21. Claire
Claire
For as far as my eyes could see, there were goats. Not a reasonable number of goats. Not a polite, farmyard handful. No, there was an overwhelming, alarming abundance of goats.
Goats of every shape and size crowded the streets; there were sleek ones with glossy coats, squat ones with stubborn little legs, towering ones with horns that curved. Some wore ribbons. Others wore tiny flower crowns.
I had grown up in a farming village, yet I had never seen anything like this.
Savoring the blueberry hand pie I’d snagged from the first vendor, I paused mid-step, captivated by the subtle sweetness. Staining my fingers, the juice left a sticky trail I hardly noticed. I wandered deeper into the fray, turning in a slow circle to fully inhabit the scene.
A shaggy-haired goat drifted into my space. As I crouched and reached out to pat its head, I caught sight of its comically crossed eyes. It held my gaze, blinked a single time, and bleated. A laugh escaped me before I could hold it back.
“Oh, you are delightful,” I murmured, scratching just behind its ear.
Goats were vastly underrated creatures.
Behind me, I felt Ash’s presence like a shadow that refused to leave. When I glanced back, she stood exactly as expected: hands shoved into her pockets, shoulders tense, eyes scanning the crowd like any one of these goats might suddenly reveal itself to be a threat.
Which felt a bit dramatic.
Though, considering Caspian’s fate, vigilance wasn't the worst idea.
He had dared a local blacksmith to a goat-cheese eating duel an hour ago.
The blacksmith had walked away victorious, and Caspian was currently draped over a hay bale behind the tavern, pale as a ghost and swearing a solemn vow to never look at cheese again.
“They’re goats,” I emphasized, as one trotted past wearing what looked suspiciously like a golden sash.
“I’ve seen creatures less harmless,” Ash muttered.
“They’re wearing flowers.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Turning away before I could argue further, I let the parade pull me back in.
Families lined the streets, laughing and cheering as floats rolled past. Proud owners pushed wooden platforms through the crowd, their goats standing on top like royalty.
One goat was draped in green vines; another had tiny painted stars scattered across its forehead.
And then—
“Oh!”
I stepped closer, almost forgetting my pie as an elaborate float passed. The goat on top was dressed as a fairy, its soft wings fluttering in the breeze. A delicate flower crown sat between its horns. It stood there, regal and entirely unaware of how ridiculous and perfect it looked.
“This is incredible,” I breathed. I clapped once, unable to help myself. Somewhere behind me, Ash made a noise that might have been a sigh.
Or perhaps a prayer.
I didn’t care. I let myself enjoy the sheer, unapologetic joy of it all.
But it didn’t last, because no matter how many goats paraded past or how sweetly the air smelled of baked goods and trampled grass, the irritation lingered.
It curled low in my chest, refusing to be distracted.
Ash had noticed my silence earlier. But when she asked about it, she hadn’t understood.
And that more than anything made it worse.
How could she not see it?
How could she look at me, travel beside me, speak to me and still think of me as nothing more than a task to complete? A thing to escort and hand off neatly at a duke’s doorstep?
I tightened my grip around what remained of my hand pie, my appetite suddenly fading. I wasn’t a parcel to be delivered.
The truth was, I didn’t know what I was to her.
And that was the problem. Because in the short time I had known Ash, she remained frustratingly unreadable.
I knew nothing about her—not where she came from, not what shaped her, not what kind of life led someone to become all sharp edges and guarded silences.
Even now, surrounded by laughter and music and goats dressed as magical creatures, she stood apart from it.
It only made me want to know her more deeply, especially the guarded parts she tried to hide.
I glanced back at her again, watching the way her gaze tracked the crowd, alert and distant all at once. And I realized, with a quiet sort of frustration I didn’t exactly know how to reach her.
The shaggy-haired goat bleated beside me, snapping me from the thought. It was still slightly cross-eyed and still staring at me like it had a very important announcement.
“You’re easier to understand,” I muttered.
The goat bleated again.
“I’m going to go get a glass of lemonade,” Ash decided, already reaching for her coin purse. “And with any luck, I’m hoping they can spike it with something.”
“Can you grab one for me as well?” I asked, brushing a bit of sugar from my fingers.
Ash hesitated. Her gaze flicked from me to the crowd, then to the slow-moving line of decorated goats drifting closer.
