3. Claire
Claire
As the sun slipped behind the mountains, the sky turned into soft hues of amber and rose. Lanterns flickered to life one by one along the market lane. I pressed my palms to the edge of the stall, drawing in a slow breath. It was time.
Maribel counted out the final coins with precision. “There you are, Miss Hart,” she placed the change into the old woman’s wrinkled hands.
Eleanor Hart beamed, a thin and kind smile, just as I remembered from childhood afternoons spent on the piano bench.
I never did learn the piano. The drought that year saw to that: less crop meant fewer coins, and piano lessons were among the first things to go.
Eleanor, however, had insisted on three final lessons free of charge.
I suspected she simply enjoyed the company.
“Bless you both,” she murmured, tucking the coins away before hobbling off with her cane, no doubt chasing after her grandsons who were always just out of reach.
I watched her go for a moment before turning back to my stall.
I had arranged everything that morning, placing every ribbon and charm where the light would kiss it.
I didn’t need it to be perfect; I just loved how color caught a wandering eye, and how a simple bead or thread could transform in the right light.
Papa always said I spent more decorating than I earned. But people had stopped. They had. I walked beside the table, touching my creations: prayer ribbons dyed in mountain hues, delicate blessing charms, and tiny tokens I’d carved in quiet moments between chores.
Maribel’s gaze found mine. It was barely a flicker, but I caught her disappointment and her quiet accounting of what had not sold.
“I had quite a few people stop by when I first opened,” I muttered.
Maribel’s brow lifted. “Did you?”
My eyes dropped to the table. The ribbons still lay in neat bundles. The charms remained untouched. The bracelets sat exactly as I’d placed them that morning.
Thistlebrook was the last village before the mountain path began.
Travelers passed through on their way to the ancient steps carved into the cliffs; the steps were said to climb so high that they brushed the realm of the gods.
Along the path were prayer sites, worn smooth by centuries of hopeful hands.
That was where my idea came from. If people climbed seeking blessings, surely, they would want something to carry with them to leave behind at the prayer sites.
But few travelers came through Thistlebrook, and fewer still stopped long enough to linger.
Most of the market was filled with what people needed: fresh bread, ripe produce, salted meats.
Matthew sold our family’s goods once a week, always with steady customers and easy sales.
My stall was different; it was optional.
My fingers twisted into the fabric of my dress as unease curled low in my stomach. How long would Papa let this continue? Hours mattered in our household.
Idle hands bring ill work, Papa always said. And what would he call this?
My shoulders sank as the weight of my failure pressed in. Beside me, Maribel glanced toward the edge of the market. “I’ll be back,” she said after a beat. “I’m heading to the privy.”
I nodded, though my thoughts were elsewhere, as Maribel slipped away into the deepening dusk. Left alone, I turned back to my stall, to my ribbons, to my charms.
Just as I began putting everything away, a shadow fell over my stall.
The first thing I noticed was the leather.
It wasn’t the soft, worn kind farmers patched through the seasons, but something fitted and dangerous.
It clung to the woman from throat to boot, dark as a starless sky—the kind of gear meant for movement and fighting.
The woman was not from Thistlebrook.
Her hair was a tousled fall of deep brown that looked as though it had never once submitted to a comb for long, and beneath her eyes there were dark smudges of kohl.
I had only heard of such things from passing travelers, whispers of distant villages where women lined their eyes like that. It made her gaze striking.
And oddly beautiful.
I swallowed before I could linger on the thought.
The woman’s build was lean and honed, strength without bulk.
Her jaw was sharp, her cheekbones caught shadow, and her eyes cut across the stall with a kind of focused curiosity that made me acutely aware of the way my ribbons were arranged, of my hands resting awkwardly on the table, of the sudden, ridiculous wish that I’d done something—anything—with my hair.
The stranger reached out without asking, her fingers brushing over the display before selecting one of the prayer ribbons. It was a soft material, dyed in pale blue, threaded with a small silver charm meant to catch the wind. Against the woman’s calloused fingers, it looked fragile.
She turned it slowly. “What is this?” she inquired. Her voice was low, husky.
“They’re prayer ribbons to tie along the mountain path at the prayer sites.”
The woman’s brow arched. “And that does… what, exactly?”
I hesitated, then lifted my chin just a fraction. “They carry a prayer, if you believe in that sort of thing.”
“And the mountain listens?”
“Some say the gods do.”
A beat passed.
The woman’s thumb brushed over the edge of the charm, her touch unexpectedly careful. “And if they don’t?”
Up close, her sharp eyes were inquisitive, like she was used to finding answers where others didn’t bother to look.
“Then it still matters,” I said quietly, “because someone cared enough to leave something behind.”
Her gaze dropped back to the ribbon, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around it. “Seems like a fragile thing to put your faith in.”
My heart gave a small, stubborn thrum. I felt my cheeks flush. This woman, whoever she was, had no idea how much time I had put into crafting this. “Not fragile. Intentional.”
My breath caught as the woman’s eyes drifted downward.
Over the line of my skirts, the shape of my legs beneath the fabric, then back up again, as though she were taking inventory.
The heat that flooded my cheeks was instant.
My fingers twitched at my sides, resisting the sudden urge to wipe at my face.
Gods, what was that look? Did I have dirt on my cheek? A smear of dye? Something—
The woman’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she exhaled softly through her nose. “Mm.” She rolled one shoulder in a careless shrug, as if the answer to some question had settled itself in her mind. “Fine.”
Before I could ask what that meant, the woman reached into her belt and pulled free a coin, flipping it once before setting it down against the table with a quiet clink.
“I’ll take it.”
“The ribbon?” I asked, a touch breathless despite myself.
The woman lifted the pale blue strand between her fingers again. “What else would I be buying? You?”
My heart did a sudden, violent flip against my ribs. I stared at her, my mind spinning so fast I forgot how to use my hands, accidentally knocking a small stack of carved tokens off the edge of the table. They clattered loudly.
“Right,” I squeaked, dropping to my knees to scramble after them. “The ribbon. Got it.”
“Seems as good a reason as any to stop along the way.”
I quickly straightened and wrapped the ribbon neatly before placing it into the woman’s hand.
Our fingers brushed, and the contact sent an unexpected jolt up my arm.
If the woman felt it at all, she gave no sign.
Instead, she turned the ribbon over once more, studying it with a quiet intensity that felt at odds with her earlier skepticism.
Then, almost as if to herself, she muttered, “I’ve always trusted my own hands more than any gods’ intervention.”
My jaw tightened. Of course this woman wrapped in leather and confidence and sharp edges would place her faith in something she could control. I pressed my lips together, biting back the response that rose instinctively to my tongue.
The woman tucked the ribbon away. And then she sauntered off like the world would move around her if it needed to. I stood frozen behind my stall, watching as the woman disappeared into the thinning crowd. My gaze dropped to the empty space where the ribbon had been.
For reasons I couldn’t quite name, that one sale felt different.