"What the hell is that racket?" I demand as I enter the forge, shrugging off my jacket to hang it by the door.

"Ren's on fire again."

"Will someone put the idiot out?"

I slip the large leather apron over my head, cracking my neck from side to side as my fingers tie the cord behind my back. Muffled yelps meet my ears as I holster my tool belt around my hips. By the time I step into the forge fully, a smoldering Ren is sitting on his ass on the floor, one of the leather blankets we keep for such an accident draped over his torso.

"Morning," he says.

"That's twice this week."

"No, once this week. Twice last week."

"You're starting to become a liability. Guefrien's bakery down the road is hiring."

"Nah, you'd miss me too much." Ren stands, brushing off the soot and burnt ashes of his tunic. "Besides, I think I'm starting to get the hang of this smithing business."

There's a fake cough from somewhere behind me, and Ren scowls over my shoulder.

"Why don't you go work in the shop today?" I suggest.

"My dear Nora. These hands are meant for making and wielding swords. Not exchanging coin over a counter."

"Lydia's working."

His eyes brighten. "You mean Yvon?"

Ugh. "Yes."

He chews the inside of his cheek, clearly torn, then shakes his head. "You need me."

I sigh and hear several of my assistants do the same. "Get back to the bellows then, and mind the sparks. We wear the aprons and gloves around here for a reason."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's a busy, boiling day in the forge. I welcome the flash of heat and the sweat that instantly gathers at the small of my back. The autumn weather outdoors is cold and grasping, but here the flames and molten metal keep it at bay.

We have an order of two hundred steel short swords for the military base just outside of Corvall, Fort Darth, due next week. Lieutenant Hathor came by for an inspection and update several days ago, and she had been pleased to find that we are ahead of schedule by a considerable margin.

Military orders always take priority. They have ever since this forge and shop became mine. We have clientele throughout town as well as across the southern sphere of the country, and while my smithy's renown has expanded, we are still primarily a military endorsed business.

The soldiers deserve our support. They deserve the highest quality of weapons and armor while they serve and protect us from enemies both without and within our country.

I throw myself into the work.

My muscles burn with the strain of it, as if the molten metal I'm breaking down and reforging is coursing through my body as well.

Today there's a name echoing with every strike of steel on steel. There are faces in the flames, images that catch my gaze and sear into my retinas before I can look away. There's a gnawing, persistent sensation in my gut, refusing to let me be.

Gritting my teeth, I grip the pommel of a sword with one hand, my hammer with the other. I bring the tool down on the middle of the blade, bright orange with heat, and sparks scatter off the anvil to the dirt ground below. I flip the sword deftly in my hands, turning it to the other side, and slam down the hammer again and again, not breaking my rhythm.

Turn. Strike. Turn. Strike. Turn. Strike.

Amari.

I jerk my hand back as I almost bring the hammer down upon my thumb. Cursing silently, I take the sword to the forge, reheating the body of the blade which began to cool to a purplish silver.

I bend the steel to my will, beat it into submission.

Then drown in unwanted memories that were supposed to remain out in the cold.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhh."

"Aaren."

"Shhh."

I roll my eyes, unable to stop my lips from quirking up.

Aaren's ear is pressed firmly against my flat stomach, his breath warm against my skin as his large, dark hand holds my pale hip. I watch as his head rises and falls with my own breathing and savor the feeling of his weight upon mine.

My fingers dance across his scalp, then pinch the nape of his neck.

He slowly lifts his head from my belly, chin grazing just above my navel as he meets my eyes. "You are interrupting," he says.

"Oh? And just what am I interrupting?"

"Winifred was telling me a story."

My brow lifts. "Winifred."

"After your grandmother," my husband says and kisses my stomach, sending warmth coursing through me.

"We don't even know if we are having a girl."

"Oh, I know. She told me."

I shake my head, smiling and sighing as his broad hand traces shapes across my bare skin. He's always so warm, so heated as if he was the one coming home from the forge instead of me. "We still need a boy name. Just in case."

"If it will make you feel better," he concedes. "I already know it's going to be little Winifred Lynn Carver."

"Mrs. Silva says that the signs are pointing to a son."

"Those are old wives tales. Literally from an old wife." Aaren frowns. "Widow? Wait, has Mrs. Silva ever been married?"

I shrug, brushing my hand along his strong shoulder. "I've never asked. But she says my nausea and lack of appetite mean it's a boy."