“Sure,” she said at last. “Just… be careful.”
“Oh, like the goats are going to stage a revolt and attack us all?” The words slipped out harsher than I intended, edged with frustration I hadn’t quite managed to swallow down. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“I’d be careful with that tone if I were you,” Ash shot back, her voice dropping an octave. “Do not test me today.”
“Oh, I’m petrified. Lighten up. Your brooding face is scaring the livestock.”
Right on cue, a profoundly chubby goat materialized from the crowd behind Ash. Entirely unbothered by her killer glare, it leaned its full weight against her ankle, chewing a mouthful of straw with a wet, obnoxious crunch.
Ash jumped a foot in the air. She cursed under her breath, stumbling sideways as she tried to shake her leg free.
The goat just blinked up at her, jaw working in rhythmic, smug circles.
“Though,” I added—glancing back at the shaggy-haired goat near me, narrowing my eyes—“that one is watching us a little too closely. If there is a rebellion, I’d bet everything it starts with him.”
But I couldn’t hide the bitterness and irritation in my voice as my gaze settled back on Ash because there it was again—that reminder that I was something to be kept intact until I could be neatly delivered where I belonged. Not a person. Just a means to an end.
I saw the faint flare of Ash’s nostrils, the way her jaw tightened like she might say something.
But she simply turned and stormed toward the lemonade vendor.
I watched the way she moved through the crowd with ease, slipping between people without ever losing that keen awareness of everything around her.
Even here among flowers and laughter and goats dressed as fairies, she carried that same guarded edge, like the world might erupt into danger at any moment.
And then she was swallowed by the crowd.
The space beside me felt different. I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of how loud everything else seemed in her absence—the music, the chatter, the occasional triumphant bleat of a particularly proud goat. It should have felt lighter without her hovering presence.
It didn’t.
I frowned, looking down at my now-empty hands.
It felt hollow, which made no sense. I brushed the thought away as quickly as it came.
It wasn’t as if I needed her there. I was perfectly capable of standing on my own, of enjoying myself without someone looming at my shoulder reminding me to be careful every other breath.
Still…
My gaze drifted back toward where she had disappeared. I told myself it was a habit. Just making sure she hadn’t gotten into trouble, perhaps. I focused, instead, on the parade as another float rolled past—this one with a goat adorned in ribbons and tiny bells chiming with every step.
People laughed.
Children clapped.
Someone nearby cheered as the goat gave a particularly enthusiastic bleat.
I tried to feel that same lightness I had before.
But something in me kept tugging backward, toward the space Ash had left.
I pressed my lips together, folding my arms as I shifted where I stood.
She was just getting lemonade. That was all.
And yet I found myself glancing over my shoulder again, just to see if she was coming back.
I very deliberately wandered toward a row of wooden benches set just off the main path, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use. One sat half in the sun, half in the shade of a crooked tree. I claimed it without much thought, smoothing my skirts before sitting down.
There. Perfectly fine. Entirely unbothered. I took another bite of my hand pie, now cooler but still sweet, the blueberries bursting against my tongue. I focused on the simple pleasure of it rather than the quiet pull in my chest that kept insisting I glance back toward the lemonade stand.
A goat trotted past with bells tied loosely around its neck, the chiming oddly soothing as it moved along. A child ran after it, laughing, while a woman called after them both in exasperation.
“If you stare any harder, that goat might think you’re judging it,” a voice drawled nearby, amused.
A woman stood just beside the bench, one hip cocked slightly, a knowing sort of smile playing at her lips. She had dark hair pulled back in a loose tie, a few strands escaping to frame her lovely face and light blue eyes.
“I would never.” I brushed a crumb from my fingers. “I respect its dedication to the craft.”
She gestured to the space beside me. “Mind if I sit?”
I hesitated only a moment before shifting to give her room. “No, go ahead.”
She sat. “So,”—she glanced at the remnants of my pie—“first time at the Goat Parade?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Just a bit,” she teased. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Like everything here is both deeply confusing and entirely magical at the same time.”
I laughed quietly. “That does seem accurate.”
Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer than necessary. “You’re not from around here,” she added.
“No,” I admitted. “Just passing through.”
“A shame.”
Her light but intentional tone made heat creep faintly up my neck.
“A shame?” I echoed.