for that—but was it too soon to hope Lior might want to get snowed in together for a few months?
Regardless, if it went badly, then at least Oaklin would have all winter to get over it. Plenty of time to lick their wounds and hide away with the excuse of snow.
Fortunately, Oaklin had preparations for the festival to distract them from their possible impending doom.
They processed a frightening amount of tomatoes and pickled every vegetable possible to help the community through the winter.
They had crates upon crates of long-storing crops like apples, potatoes, onions, carrots, and more.
They’d harvested the last of the fall squash and had piles of sweet roasting pumpkins to sell.
And yet even still, they looked to the future: planting fall garlic to harvest in the early summer, tucking the overwintering perennials into their beds with extra straw, and prepping the dormant fruit trees with spellwork against overwintering insects and fungus.
Oaklin spent the evening before the festival frantically gathering all the unripe tomatoes from their vines.
The old-timers on the Farmer’s Union said there’d be frost in the early morning hours, and Oaklin knew by now that it would be wise to heed their advice.
As much as it pained them to pluck the green tomatoes before they’d even gotten a blush of color, most of them would still be able to be ripened indoors with proper storage.
Those that couldn’t were still fine for eating sliced and fried or roasted.
It was apt timing, though; the Autumn Harvest Festival was supposed to mark the final harvest of the main growing season, and the last farmer’s market too.
This final chore before the frost felt right, but it had Oaklin wrangling a mix of messier emotions too.
There was wistfulness, for sure. They would miss the sun, the long days spent outdoors, seeing everyone at the weekly markets.
And yet, gods and grains, they were so grateful it was over.
For all its chaos, the year had been incredible, but their gratitude had a bit of a desperate edge to it.
They had learned so much—mostly from the departed Emiline—and worked harder than they’d thought themself capable of, on both the farm and themself.
Winter would mean planning for the next season and subsisting on preserved crops, but also rest. Lots of rest.
Hopefully they wouldn’t be resting alone.
***
Oaklin and Grumpy Horse—who Oaklin had given up on calling anything else—made their way into the village bright and early, as soon as dawn’s first gift of light began to spill onto the road into the village.
Oaklin’s cart was loaded down with goods of all kinds.
Possibly too loaded down, in fact. They walked beside the cart, eyeing the precarious pile with trepidation, occasionally reaching out to tug the ropes holding it all together just a little tighter.
Grumpy Horse looked back at them with much judgment, as if to say, “If you were that worried, you should have packed it better.” A rude snort punctuated the imagined thought.
“Oh, shush,” Oaklin said, tugging the ropes yet again. “I don’t want to hear it. I did my best.”
Grumpy Horse did not seem to believe them.
Oaklin resolved to buy a bigger cart next year.
Everything arrived to market in perfect condition, not a single tumbled crate or loose jar to mourn, thankfully.
As Oaklin passed the bakery on their way to the village square, Ryn ducked out of the door, attempting to carefully balance an extra tray of incredible-smelling pumpkin-shaped muffins while pushing his cart of other goods one-handed.
Oaklin suddenly felt better about their own cart situation.
“Whoa, need a hand?” they asked, eyes wide. “I promise not to eat them all!”
Ryn quirked a skeptical eyebrow. “If you really promise, then yes, please. If I drop these, I’ll have so many angry customers.”
Oaklin and Ryn walked beside Grumpy Horse, chatting all the way to the square, which was a flurry of activity.
Banners were being hung, dried flowers tied and displayed, and everywhere, torches, braziers, and bonfires were being lit to chase away the late autumn chill.
It was a beautiful sight. In the middle of it all, Jules wove a jaunty tune—one Oaklin had never heard before.
The melody was simple, but with a complicated countermelody weaving beneath, a perfect complement to Jules’s voice.
Once the song finished, Oaklin paused to shout.
“Hey, Jules, is that an original?” they called.
Jules grinned, performer mask fully in place, though the slight hesitation in his reply revealed his nerves. “It is! What do you think?”
“Incredible. Really,” Oaklin said with complete sincerity, then raised their voice to a shout. “Right everyone?”
A cheer went up from the assembled crowd and Jules actually blushed, bashful and pleased.
Oaklin shot him a wink, then dropped off Ryn’s tray of muffins and brought Grumpy Horse to a halt next to their usual market booth.
From there, routine took over as they set their goods up for display, though with the extra step of decorating for the festival.
A wide, red cloth went over the countertop, with strips of red and gold fabric tied to the vertical supports as an accent.
Oaklin had hoped to do more, but prepping goods for the market had to come first. Besides, Oaklin thought the jars of sugared berries and pickled beans were plenty beautiful all on their own.
