Chapter 15
The cart’s axle needed greasing. The rhythmic complaint grated on Talia’s nerves, already stretched tight. She shifted her grip on the handle, and tried not to catalogue everything that could go wrong.
The toys won't sell. People will laugh. Jorund will start his bullshit again. The village elder had had it in for her since the day she’d arrived.
From what Martha had told her, he hadn’t liked her sister either but Willem had many friends and he’d never been as open with his contempt as he had been with her.
The crate behind her held fifteen toys—eleven rabbits, three deer, and one particularly ambitious fox that Klaus had insisted on adding at the last minute. Each one represented hours of work, careful craftsmanship, and hope wrapped in wood and metal springs.
Please let this work.
Morning sun illuminated the valley, golden light outlining the bare branches of the.
Beautiful, objectively. But her stomach churned too hard to appreciate aesthetics.
Market day always made her anxious—the scrutiny of neighbors who'd known her sister, the comparisons she'd never measure up to, the weight of needing to trade successfully or face another week of dwindling supplies.
Today felt worse. Because today she was bringing something new.
Something that could either save them or mark her as even more of an outsider.
The city girl trying to be clever. Who does she think she is?
She could already hear Jorund's contempt, and feel the judgment of people who valued tradition over innovation.
The village came into view around the next bend—a collection of sturdy stone and wooden buildings clustered around a central square.
The market stalls were already set up and vendors bustled around arranging their goods.
Smoke rose from chimneys, fragrant in the cool air, and voices echoed around the square.
She guided the cart to her usual spot on the square's edge, not prime location, but better than she'd managed six months ago. Small progress.
Don't fuck this up.
She'd left Klaus outside of town, watching from the tree line. Close enough to observe, but far enough that no one would see him. The compromise had taken considerable negotiation.
"I should accompany you." He had crossed his arms, immovable as stone. "I will provide security and tactical support."
"You're seven feet tall with horns. Tactical support would involve explaining why I have an alien bodyguard."
"A valid concern, but—"
"Klaus." She'd touched his chest, feeling the tension there. "I appreciate the protective instinct. Really. But this I have to do alone."
He'd conceded with obvious reluctance, making her promise to signal if she encountered trouble. She had no idea what "signal" would be effective, but arguing seemed counterproductive. Now, unloading the crate, she almost wished she'd let him come anyway. A backup would be comforting.
You're a grown woman. You can handle a market without alien assistance.
She arranged the toys on her small table, positioning them for maximum visibility. The craftsmanship was obvious even to her critical eye—joints that moved smoothly, details that showed care, springs that gave each piece realistic motion.
Please like them. Please buy them.
"Well now, what's all this?"
Martha appeared with her usual basket of preserves, her pleasant face creasing into a smile. She picked up one of the rabbits, testing the leg articulation with careful fingers.
"Talia, this is remarkable. Where did you learn such craftsmanship?"
"I did something similar in the city, but I had some help." True enough without revealing details. "I thought I'd try something different this week."
"Different is right." Martha bounced the rabbit, watching its legs spring with obvious delight. "My youngest would lose her mind over this. What are you asking in trade?"
Her mind went blank. She'd been so focused on making the toys that she'd barely considered pricing. "Um. What seems fair?"
"For this quality?" Martha studied the rabbit with appraising eyes. "I'd say four jars of my apple preserves. Maybe five."
That was more than she had hoped. Preserves traded well, and lasted through winter.
"Four jars works for me."
"Done." Martha produced the preserves like she'd come prepared for exactly this transaction. "I think this is a wonderful idea. No one around here makes anything like this."
The transaction took less than five minutes. One rabbit traded. Fourteen toys remaining.
Okay. That's good. That's progress.
Other vendors started noticing. Old Roger from two farms over carefully examined a deer. "My boy's birthday is coming up. This is finer than anything I could whittle."
"The legs move." She demonstrated the articulation. "The springs provide bounce so it mimics actual deer movement."
Roger grunted approval. "Clever. Two pounds of smoked fish?"
Smoked fish would last months. Provide protein they desperately needed.
"Deal."
Word spread the way it did in small communities—whispered conversations, sidelong glances, growing crowds. Within an hour, she had traded eight toys for an impressive collection of goods. Preserves, smoked fish, a wheel of cheese, and even a sack of precious flour.
This is working. It's actually working.
She caught herself smiling, genuine pleasure warming her chest. The toys were succeeding not just as trade goods but as objects people wanted. Her work—her and Klaus's work—mattered.
A small girl appeared at the table's edge, maybe six years old with tangled dark hair and too-thin cheeks. She recognized her vaguely. The Larsen family, if memory served. Her father had died in a logging accident and her mother was struggling to manage three children alone.
The girl stared at the fox with naked longing, her small hands twisting in her threadbare coat.
"That's a fox," she offered. "His tail moves. See?"
She demonstrated, watching the girl's eyes go wide with wonder.
"It's beautiful," the girl whispered.
"Do you want to hold it?"
The girl's face crumpled. "Mama says we can't buy toys. We need the trade goods for food."
Her heart clenched. She knew that calculation intimately—the constant weighing of wants versus needs. The way children learned too young that desire came second to survival.
You need these trade goods, she told herself, but she was already pressing the fox into small, cold fingers.
"Consider it a gift."
"Really?" The girl clutched the fox like it might disappear. "I can keep it?"
"You can keep it." Her throat felt tight. "Take good care of him, okay?"
The girl nodded so hard her whole body shook. Then she was running, the fox held carefully against her chest, shouting for her mother with pure joy.