Aaren begins kissing along my ribs, his lips full and soft and oh so warm. Between kisses he says, "Everybody gets nauseous."

My breath catches when his mouth moves lower, just above my left hip. "You're an expert on pregnancy now?"

"Mmhmm."

The vibrations of his voice against my skin send pleasurable tingles shooting up and down my spine and legs, making my toes curl. "What if I don't want to name her Winifred?"

"So you concede it's a girl."

"I didn't say that."

Aaren stops kissing me just before he gets to where I want him most and looks up through his dark lashes. "You don't like it?"

I do like it. The sound of that sweet little name on his lips makes my heart swell in my chest. But I have a habit of being difficult just for the sake of it. So I shrug, giving him my signature smirk.

His brows lower. "Maybe I just have to persuade you."

"I'm not easily persuaded."

"You are for me," Aaren says, voice soft and full of promise, and heat pulses through my body like fire, burning and burning and--

"Nora?"

I'm still staring into the heart of the forge, all smoldering red embers and lashing orange tendrils of flame. It sears my face, and the blade in my hand feels too warm, even through my thick gloves.

"What?"

"The . . . the blade?" Ren says, a cautious note to his voice that I never hear. It snaps me out of my trance, and I glance down to see the overheated sword, the blade almost entirely orange white and losing its shape.

I remove it from the forge to give it time to cool. When I meet Ren's gaze, I see the worry there, a worry that is reflected in my other assistants, steadily working and refusing to meet my eyes.

"You alright?" Ren asks.

"What do I always say?"

"What a question. Erm . . . don't break pace with the bellows? Hands off the hired help? You'll skin me alive if I so much as touch one of the swords?"

"I'm fine."

"Ah. That one. Yes. Very believable."

"Ren?"

"Hmm?"

"Get your ass back to the bellows."

Ren scuttles away, giving me a reassuring smile as he goes, and I toss the ruined blade into a pile of scrap metal needing to be melted down and reforged. It's a good thing we're ahead of schedule.

At fourth bell, my workers begin the process of shutting down the forge. The shop will remain open for two more hours, but closing up the smithy is a lengthy process. This time, instead of lingering even past when the shop closes, I leave my assistants to take care of it all, murmuring that I will see them in the morning.

I take a moment to clean up a bit in the washroom, splashing water on my face, hands and arms to remove some of the sweat and soot before I shrug on my jacket and head out into the late autumn afternoon.

My feet don't carry me home. Instead, I head straight for the Wounded Thorn tavern and inn.

It's quiet, being so early. The only people seated in the tavern are an elderly couple enjoying a stew and bread dinner, and one of the regulars, a middle aged man named Tomas who is rarely sober.

The barkeep, a handsome man with striking eyes, looks up as I enter and tap my boots on the doorstep.

"Afternoon." He gives me a nod, then glances over his shoulder at a parchment pinned to a shelf of hard liquor. "You're not scheduled for today, you know."

"I'm not here for a shift, Ben," I tell him, settling myself on one of the barstools.

"Ah." He reaches for a wine glass, setting it before me with a gentle clink as he uncorks a bottle from beneath the counter and begins to pour.

"Thank you."

"How's the forge?"

"Hot."

"I'm obligated to tell you that your neighbor was in here this morning."

I set down my wine glass, the bitter, earthy taste settling on my tongue. "Mrs. Silva? I wasn't aware she ever left her porch."

Ben nods. "She informed me that if you showed up to work here, I was to turn you away and send you straight to her."

"Nosy old broad," I mutter, taking another sip of wine as I roll my eyes. "And if I was here to work tonight? Whose side would you be on, Ben?"

"The old woman's of course. I know better than to cross her. You're on your own, Carver."

"Nice to know you have my back."

Ben winks at me, setting the bottle on the counter beside my glass.

"Just the one glass tonight."

"Can I tempt you with dinner, then? Mercy's venison stew is extra hearty in this cold weather."

There's bustling behind me, and I don't have to look over my shoulder to know the gaggle of females that just entered the tavern. Stifling a heated surge of irritation, I sip my wine and tell Ben, "No, thank you."

"Hey, handsome," says a voice to my right, and I glance over. The woman's curly red hair is piled into a fashionable knot atop her head, accenting the dainty features of her freckled face. She smiles fully at Ben, adjusting her skirts. "A couple bottles for the table, if you don't mind?"

