Chapter 20 Small Choices #2
Stone buildings rose above narrow lanes winding toward the harbor, colorful banners shifted in the sea wind, and shop signs hung above doorways. Foreign languages drifted through the crowds and blended with familiar speech until Eira could no longer distinguish where one ended and another began.
At one intersection, two merchants appeared to be engaged in a heated argument.
Leander slowed his horse.
One of them immediately pointed toward him.
“Tell him he’s wrong.”
Leander looked between them.
“No.”
The merchant blinked.
“What do you mean no?”
“I haven’t heard the argument.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I absolutely do.”
The second merchant folded his arms.
“See? I told you.”
The first groaned dramatically.
Eira expected Leander to continue riding, but instead he listened carefully to both sides of the dispute for nearly a minute.
By the end of it, both merchants looked dissatisfied.
“Congratulations,” Leander said. “You’ve both managed to be wrong.”
The first merchant immediately protested while the second looked deeply offended, but Leander rode away before either could continue.
Eira watched them for a moment before turning back to him.
“They argue with you.”
“Frequently.”
“And you allow it.”
“They’re citizens, not furniture.”
The answer was delivered so casually that she almost missed its meaning.
For several moments she said nothing while the city continued around them and the wind carried the scent of salt and smoke through the streets.
Eventually the crowds began to thin, and the road climbed slightly above the harbor.
Stone walls appeared ahead, though they were not defensive walls but garden walls enclosing a sprawling estate that overlooked the sea.
Dark stone, tall windows, and terraced gardens descended toward the cliffs in graceful layers.
The estate looked elegant without appearing fragile and wealthy without appearing wasteful.
It resembled less a noble residence than a place built by generations of people who expected it to remain standing for centuries.
Leander followed the road through the gates.
The household staff bowed respectfully as they entered, though not deeply or fearfully, and the distinction was becoming increasingly difficult for Eira to ignore.
She lifted her eyes toward the house, toward the countless windows overlooking the sea and the unfamiliar life waiting behind them.
For the first time since leaving her sister’s home, she felt something she had not expected. It was neither fear nor uncertainty, but simple curiosity.
The moment they stepped inside, Eira understood that the house had not been built for display.
It had been built for work.
The entrance hall was spacious, but not grand in the way Frostvein’s estates had always tried to be grand. There was no marble polished for admiration, and no portraits commissioned purely to remind visitors of wealth.
Instead, the space felt lived in, with maps occupying entire walls and shelves holding ledgers, navigation charts, and rolled parchments secured with ribbons of different colors.
Several men crossed the hall carrying stacks of documents, while another emerged from a side room already arguing with someone behind him.
The argument continued as both disappeared down a corridor, and no one seemed particularly alarmed by it.
Eira watched them go.
“This is your home?”
Leander handed his gloves to a waiting servant.
“Most days.”
The answer explained very little.
Before she could ask what he meant, a woman appeared from a nearby doorway.
She was perhaps sixty years old, with silver hair gathered into a severe knot and an expression suggesting she had spent decades correcting other people's mistakes.
The moment she saw Leander, she frowned.
“You’re late.”
Leander sighed.
“I know.”
“You were expected yesterday.”
“I know.”
“The cook threatened to throw away dinner.”
“I doubt that.”
“So do I, but she was very dramatic about it.”
For a few moments they simply looked at one another.
Then the woman stepped forward and embraced him briefly but firmly, as though he were a nephew returning from a long journey rather than one of the most powerful men in the North.
Eira blinked. The woman released him.
“Good. You’re alive.”
“Disappointing, I know.”
“Deeply.”
The ease of the exchange left Eira briefly uncertain whether she had interpreted it correctly. The woman finally turned toward her, and her expression softened immediately.
“You must be Eira.”
Eira inclined her head.
The woman neither curtsied nor bowed, nor did she appear remotely intimidated. Instead, she smiled with genuine warmth.
“Welcome to Silverwake.”
The greeting felt unexpectedly sincere. The woman glanced back toward Leander.
“I’ve prepared rooms.”
“Thank you.”
“You can thank me by not disappearing for another month.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
The woman nodded.
“At least you’re honest.”
With that, she motioned for Eira to follow.
The house revealed itself gradually as they climbed, through wide corridors, large windows overlooking the harbor, and books everywhere.