Talia watched her go and tried to ignore the practical voice screaming about lost revenue.
One toy. It's just one toy.
But an hour later, a boy appeared at her table. Maybe eight, with serious eyes and clothes patched so many times the original fabric was barely visible.
"My sister's birthday is next week." He spoke carefully, as if he were testing the words before committing. "She's been sick. The healer says she might not..." He stopped, swallowed hard. "She really likes rabbits."
Her chest ached. She looked at the remaining rabbits—three of them, each representing valuable trade goods.
You can't afford this. You need food. Supplies.
But she was already reaching for the pale pink rabbit with the gentlest expression.
"This one's special," she told the boy. "His ears move when you press here. Think your sister would like him?"
The boy's face transformed, hope blooming on those thin features despite his obvious efforts to contain it.
"She'd love him. But I don't have anything to trade. Just—" He pulled out a handful of smooth river stones. "I collected these. They're good skipping stones. Really flat."
"Those are excellent stones." She took them with appropriate seriousness, setting them on the table. "Fair trade for a rabbit, I'd say."
She knew the boy knew she was lying, but the gratitude shining in his eyes, fierce and bright, made it worthwhile.
"Thank you," he said. "Really. Thank you."
"Tell your sister happy birthday from me."
He ran off clutching the rabbit, and she let out a shaky breath.
Two toys. You just gave away two toys.
The remaining toys suddenly felt inadequate, less of a buffer against the winter, but she couldn’t prevent a feeling of satisfaction, knowing how much joy she’d brought to those children.
Klaus will understand, she thought, then immediately questioned whether that was true. He'd called her generous before but he’d said it like he didn't quite understand the concept. Would he see giving away toys as strength or foolishness?
Stop thinking about Klaus. Focus on actual trades.
The next hour passed in steady commerce. The remaining toys sold for good value—more preserves, smoked meat, and a large basket of vegetables to preserve. The last purchaser ever threw in a bag of oats for Nimbus that made her heart squeeze with gratitude.
By noon, her table was empty and her cart significantly fuller. Success by any reasonable metric.
She was loading the last of her traded goods when a familiar voice cut through market chatter like a blade through flesh.
"Well, well. Look who's playing merchant."
Jorund.
Her shoulders tensed but she forced her face into a neutral expression as she turned to face him.
"Just doing some trading, same as everyone."
"Is that what you call it?" An older male, thin to the point of gauntness, Jorund's sharp features were twisted into something that approximated a smile but couldn’t hide the contempt beneath it. "Hawking fancy toys while real families struggle to feed themselves."
And we’re one of those families. But she couldn’t say that, couldn’t give him the ammunition.
"The toys traded well,” she said as calmly as she could. “People seemed to like them."
"People are fools." He moved closer, and she fought the urge to step back. "Wasting good resources on children's playthings. Your sister would be ashamed."
Her chest constricted, her breath coming harder, but she refused to flinch.
"Sarah isn’t here."
"No. Because she's dead." Jorund's grey eyes glittered with malice. "She died trying to manage a homestead better suited to real farmers. And now you're making the same mistakes, playing at skills you don't have."
"I'm managing just fine."
"Are you?" He gestured at her wagon. "You’re just running around with toys and tricks. Acting like you belong here when everyone knows you're just a city girl."
Her hands clenched into fists. She wanted to scream that she'd been managing the homestead for months.
That she'd kept Theo fed and safe. That her "tricks" had just earned more in trade goods than she'd managed in weeks.
But defending herself to Jorund was pointless.
He'd decided she was worthless before she'd even arrived.
"I need to get home." She turned back to the wagon. "Theo's waiting."
"That boy is another burden you can’t handle." Jorund's voice dropped to something darker. "He should be with a proper family, people who know what they're doing."
Ice flooded her veins. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that child deserves better than some incompetent city woman playing farmer. The village is starting to notice. They’re starting to question whether you're fit to care for him."
"You can't—" Fear choked the words. "I'm his legal guardian."
"Legal." Jorund spat out the word. "Out here, we care about what's right. Not what some city paper says."
He walked away before she could formulate a response, leaving her shaking with rage and terror combined.
He's threatening to take Theo.
The thought made her stomach heave. Theo, who'd finally started smiling again. Who cared for Nimbus with such gentle dedication. Who asked for bedtime stories and worked alongside Klaus with genuine enthusiasm.
They can't take him. I won't let them.
But fear whispered ugly truths. Jorund had influence. He’d lived in the village all his life and he had connections to everyone. What did she have? A failing homestead and skills learned in the city.
And Klaus, something insisted. I have Klaus.
But Klaus was temporary. Klaus would leave. And then what would she have?
She climbed onto the wagon with mechanical movements, her hands shaking so hard she could barely grip the reins. The successful trades felt hollow now, meaningless against the threat Jorund represented.
She guided the wagon back through the village, conscious of eyes tracking her progress. Suddenly she saw judgment in every glance and imagined speculation in every whispered conversation.
City girl. Outsider. Incompetent.
The labels followed her like ghosts, Sarah's death lending them a weight she couldn't shake.
I'm trying, she wanted to scream. I'm doing my best. But her best wouldn’t matter if the village council decided it wasn't good enough. If Jorund convinced them that Theo needed a "proper" family.
She made it to the edge of town before the tears started. She let them fall unchecked, rage and fear and exhaustion combining into salt tracks on her cheeks.
Fuck Jorund. Fuck the council. Fuck everyone who thinks I can't do this.
But beneath the anger, terror pulsed steady as heartbeat.
What if they're right?