"Of course."

She glances suddenly at me, as if only realizing I'm there. Brown eyes widen with deliberate surprise, and she places a slender hand on my forearm as she declares, "Nora! How are you, dear?"

"Just fine, Chastity, thank you."

"Not working this evening?"

I shift slightly on the barstool, wishing she'd remove her hand. "Not tonight."

"You should join us," Chastity offers, a shade too sweetly as she gestures to the group of women now cloistered at one of the larger tables the tavern possesses. Perfectly coiffed hair, tailored, modest clothing, and not a speck of soot or sweat to be found on any of them. They bend together in the pretense of hushed voices, but they don't seem to be aware that none of them are even slightly near whispering. "It's ladies night."

As if it wasn't "ladies night" twice a week. As if I didn't wait their tables and serve them bottle after bottle of wine while they gossiped mercilessly about everyone and everything that happened in Corvall.

"Oh, that's kind of you," I say. "But I'm fine here. Just talking shop with Ben before I head home."

"Are you sure?" Chastity nibbles her lip, brows creased with disappointment.

"Yes. Enjoy your night."

Chastity gives my forearm a squeeze and offers me a sympathetic look before taking the bottles Ben offers her back to the table, the bartender following close behind with a tray of glasses.

When Ben returns, we exchange a knowing glance.

Behind me, I hear the boisterous Mrs. Coulter stage whisper, "That's nothing Romilda, dear."

"Nothing?" demands Romilda, outraged. "He was sleeping with their nanny!"

I roll my eyes.

"Don't tell me you didn't hear about what happened up near the Trinities the other night," says Mrs. Coulter.

The others titter, the sounds of wine glugging from bottle necks overlapping their questions before Chastity says, "We haven't. What's going on?"

"There was a raid," Mrs. Coulter gushes, as if it were some scandalous party instead of a military effort to contain cultists tampering with dark forces. My fingers twitch against the stem of my wine glass.

Mrs. Coulter's husband works in the city guard, leaving her privy to knowledge that otherwise wouldn't be spread among the commonfolk.

"A raid?"

"Five witches were killed, can you believe it? They found all manner of the most wretched things."

"What sort of wretched things?"

"Don't be daft, Mallie. You know the nasty business the witches get into. Animal entrails, blood, pagan texts, bones, bodies--"

"Yes, yes, we get it."

"Well that's a good thing, isn't it? The witches were killed and the coven destroyed. I know I'll sleep a lot safer knowing they aren't up in our mountains plotting against our town."

I slide my glass forward. "Just one more, Ben."

He eyes the group, then obliges, dipping the bottle down to fill my glass before he sets it down and heads back to the kitchen.

"That's not even the worst of it," proclaims Mrs. Coulter.

"What could be worse than witches?"

The older woman takes a long, dramatic pause. "They found a child in the camp. A witch's child."

My stomach bottoms out as a chorus of scandalized gasps fills the tavern.

"A child that they dumped at that joke of an orphanage. Can you believe it? I've heard she's a savage little thing that the other children won't even go near."

"And why should they want to go near?" Chastity exclaims. "Raised by witches, why, she's probably a little witchling herself! Lord only knows the kind of horrors she was privy to, how much of the craft she was taught!"

"How could they bring a witch into our town?" asks Mallie.

"She's only a child, isn't she?"

Mrs. Coulter splutters. "A child born into paganism and witchcraft. There's absolutely no chance she hasn't learned all sorts of demonic . . . tricks. Spells. Curses. What if she tries something on one of the other children? On the unsuspecting people who might adopt her?"

"No one's going to want to adopt her," Chastity argues. "Not with where she came from. With what she is."

"Why would they even bring her here?"

"Because she's too young to hang or burn at the stake. They can't sentence a child to death. If she was fifteen, it would be another story, wouldn't it?"

The wine is warm down my throat, the taste suddenly acrid as I set my glass back down on the counter a little harder than necessary.

"And if they put that child in the school system?" Mrs. Coulter continues. "I'm telling you right now if they attempt to put that witchling in class with my darling Greta, I will march straight to the governor's door myself."

A chorus of agreement follows that statement.

"The military might think they are doing the right thing by sparing that child, but mark my words, ladies, that girl will grow up to be what she was born to be. A filthy witch. And I for one, will not have her corrupting or cursing my town."

