Mornings in the cottage started slowly, a breath held.
Elias was the first to get up every time. He'd split wood before the sun rose above the treetops, shirt sleeves rolled high on his forearms, the beat of the axe a perfect match for his heartbeat. Sometimes he'd look over at the window where Charlotte was still sleeping and stop, as if seeing her was more essential than heat.
Charlotte (or Lina, as the village had come to call her) would awaken with sunlight in her hair and a sharp wit for Elias's early-morning industriousness.
"Attempting to impress the birds once more?" she groused one morning, her voice husky with sleep.
Elias didn't answer. He simply smiled—and brought her tea just as she preferred.
Finn would bumble in next, yawning and half-dressed, curls in tangled chaos. He never knocked, never hesitated, never feigned to be anything except family. The connection between Finn and Charlotte was a thousand silent things: the manner she always left him the better piece of bread, the manner he always sat between her and the door.
He was trouble and curiosity, like Eladin had been. And occasionally Charlotte had to shut her eyes, just to get through the pain.
Bria—Mira—woke last, unless the dreams had been unkind. Her blind eyes had steadied further, but the memories came in shards: bits of words she shouldn't speak, dances she'd never danced, feelings that weren't hers this time.
"I recall the fields of lavender," she breathed once to Finn. "And sword drills in the east wing."
"Was I there?" he inquired.
She cocked her head, like she was listening to something distant. "You always sought to outrun Elias."
"Ah. So most certainly me."
And they laughed. It was light and lovely and strewn with shadows they didn't define.
They went to the orchard one afternoon. Charlotte had on a silly bonnet she claimed was fashionable, and Elias couldn't help but grin at her attitude.
They harvested apples, fought over the ripest ones, and Finn, with his flair for mayhem, suggested an archery competition—with Elias as target (apparently holding the apple).
"I have faith in your accuracy," Elias said, securing the apple to his head.
"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said," Charlotte replied.
She missed on purpose, of course—hitting the tree behind him and making a very smug point.
Later, beneath the trees, Charlotte lay in the grass while Elias sketched her with a piece of charcoal he claimed was useless. His hands shook only a little. She pretended not to notice.
Bria strayed off toward the border of the orchard. Finn trailed after, watchful as ever. "You good?"
"I remember how she died," Bria whispered.
Finn remained silent. He simply took her hand.
"She chose love," she went on. "Even when it cost everything."
Finn squeezed her hand. "Sounds familiar."