While Oaklin was ducked down behind the booth, gathering a huge basket of multicolored potatoes, a pile of books appeared on the counter above them.
When Oaklin looked up, Lior was hovering over them with a grin.
Lior’s armor was polished to perfection, gleaming a strange, shifting mix of silver and gold that Oaklin wasn’t entirely sure was due to sunlight or metal.
They’d done a lot of talking about Lior’s past and future over the last few weeks, and about Lior’s relationship with the Three.
It took more time to get past the blood on Lior’s sword than Oaklin had initially thought it would; the forgiveness had come so easily, in the moment, but their tightly wound nervous system hadn’t been quite so simple to deal with.
They’d worked through it together, just keeping things open and honest, and it felt like they’d finally reached a point of stability.
Lior’s smile beamed down at Oaklin, uncomplicated and slightly mischievous.
“Hey. Brought you a present,” she said, patting the stack of books.
Oaklin hauled the basket of potatoes up onto the counter with a heaving groan and mustered a teasing smile. “Oh no, it’s not more farming books, is it?”
Lior laughed that big, unselfconscious laugh Oaklin had come to adore. “I promise, not a single one! These are all purely for fun reading by the fire while you’re cozied up this winter. Some adventure novels, some poetry, some rather spicy romance…you know, a variety.”
Oaklin’s cheeks warmed, both at the mention of spicy romance and at the sheer joy of feeling seen and known.
The gesture showed care on so many levels: encouraging Oaklin to rest and have fun, taking their taste into account, and making time for an errand that Oaklin would never think to do for themself.
They packed the books onto their now-empty cart, eyeing the titles with a smile.
Lior knew them well by now, and Oaklin was already itching to crack the spines on a few of them.
“These look great, Lior,” Oaklin said, coming back to the counter so they could lean over and steal a kiss. “Thank you. This was really kind.”
Lior flushed, looking deeply pleased, and stumbled over a quick subject change. “Want me to cast some light on your booth? I can’t do anything fancy, but I can make these little fabric strips shine bright enough that it should show up even in the daylight.”
“That would be great,” Oaklin said, returning to the task of unloading and arranging their goods. “I intended to put more thought into decorating but…well, I didn’t.”
Lior gave them a good teasing over that but cast her light cantrip again and again as promised, lighting up not only the fabric but also the top jar in each pyramid of canned produce and, best of all: Oaklin’s new Sagewood Farm sign.
With the booth fully lit and decorated, Oaklin accepted a quick kiss from Lior before she ran off to join Elder Varron for the official kickoff of the festival, and then the market began.
Oaklin fell easily into the rhythm of it: greeting regulars, firing jokes right back at the other farmers, and even working up the courage to court new customers from among the out-of-town visitors.
Pushy old Mr. Oran made an appearance, of course.
“I’ll expect a sizable stock of those mushrooms set aside for me in the spring,” he said, staring haughtily down his distinguished nose. “In fact, here, let me write down my address for you. If you happen to have any available before the first market, I will happily pay a delivery fee.”
Dara came by as well, looking healthier and more cheerful than Oaklin had ever seen her. “Look, I don’t know what you put in those pickles you made, but I’m addicted now and it’s your fault. I’ll buy all you have!”
Even Elder Varron came by to offer the respects of the village council and do a little shopping. “Lior tells me you’re the one to come to for the best apples. Is that just her smitten heart talking, or is it true? Do you have the tart green kind?”
Oaklin blushed and stumbled over their words as they packed up a large order of green apples and vowed to thank/harass Lior for it later.
Throughout it all, local children ran through the square in shifts, calling, “Crowns! Crowns!” and accepting coins in exchange for their handcrafted autumn leaf crowns.
As soon as Oaklin had a break in the flow of customers, they shot a furtive glance around for their friends, then waved over a dirt-smudged little boy with chicken feathers shoved into the crown on his head.
“Can I have this one with all the yellow and gold leaves?” Oaklin asked, holding out both a coin and a jar of sweet apple slices.
The kid snatched the jar with wide eyes, pocketing the coin so fast Oaklin questioned if they’d handed it over at all.
As soon as the crown was in Oaklin’s hands, the kid dashed off, wrenching the lid open as he ran.
“Wash your hands before you—well, never mind,” Oaklin said, resigned, as the boy and several friends all shoved their dirty little fingers straight into the jar and scarfed down the apples in less than a minute.
One of the nearby fathers caught Oaklin’s eye and shrugged, shaking his head as if to say, “What can you do?”
Then another round of customers arrived and Oaklin went back to the chaos. They stashed the crown under the counter for later but couldn’t stop themself from looking at it during every free second of the day.
Soon.
Soon, they would ask.