I'm on my feet, hands curled into fists, and I slam several coins onto the bar with an audible slap that momentarily silences the chittering at my back. "Thanks for the drink, Ben," I say, throat dry.

He nods, eyeing me carefully. "Stay safe out there."

"You too."

I leave before I can hear another batch of poison.

"I can't do it."

"Are you telling me or yourself, dear?"

I sit on the front step of my porch, arms folded across my knees as I stare at the uneven cobblestones of the street.

Mrs. Silva rocks steadily nearby, her deft fingers knitting away at some monstrosity of brown yarn.

"Both of us, I suppose."

The evening air is too cold to be comfortable, but I can't bring myself to go inside. Not yet. If I go in, all I'll see is that empty room upstairs. I'll be swathed in that terrible, lonely silence and have nothing to do but think.

"It sounds to me that you know what you ought to do, but as usual, you're fighting tooth and nail not to have to do it."

I scowl at the street. "It's not that simple, and you know it."

"What's not simple? There's a child in need, and you have the means to help."

My teeth grind against each other. "You've seen more than anyone that I am not okay. I can barely take care of myself and Bear. I drink and I work and I am a mess of a person."

Silence. I look over at her.

The old woman's beady eyes blink back. "What? You expect me to deny any of that?"

"No."

"Because you are a mess."

"Right."

"And you can help that little girl."

I push to my feet. "You are mad."

Mrs. Silva sets aside her knitting. "I've been called worse. And so have you. Yes, you've faced unspeakable tragedy. Yes, you are a mess because of it. And just what do you think that child is? You think she hasn't faced unspeakable tragedy? You think she isn't a mess too?"

Knots wind their way through my insides as if Mrs. Silva's knitting needles are now at work in my stomach. "I'm not ready."

"No one's ever ready to be a parent, Eleanor."

I cross my arms, trying to contain the writhing tangles inside as I look away, jaw set.

"Come here, child."

I contemplate flipping her off and going inside, perhaps slamming my door for good measure. Instead, my boots trudge their way out of my enclosed little yard and over into Mrs. Silva's. When I clomp onto her porch, the old woman pats the chair beside her, a chair I hadn't even realized was there.

Unable to meet her eyes, I sit.

"You could wait a month," she concedes, and I eye the folds of her full gray skirts, stitched with black embroidery. A delicate brocade, so fine it would be impossible to see at a distance. "You could wait a year. Two years, even. Maybe you'll get yourself sorted out and healed. You'll quit drinking and working yourself to death and realize there is still a life worth living for."

A soft, wrinkled hand clasps my chin, turning my face toward hers.

"Sometimes God opens a door. It's not the one we expected Him to open, not even the one we wanted Him to open. But it's the door we needed."

Warmth wells in the backs of my eyes.

"There's someone out there as lost and as lonely as you," Mrs. Silva smiles softly, the lines in her face crinkling.

"What . . . what if I wasn't . . . " I swallow hard, trying to drown the words I've stifled for two months. "What if I wasn't meant to be a mother. To have a family. And that's why . . . why--"

Mrs. Silva's grip on my face tightens. "Don't you spew that garbage at me, Eleanor Carver. God didn't place that dream in your heart for no reason. The world took your husband and baby, not Him."

Tears slip free of my lashes to slide down my cheeks, and the old woman places both palms on the side of my face, her expression too motherly, too understanding.

"I'm not going to tell you what to do, Eleanor. I'm only going to tell you to follow your heart, but I think we both know where it will lead you."

I nod stiffly in her grasp, working to cut off the tears before my face starts twisting and my lip starts quivering. I've always been an ugly crier. Whenever I cried around Jae or Aaren, I covered my face with my hands so no one would have to see.

Jae was the first person to pull my hands away.

That thought has my throat tightening, so I draw back from Mrs. Silva's touch and swipe at my tears, heaving a sigh as I work to collect myself.

"Now, go home, eat some dinner, and get a good night's sleep. Things will be clearer in the morning." She pats my knee.

"What did you leave for me today?"

Mrs. Silva looks affronted. "Nothing. What, am I your house cook now as well as your neighbor?"

I shake my head as I leave her porch. "Goodnight, Mrs. Silva."

"Goodnight, dear."

Bear is waiting for me inside. And so is a plate of roasted vegetables and chicken, covered with a cloth.