Chapter 3

“Here it comes! The food!” Legan shouted.

Teams of servants carried long tables out into the crowd. Each table was laden with bread, cheese, and two types of meat. They pushed through the people, setting the tables down and then retreating. Tentative stillness hung over the crowd for a moment, no one willing to be the first to pounce.

No one, save her father. Markum grabbed his wife by the hand and walked right up to the closest table. He riffled through a basket of bread, pulled out the biggest loaf, and ripped it in half down the middle, handing one half to Dreya. He started loading his bread up with food.

Other people stepped towards the tables, and soon there was a crush around each. They retreated to spots on the hard-packed dirt of the Palace grounds, sitting in family clusters.

Dreya and Markum sat with their backs against the wall, Legan seated cross-legged before them, chattering non-stop despite his mouthful of food. Aketa waited for the furor around the tables to die down, which took long enough that her stomach was rumbling and her mouth watering from the ubiquitous scent of roasted meat.

Pulling her scarf forward so it cast a deep shadow over her face, Aketa tucked the ends firmly into the bodice of her dress, covering flesh that would otherwise be exposed.

There was no bread left, and only the lean cuts of meat, all the fat and gristle having been snatched up. But there were bowls of boiled potatoes and some cheese rind left, so she piled what she could into the rind.

She would not be welcome with her family, but they were the only people she knew in this sea of humanity. Aketa took a seat on a slightly muddy bit of ground not far from them, the only place she could find. She grimaced as mud soaked into her skirt, but soon forgot the discomfort with the ease of long practice. Munching contently on small bits of meat she ripped up with her fingers, Aketa let her mind wander. She thought about the fields, wondered how much longer it would take for the grain to fully ripen. It had already been threshed by this time last year, and she puzzled on the why of that, comparing this year with last in her mind, looking for the thing which set them apart.

Sheltered in her thoughts Aketa felt no loneliness, no pain. She was as at home here, amid the mass of people, as she was alone in the fields. It was a lonely home, without walls or hearth, but it was a home of her own.

She finished her meat and began breaking chunks off the potatoes, popping the pieces in her mouth and licking her fingers. Her idle gaze was moving over the crowd, looking without seeing, until he walked towards her.

He towered above the others, surely a least a head taller than herself. Draped in rough cloak that did nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders, he walked with calm steps. He was big and strong, with a handsome face and blue, blue eyes.

Drawn to him, Aketa made to rise. As she pushed herself up her foot slipped in the mud. She fell hard to one knee and hand, the scarf falling from her head to cowl around her neck.

Warm hands cupped her waist. “Are you hurt?”

His voice was a low rumble, thick and rich as loamy earth.

No, I am fine. My name is Aketa, I live in the Southern Foothills. What is your name? You are very tall, and strong. Are you a farmer too?

Aketa shook her head.

“Let me help you stand.” The hands at her waist tightened, and then she was standing. He’d lifted her easily, setting her on her feet. Aketa quickly ducked her head in a deep bow, turning it to the side so her face was hidden. His hands fell away from her waist.

No, don’t let go. Would you like to sit with me?

“Are you hurt?” he asked again.

Aketa shook her head.

“Ah, well,” he stepped away.

Don’t go.

“Oh wait, your hand,” he said.

Aketa looked down to see that her hand was dripping with mud.

He lifted her dirty hand and began cleaning it with the corner of his cloak. “There is wash water, if you want it. Go to the kitchens and they will get you water and a cloth to clean with.”

Thank you.

Aketa looked down at his big hand cradling hers. His was dark from the sun, much as hers was, and there were calluses on his fingertips to match hers. Surely he was a farmer, same as she.

When her hand was freed of the worst of the mud he let her go, and her hand fell to her side like a weight.

“Are you certain you are not hurt?” he asked.

No, I am fine, but I would not refuse your company.

Aketa nodded.

“Would you like me to escort you to your family?”

For a brief moment Aketa considered letting him. Perhaps the escort of this man would, if only for a moment, make her worth something in her father’s eyes. But she’d known the company of a boy before, and it had ended with her the fool.

She shook her head. Silence stretched between them.

“Er,” the discomfort was clear in his voice.

Aketa finger’s trembled with anxiety. Why didn’t she just say something, anything?

“I bid you good night.”

Aketa stared at the hem of his mud-stained cloak as he turned away.

Wait, come back, I’m sorry! I did not mean to cause you discomfort, or to pain you, but there is no one to talk to and I forgot the way. Plus you are a man, and handsome, and that makes you dangerous, so dangerous. Do not think me overbold, but when I lie in the fields and gaze at the stars and imagine what it is to not be alone I imagine a man tall and fine of face, with strong arms, holding me. I imagine a man like you and how I wish, oh how I wish, I had the courage to say it.

The words tumbled and rolled in her mind, a mess of emotion more than clear thoughts. But still she said nothing.

Aketa looked up, prepared to see the back of his head as he walked away.

Instead she looked into a pair of sky blue eyes. He looked at her, looked into her eyes, and was the first person to do so in years.

She turned, heart beating so fast she could hear the rush of blood in her ears. She fumbled with her scarf, pulling it into place with shaking fingers, as she skittered away, terrified of what he might have seen.

Aketa wound between the seated people, breath growing harsh as tears knotted deep in her chest. She did not cry, but the tears were there, pressing against her throat and burning her lungs.

When she reached the outbuildings of the Palace, she followed her nose to the kitchen. Holding out her dirty hand in explanation, Aketa waited near the door as a kitchen maid fetched her a wet cloth.

She was foolish. Bitter experience should have taught her to keep all people away. Somehow she had not learned, had not been hurt enough by her past, to completely murder the longing for a man’s arms around her. She’d known that once. Known what it was to smell a man’s skin, to feel his arms around her, strong and sure, holding her close. Known what it was to anticipate each day, look forward to a future.

She’d known love, but it had been an illusion.

Hating herself for being so weak as to continue to desire something she would never have, Aketa cleaned off her hand and swiped at her skirt. Luckily the already drying mud barely showed against the fabric, which itself had once been a wooly-white, but was now brown with use.

After handing the cloth back with a nod of thanks, she made her way to her family. She’d held no great desire to attend this feast, having barely thought on the summons once they’d heard the crier’s words, but now her ambiguity was gone. She wanted to leave. She did not want to be in this place anymore, knowing there was blue-eyed man here who sparked her desire.