These were not decorative collections arranged for appearance, but shelves that looked as though people actually used them.
The scent of salt drifted through open windows, and somewhere below a bell rang from the harbor, its sound echoing across the cliffs.
Eventually they reached a quiet wing overlooking the sea. The woman opened a door.
“These rooms are yours for as long as you remain here.”
Eira stepped inside and stopped. The suite was larger than any guest chamber she had expected.
A sitting room overlooked the water through tall windows, a fireplace burned softly, books lined one wall, and a writing desk stood near the window.
Eira barely noticed any of it. She stopped without meaning to. The woman followed her gaze. A knowing smile touched her lips.
"It surprises most people the first time."
Eira realized she had stepped all the way to the window.
"I can see why."
The woman seemed pleased by the answer.
"Wait until morning."
Eira continued studying the city below.
"It gets better?"
"The city doesn't," the woman replied. "The view does."
The harbor stretched below like a living thing, with ships moving between piers, sails catching the wind, and people hurrying through streets that seemed impossibly far from Frostvein, impossibly far from Ironfang, and impossibly far from the woman she had been only weeks ago.
For the first time since leaving her father’s lands, she no longer felt like a fugitive. And as she stood watching the sea beyond the city, a realization settled quietly within her. She had not arrived at a hiding place. She had arrived somewhere new.
Eira had barely finished unpacking when someone knocked on the door. She turned from the window. For a moment she considered pretending not to hear it. The knock came again, polite, patient, and persistent. With a quiet sigh, she crossed the room.
When she opened the door, she found the housekeeper waiting outside. She was no longer alone.
Behind her stood a young servant carrying several boxes, while beside her waited two women Eira had never seen before. One held a bundle of folded fabrics, and the other carried a leather case large enough to concern anyone with common sense.
The housekeeper smiled.
“You look alarmed.”
“I am alarmed.”
“Excellent.”
The older woman stepped forward.
“Then you’re paying attention.”
Before Eira could ask what was happening, the servant entered carrying the boxes, followed by everyone else.
Eira stared.
“What exactly is happening?”
“You’re being rescued.”
The answer came from one of the strangers, a short woman with measuring tape draped around her neck. The second woman nodded solemnly.
“From your wardrobe.”
Eira looked down at herself and then back at them.
“My wardrobe offended you?”
“Horribly.”
The two women exchanged looks, while the housekeeper appeared entirely too amused.
For several moments Eira considered retreating out the window, but unfortunately the sea waited several stories below.
The housekeeper motioned toward a nearby chair.
“Sit.”
The word sounded remarkably familiar, and apparently every woman in the North enjoyed giving orders. Reluctantly, Eira obeyed.
Boxes opened, fabric appeared, and questions followed in an endless stream.
“What colors do you prefer?”
Eira blinked. The woman waited.
“So?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer escaped before she could stop it. The room fell unexpectedly quiet, not awkward but simply surprised. The seamstress tilted her head.
“You don’t know?”
Eira hesitated before shaking her head. The woman looked thoughtful rather than judgmental.
“Interesting.”
That somehow felt worse.
Another length of fabric appeared: deep blue, then green, then charcoal gray, and finally something the color of sea glass.
Eira stared at them. None of them were white. The realization arrived so suddenly she almost laughed.
Her entire life had been shaped by clothes chosen by other people.
First came Frostvein's white silks, white wool, white embroidery, white cloaks, white gowns, and white expectations.
Then came Ironfang's dark practical garments of wool, leather, and fur.
They had been warmer, sturdier, and far more comfortable, but they had not truly belonged to her either.
The seamstress held up a dark blue fabric.
“What about this?”
Eira touched it carefully. The material felt soft beneath her fingertips, different and unfamiliar. She found herself nodding.
A smile immediately appeared.
“There we are.”
The woman sounded absurdly pleased, as though Eira had solved some great mystery.
Questions continued. Do you ride? Yes. Do you prefer fitted sleeves? Sometimes. Would you rather have pockets? Pockets?
The woman stared.
“Everyone wants pockets.”
Eira frowned.
“I’ve never had pockets.”
The room reacted as though she had confessed to surviving on seawater.
“That’s tragic.”
“It isn’t tragic.”
“It absolutely is.”
The argument continued for several minutes, and to Eira’s horror she found herself participating.