Okay. That’s good. That’s progress.

  Other vendors started noticing. Old Roger from two farms over carefully examined a deer. “My boy’s birthday is coming up. This is finer than anything I could whittle.”

  “The legs move.” She demonstrated the articulation. “The springs provide bounce so it mimics actual deer movement.”

  Roger grunted approval. “Clever. Two pounds of smoked fish?”

  Smoked fish would last for months and provide protein they desperately needed.

  “Deal.”

  Word spread the way it did in small communities—whispered conversations, sidelong glances, growing crowds. Within an hour, she had traded eight toys for an impressive collection of goods. Dried fruit, smoked meat, a wheel of cheese, and even a sack of precious flour.

  This is working. It’s actually working.

  She caught herself smiling, genuine pleasure warming her chest. The toys were succeeding not just as trade goods but as objects people wanted. Her work—her and Klaus’s work—mattered.

  A small girl appeared at the table’s edge, maybe six years old with tangled dark hair and too-thin cheeks. She recognized her vaguely. The Larsen family, if memory served. Her father had died in a logging accident and her mother was struggling to manage three children alone.

  The girl stared at the fox with naked longing, her small hands twisting in her threadbare coat.

  “That’s a fox,” she offered. “His tail moves. See?”

  She demonstrated, watching the girl’s eyes go wide with wonder.

  “It’s beautiful,” the girl whispered.

  “Do you want to hold it?”

  The girl’s face crumpled. “Mama says we can’t buy toys. We need the trade goods for food.”

  Her heart clenched. She knew that calculation intimately—the constant weighing of wants versus needs. The way children learned too young that desire came second to survival.

  You need these trade goods, she told herself, but she was already pressing the fox into small, cold fingers.

  “Consider it a gift.”

  “Really?” The girl clutched the fox like it might disappear. “I can keep it?”

  “You can keep it.” Her throat felt tight. “Take good care of him, okay?”

  The girl nodded so hard her whole body shook. Then she was running, the fox held carefully against her chest, shouting for her mother with pure joy.

  Talia watched her go and tried to ignore the practical voice screaming about lost revenue.

  One toy. It’s just one toy.

  But an hour later, a boy appeared at her table. Maybe eight, with serious eyes and clothes patched so many times the original fabric was barely visible.

  “My sister’s birthday is next week.” He spoke carefully, as if he were testing the words before committing. “She’s been sick. The healer says she might not…” He stopped, swallowed hard. “She really likes rabbits.”

  Her chest ached. She looked at the remaining rabbits—three of them, each representing valuable trade goods.

  You can’t afford this. You need food. Supplies.

  But she was already reaching for the pale pink rabbit with the gentlest expression.

  “This one’s special,” she told the boy. “His ears move when you press here. Do you think your sister would like him?”

  The boy’s face transformed, hope blooming on those thin features despite his obvious efforts to contain it.

  “She’d love him. But I don’t have anything to trade. Just—” He pulled out a handful of smooth river stones. “I collected these. They’re good skipping stones. Really flat.”

  “Those are excellent stones.” She took them with appropriate seriousness, setting them on the table. “Fair trade for a rabbit, I’d say.”

  She knew the boy knew she was lying, but the gratitude shining in his eyes, fierce and bright, made it worthwhile.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Really. Thank you.”

  “Tell your sister happy birthday from me.”

  He ran off clutching the rabbit, and she let out a shaky breath.

  Two toys. You just gave away two toys.

  The remaining toys suddenly felt inadequate, less of a buffer against the winter, but she couldn’t prevent a feeling of satisfaction, knowing how much joy she’d brought to those children.

  Klaus will understand, she thought, then immediately questioned whether that was true. He’d called her generous before but he’d said it like he didn’t quite understand the concept. Would he see giving away toys as strength or foolishness?

  Stop thinking about Klaus. Focus on actual trades.

