Chapter 12

A few days later, Trixie and I are out in the pasture, busy shearing the sheep. The bleating of the animals rises around us, mingling with the soft hush of wind sweeping across the meadow.

It's an exciting feeling doing this hectic task. Even the other girls laugh at me. Like they're doing right now. They're snickering and pointing at me. My face burns with humiliation. But seeing Trixie by my side all unperturbed by them, I'm bold. I focus on doing the task. Shearing the bleating wool. The sun warm.

We’ve promised wool to the market traders—and I must keep aside the finest bundles for the castle. King Liam’s court won’t wait on our leisure. They're expecting our wool in a few days. My thoughts go to that stranger. I want to see him again.

The work, relentless, we push through.

“How are you girls coping?” Mother calls, her voice light. Amused.

I glance back at her, feigning horror. “Mother! Are you laughing at our suffering?” I say, grinning.

Trixie chuckles beside me as she deftly ties another sheep to the post. “You could at least pretend to be sympathetic,” she teases.

Mother steps closer, her eyes gleaming with mischief—and something else, something quieter. “When I was your age, I hadn’t the faintest idea where wool came from. I only wore it.”

Her voice carries a wistful note that halts my laughter. I blink at her, surprised. She's never spoken of her youth like this.

“Necessity forced my hands to learn the shearing,” she adds softly, her gaze slipping far into some unseen distance.

The regret in her tone draws a quiet tension between us. Without another word, she steps beside me and gently takes the shears from my hand. Her movements are practiced, swift, smooth, deliberate, as she finishes the sheep Trixie and I had prepared.

I watch her work, unsettled. There’s so much about my mother I don’t know—fragments of her past that she’s kept locked away. Sometimes, in her dreams, I hear her whisper the name Edmund. But my father's name is Hosea. That’s what she’s always told me.

Who was Edmund?

Late in the morning, we finally finish the shearing. The fleeces bagged and bundled, ready for the market. Trixie and I work in silence as we load them. For me, it’s my mother’s cryptic words that keep me quiet. For Trixie… I’m not sure. Her silences are always layered.

“You’re troubled by your mother’s secrets,” she says suddenly.

I glance at her, startled. How did she know?

Trixie unnerves me sometimes. I’ve caught her whispering to animals. I’ve seen birds alight on her shoulder as if summoned. She thinks I don’t notice when she uses magic.

I look away. “I’m not troubled,” I snap, more sharply than I mean to. “Why would I be?”

“Because you wonder what kind of life she led before you. One you’ve never been allowed to know.” Her voice is calm, but her eyes pierce through me like flint.

“Did she?” I whisper.

Trixie steps forward and studies me, her gaze softer now. “Her past is no crime against you. If anything, it’s a key. A truth you’ve long been denied.”

A chill breeze sweeps across the fields. I draw my cloak tighter. The salty scent of the sea rides the air, distant but familiar.

“What do you mean, denied?” I ask, wary now. Her words stir up waves of confusion.

“You’ll understand, in time,” she says, evasive as ever. “For now, a certain trader is seeking to purchase the wool. If the trade is good, you’ll be able to acquire better stock for the king.”

I frown. “A certain trader?” I repeat, but she’s already walking away.

Trixie. Always cloaked in riddles.

And I still wonder—what twist of fate led me to find her, alone in the woods that night?

***

The Next Day

We set off early for the wool market. The village square is already bustling. Traders from distant lands have arrived, carts laden, coins clinking, voices rising in haggling song. Today is one of Meadowland’s biggest trade days. Our wool is prized, especially now. We’ve been spared the troll incursions plaguing the southern hills and the black fog of death swallowing Elywoods because of the Queen.

“Did you hear?” a trader murmurs nearby, leaning toward a farmer as he inspects a fleece. “The rebel leader of Elywoods was executed by the Queen three nights ago. Publicly. Said he dared to oppose her rule.”

“Madness,” the farmer mutters. “They say she’s called again for virgin girls. As if she means to drain the kingdom dry.”

Their voices are low, but the tension between them is unmistakable. All around, whispers ripple like wind through the trees—tales of Elywoods, now swallowed by darkness. The Queen has cast the King aside, they say. She rules alone now. No daylight crosses that realm anymore.

Trixie and I exchange a glance. Her expression darkens. There’s something in her face—grief, perhaps, or guilt. I can’t tell. It slips away too fast.

“How much for your wool?” a voice cuts into my thoughts.

A tall man stands before our stall. His robes are fine, his fur-trimmed mantle fastened with silver clasps. A jeweled turban sits upon his head. A man from the Eastern kingdoms, perhaps.

“A silver coin per bag,” I reply, lifting my chin. I have seven bags. If I sell them all, I can buy more sheep, and still have coin left to give Mother.

The man studies me for a moment, unreadable. Then, to my astonishment, he says, “I’ll take them all.”

“All?” I echo, blinking.

He gestures to the man behind him, a silent figure with sharp eyes, heavy pouch. The second man steps forward, counts out seven silver coins into my palm, and nods once.

Just like that, the deal is done.

I stand in stunned silence, the weight of the silver in my hand. With this, I can stock enough wool for the king and secure our household for weeks. And Trixie… Trixie knew this would happen.

'A certain trader wishes to buy all this wool.'

Who is she? How does she know these things? I glance at her, but she’s already turning away, a faint smile on her lips.