19. Isolde
ISOLDE
The bakery's warmth hits my face as I push through the door, but it does nothing to thaw the chill that's settled in my chest since last night.
The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon should be comforting—instead, it reminds me of the dinner I prepared and watched grow cold while staring out the window like some lovesick fool.
Calla sits at the corner table with a steaming mug, her dark hair pulled back in its usual neat style. She glances up from what appears to be proofs of the next newspaper edition, her sharp eyes taking in my appearance with the efficiency of someone trained to read situations quickly.
Maddie emerges from behind the counter, flour dusting her apron and concern creasing her brow. Her auburn curls escape their pins in wild spirals, as if she's been running her hands through them.
"Good morning, sweetheart."
The gentle sympathy in her voice makes my stomach clench. I move to the display case, studying the arrangement of pastries with more attention than they deserve.
"I need two of the honey cakes for Mrs. Henworth's tea service this afternoon."
"Of course, but—"
"And I don't want to talk about it."
The words come out sharper than intended, cutting through the bakery's cozy atmosphere like a blade. Maddie's hands pause in their wrapping of the cakes, and even Calla looks up from her papers.
I force my shoulders to relax, modulating my tone. "Please. Whatever happened or didn't happen last night—I'm not discussing it."
Calla sets down her mug with deliberate care. "It'll get better. Once the gossip dies down eventually."
A bitter laugh escapes. "Right. Because The Whistle has been such a beacon of restraint lately."
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke from a badly tended fire. Calla's composed expression flickers, and she has the grace to look genuinely contrite.
"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have let Jamie write that piece about the attack.
" She runs her fingers over the rim of her mug.
"I was too distracted planning this vacation with Brakkor, and I should have known Jamie would do something particularly dramatic.
It's part of his flair, but that doesn't excuse my oversight. "
Maddie ties the bakery string around my package with unnecessary force. "It doesn't matter what the paper writes. It's really more about what the townspeople are talking about."
She glances toward the window, where Mrs. Penwhistle can be seen gesticulating wildly to a small cluster of women outside the haberdashery.
"Alma's been speaking about Vaelis and Draven, and this imaginary relationship they've conjured up." Maddie shakes her head, curls bouncing with the motion. "I'm not sure why Vaelis is so set on Draven when they're nothing alike."
"Because he's useful." The observation slips out before I can censor it, carrying more venom than I intended.
Both women turn to stare at me. Calla raises an eyebrow, while Maddie's expression shifts from sympathy to something more calculating.
I take the wrapped cakes from Maddie's hands, focusing on the neat brown paper rather than their faces. "Draven provides protection and status without requiring actual emotional investment. Perfect for someone who values appearances over substance."
"Izzy—"
"I said I don't want to discuss it."
But even as I speak the words, I can feel the bitter truth settling deeper into my bones. This town has already decided who belongs with whom, and I'm just the temporary disruption they're waiting to pass.
I smooth down my skirts and straighten my shoulders, feeling the weight of both women's attention like a physical thing.
"I'm going to the Guild Hall to finalize my vendor agreement for the harvest festival." The words come out steady, businesslike. "After that, I'm focusing on my honey and my bees. No more of this drama."
Maddie opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off with a raised hand.
"If Draven wants to avoid what happened between us, then so will I. It's that simple."
I tuck the wrapped cakes under my arm and head for the door, ignoring the way Calla's sharp eyes follow my movement and the soft sound of distress Maddie makes behind me.
The walk to the Guild Hall feels like running a gauntlet. Conversations pause as I pass, heads turn with the subtlety of weather vanes in a storm. Mrs. Penwhistle's voice carries from the haberdashery steps, something about "poor timing" and "natural order," but I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead.
The Guild Hall's heavy oak doors provide blessed sanctuary from the scrutiny. Inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and ink grounds me, the carved trade insignias watching from their places along the walls like silent witnesses to countless negotiations.
Granda Oltar sits behind the main table, his silver beard catching the light from the tall windows. His deep-set eyes assess me with the patience of someone who's witnessed decades of human folly.
"Miss Briar." He gestures to the chair across from him. "I have your agreement prepared."
I settle into the seat, placing the cakes on the table between us. "Thank you for accommodating the rush."
His thick fingers tap the parchment before sliding it across the polished wood. "Festival vendor status, as requested. Standard terms, three-day commitment during harvest week."
I scan the document, noting the careful language that grants me a place without promising anything beyond those three days. The script is precise, formal, leaving no room for assumption or hope.
"Once we see how you perform during the festival, we can revisit the matter of permanent supplier status." Granda's voice carries the weight of institutional wisdom. "But for now, that remains... undetermined. Particularly since you haven't decided where you're settling permanently."
The emphasis on 'permanently' isn't lost on me. This town deals in certainty, in long-term commitments and established patterns. I represent neither.
"I understand completely." I reach for the quill he offers, dipping it in the inkwell with deliberate care. "Three days should be sufficient to demonstrate my capabilities."
The scratch of nib against parchment seals more than just a business arrangement—it sets my timeline. Three days to prove myself, then departure. Clean, simple, without the messy complications of hearts and expectations.
"Thank you, Granda. This is just what I need."
The walk back to the apiary feels like shedding layers of pretense with each step away from town. By the time I reach the edge of my property, the weight of forced politeness has lifted from my shoulders, replaced by something sharper and more honest—resolve.
My bees hum their familiar greeting, the sound washing over me like absolution. Here, at least, expectations run simple. Provide care, receive honey. No hidden agendas or social calculations required.
I set the wrapped cakes on the small table beside my equipment shed and pull out the ledger I've been keeping since arrival. The pages show neat columns of expenses, projected yields, and timeline calculations. Numbers don't lie or disappoint—they simply exist.
"Three weeks until the harvest festival." My voice carries clearly in the afternoon air, spoken to the bees but really to myself. "One week to prepare inventory, three days of sales, then departure."
The timeline feels solid, manageable. Four weeks total before I load my wagon and point it toward the next opportunity. No lingering, no second-guessing, no waiting for someone to decide I'm worth choosing.