  The next hour passed in steady commerce. The remaining toys sold for good value—more preserves and smoked meat, plus a large basket of vegetables to preserve. The last purchaser even threw in a bag of oats for Nimbus that made her heart squeeze with gratitude.

  By noon, her table was empty and her cart significantly fuller. Success by any reasonable metric.

  She was loading the last of her traded goods when a familiar voice cut through market chatter like a blade through flesh.

  “Well, well. Look who’s playing merchant.”

  Jorund.

  Her shoulders tensed but she forced her face into a neutral expression as she turned to face him.

  “Just doing some trading, same as everyone.”

  “Is that what you call it?” An older male, thin to the point of gauntness, Jorund’s sharp features were twisted into something that approximated a smile but couldn’t hide the contempt beneath it. “Hawking fancy toys while real families struggle to feed themselves.”

  And we’re one of those families. But she couldn’t say that, couldn’t give him the ammunition.

  “The toys traded well,” she said as calmly as she could. “People seemed to like them.”

  “People are fools.” He moved closer, and she fought the urge to step back. “Wasting good resources on children’s playthings. Your sister would be ashamed.”

  Her chest constricted, her breath coming harder, but she refused to flinch.

  “Sarah isn’t here.”

  “No. Because she’s dead.” Jorund’s grey eyes glittered with malice. “She died trying to manage a homestead better suited to real farmers. And now you’re making the same mistakes, playing at skills you don’t have.”

  “I’m managing just fine.”

  “Are you?” He gestured at her cart. “You’re running around with toys and tricks. Acting like you belong here when everyone knows you’re just a city girl.”

  Her hands clenched into fists. She wanted to scream that she’d been managing the homestead for months. That she’d kept Theo fed and safe. That her “tricks” had just earned more in trade goods than she’d managed in weeks. But defending herself to Jorund was pointless. He’d decided she was worthless before she’d even arrived.

  “I need to get home.” She turned back to the wagon. “Theo’s waiting.”

  “That boy is another burden you can’t handle.” Jorund’s voice dropped to something darker. “He should be with a proper family, people who know what they’re doing.”

  Ice flooded her veins. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that child deserves better than some incompetent city woman playing farmer. The village is starting to notice. They’re starting to question whether you’re fit to care for him.”

  “You can’t—” Fear choked the words. “I’m his legal guardian.”

  “Legal.” Jorund spat out the word. “Out here, we care about what’s right. Not what some city paper says.”

  He walked away before she could formulate a response, leaving her shaking with rage and terror combined.

  He’s threatening to take Theo.

  The thought made her stomach heave. Theo, who’d finally started smiling again. Who cared for Nimbus with such gentle dedication. Who asked for bedtime stories and worked alongside Klaus with genuine enthusiasm.

  They can’t take him. I won’t let them.

  But fear whispered ugly truths. Jorund had influence. He’d lived in the village all his life and he had connections to everyone. What did she have? A failing homestead and skills learned in the city.

  And Klaus, part of her insisted. I have Klaus.

  But Klaus was temporary. Klaus would leave. And then what would she have?

  She finished loading the cart with mechanical movements, her hands shaking so hard she could barely grip the handle. The successful trades felt hollow now, meaningless against the threat Jorund represented.

  She guided the cart back through the village, conscious of eyes tracking her progress. Suddenly she saw judgment in every glance and imagined speculation in every whispered conversation.

  City girl. Outsider. Incompetent.

  The labels followed her like ghosts, Sarah’s death lending them a weight she couldn’t shake.

  I’m trying, she wanted to scream. I’m doing my best. But her best wouldn’t matter if the village council decided it wasn’t good enough. If Jorund convinced them that Theo needed a “proper” family.

  She made it to the edge of town before the tears started. She let them fall unchecked, rage and fear and exhaustion combining into salt tracks on her cheeks.

  Fuck Jorund. Fuck the council. Fuck everyone who thinks I can’t do this.

  But beneath the anger, terror pulsed steady as heartbeat.

  What if they’re right?

