13. Isolde
ISOLDE
The autumn breeze catches my hair as I step onto the cobblestone street, basket balanced carefully on my arm.
Six jars of lavender honey nestle against soft cloth—my best batch yet, with that perfect amber clarity that makes people stop and stare.
The cream dress Maddie insisted I wear feels lighter than my usual work clothes, and my favorite sweater keeps the morning chill at bay.
Free samples. The idea struck me over breakfast as I watched steam rise from my tea. What better way to prove my worth to Harvest Hollow than to let the honey speak for itself?
The market square spreads before me, autumn decorations draped between the timber-framed buildings. Pumpkins line the walkways, and dried corn stalks frame every doorway. Festival preparations have been the talk of the town for weeks, yet something feels off.
My boots click against the stones as I approach the first stall. Empty. The baker's table sits abandoned, not even a crumb remaining from his usual morning pastries. The weaver's booth stands vacant, her colorful threads still hanging from their hooks but no sign of their creator.
I pause beside the fountain at the market's center, scanning the eerily quiet space. Festival banners flutter overhead, but the usual bustle has vanished entirely. Even Mrs. Henley's produce stand sits unattended, her prized turnips wilting in their baskets.
The sound of muffled voices drifts from somewhere deeper in town. I follow the noise, basket swaying gently as I navigate the empty streets. The voices grow louder as I round the corner toward Rindle Tailoring.
Every window of the refined shop glows with warm light, shadows moving back and forth behind the glass. Laughter spills out into the street—the kind of rich, comfortable sound that comes from people who belong together.
I approach one of the front windows, standing on my toes to peer through the opening.
The interior bustles with what appears to be half the town.
Bolts of fine fabric line the walls, and elegant dresses hang from wooden forms. Tables laden with delicate pastries and steaming cider create a makeshift reception area.
Vaelis stands near the center of the gathering, her silver hair catching the lamplight as she gestures animatedly.
Her emerald dress fits like it was crafted specifically for her body—which it probably was.
Granda Oltar nods along to whatever story she's telling, his weathered hands wrapped around a crystal goblet that definitely doesn't belong in a tailor shop.
My chest tightens as the pieces click into place. An exclusive gathering. An invitation I never received.
I could walk in. Feign ignorance about the invitation I never received, offer my samples with a bright smile, pretend this doesn't sting. My hand shifts on the basket handle as I consider it.
Then Alma's voice cuts through the window glass, clear and confident.
"Vaelis has always been Draven's natural match, hasn't she? They've maintained such a lovely friendship over the years."
The words hit like ice water down my spine. My grip tightens on the basket until the wicker creaks.
"She brings out his refined side," Alma continues, her tone carrying the authority of someone whose opinion shapes the town's social fabric. "Someone of her standing, her connections—it makes perfect sense."
Vaelis's laugh rings out, musical and satisfied. "It's always felt inevitable, really. Some things are simply meant to be."
My stomach curls with something bitter and sharp.
The image of Draven helping Vaelis prepare for the festival, his careful hands adjusting decorations while she watches with that calculating smile, makes my jaw clench.
The thought of him teaching her to read forest signs, sharing those quiet moments I'd begun to treasure—
"What exactly are you lurking for?"
I spin around so fast the honey jars rattle against each other. Liora stands behind me, dark hair braided with tiny silver charms that catch the afternoon light. Her expression mixes amusement with genuine concern.
"I wasn't lurking." The words come forth sharper than intended. "I was going to offer samples of my newest honey batch, but everyone seems preoccupied."
Liora glances at the glowing window, then back at me. Her eyes soften with understanding. "Ah. The impromptu gathering."
"Impromptu."
"Don't take it personally. Harvest Hollow has habits—gossip spreads faster than wildfire, and they're suspicious of anyone who doesn't fit their predetermined molds." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "They need time to warm up to outsiders."
"I'm not an outsider. I'm an old friend." The protest sounds hollow even to my ears. I shift the basket to my other arm. "Though it seems like no one here needs a friend anyway."
Liora's expression grows thoughtful as she studies my face.
Before Liora can offer whatever consolation she's preparing, I hoist the basket higher against my chest. The honey jars clink softly together, a gentle reminder of what actually matters here.
"I need to get back to the bees."
Liora's eyebrows lift slightly. "Isolde—"
"They don't manage themselves." I turn from the glowing window, away from the sound of Vaelis's musical laugh and Alma's authoritative pronouncements about natural matches. "And unlike some gatherings, they don't require invitations."
The walk back to my apiary feels longer than usual, each step carrying me farther from the warm lights and comfortable assumptions of Harvest Hollow's inner circle.
The autumn air bites at my cheeks, but I welcome the sharp clarity it brings.
No more wondering where I stand. No more hoping for acceptance that clearly isn't coming.
My hives stand in neat rows beyond the town's edge, wooden boxes that house thousands of creatures who know exactly what they're about. No social politics. No predetermined matches. Just work, survival, and the simple mathematics of mutual benefit.
I set the basket down beside the nearest hive and pull on my gloves. The bees hum their familiar greeting, a sound that settles something tight in my chest. They don't care that I wasn't invited to Alma's gathering. They don't whisper about appropriate pairings or social standing.
The queen in this hive has been laying steadily, preparing her colony for winter. I check the frames methodically, noting the capped honey stores and the tight cluster of worker bees. Everything in perfect order, exactly as it should be.
"At least someone around here knows their business," I murmur to the bees.
A memory surfaces—Draven's hands steady on a frame as I explained the colony's hierarchy, his quiet attention as I described how worker bees choose their leaders. He'd understood something that day about service and mutual respect. Something the people in Alma's shop seem to have forgotten.
I push the thought away and focus on the work. The bees need winter preparations, not my emotional complications. I check moisture levels, adjust ventilation, ensure each colony has adequate stores. Simple, practical tasks that produce measurable results.
By the time I finish the inspection, the sun sits lower in the sky. My hands smell of honey and beeswax, my dress bears the honest marks of real work. The contrast with Vaelis's pristine emerald gown couldn't be sharper, and for the first time today, that doesn't bother me.
Let them have their refined gatherings and predetermined matches. I have work that matters, honey that speaks for itself, and colonies that thrive under my care. Some things don't require anyone's approval.