  CHAPTER 16

  Klaus tracked Talia’s progress through a long range optical device. Even though he’d finally agreed to let her go to the market without him, he had no intention of letting her go unprotected. He’d taken an alternate route through the forest, then climbed a tree outside the village in order to gain clear visual access to the market square. He’d maintained this observation point for three hours, every muscle locked in disciplined stillness while his mind catalogued threats and calculated response protocols.

  Watching without intervening went against every instinct he had, as had letting her attend on her own.

  I’m being illogical, he reminded himself. My presence would compromise her standing with the community.

  But logic provided minimal comfort when he could see her obvious nervousness. The way her hands trembled loading the toys. The forced brightness of her smile when people approached.

  The first trade had gone well—an older female exchanging preserves for one of the rabbits. He’d felt an unexpected satisfaction watching Talia’s expression shift from anxiety to cautious pleasure.

  Good. The toys are being received favorably.

  He paid close attention to the subsequent sales, noting the variety of goods she acquired in return, resources that would extend their provisions significantly. Pride swelled in his chest, warm and also illogical. Their work was successful. Her skill combined with his technology had created a value that the village recognized.

  Then a small female child approached the table, and his tactical assessment shifted to concern. The child displayed obvious signs of malnutrition—underdeveloped musculature and an unhealthy pallor—and she was wearing clothing insufficient for the current temperatures. She stared at the fox, her face a mask of hopeless longing.

  She cannot afford to trade.

  He waited for Talia to explain pricing. To politely decline when the child revealed her lack of resources. Instead, she handed over the fox. Free of charge. No trade goods exchanged.

  He immediately calculated the loss. The fox represented hours of labor, not to mention material costs, and the trade value could have secured additional food supplies. Giving it away was poor resource management, the kind of decision that compromised survival in harsh environments. But he smiled anyway, a smile that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with watching the happiness on Talia’s face as the child ran off clutching the fox.

  She prioritized the child’s joy over personal gain.

  The concept would be incomprehensible to Tandroki leadership, emotions compromising optimal resource allocation. But he found himself… admiring it.

  She offers gifts when she is barely surviving herself. That requires a courage my culture does not acknowledge.

  An hour later a second child appeared. A young male, perhaps two years younger than Theo. He displayed similar signs of inadequate resources, his attention fixed on one of the remaining rabbit units. Klaus leaned forward slightly, watching the desperation on the boy’s face.

  Talia will explain she needs the trade goods. She will express sympathy but maintain necessary boundaries.

  Instead, she gave the boy the rabbit, and accepted his worthless stones with absolute seriousness before sending him away with the same gentle kindness she’d shown the first child.

  He watched her interact with the boy, and something warm and protective swelled in his chest. She was a disruptor. She upended every logical calculation he made about survival and necessity, replacing cold equations with something illogical but undeniable. Compassion.

  This is why she stopped for me. Not because she calculated odds or analyzed risk, but because her default setting is generosity. It is not a weakness. It is a profound strength. The knowledge humbled him, but it also settled in him with a strange sense of rightness.

  He continued observing for another hour. The remaining toys traded successfully, her cart filled with goods that would help sustain them through winter. Pride rose again, warm and possessive. Our work. Our success.

  Then a tall older male approached her station. Klaus’s tactical instincts immediately classified the male as a threat. The male’s posture was aggressive, his expression contemptuous. He adjusted the optical device, zooming in to monitor the interaction.

  The male spoke to Talia. Though he could not hear the words through the device, her body language shifted from cautious pleasure to rigid tension. Her shoulders squared, her chin lifted. She was preparing for conflict.

  She is defending herself. The observation sparked a protective response so intense it almost made him abandon his concealment. His hands tightened on the branch beneath him, the bark cracking under the pressure.

  When she flinched at something the other male said, his claws extended involuntarily, his primitive instincts urging him to go to her assistance, to position himself between her and this male who dared speak to her with such obvious disdain. To eliminate the threat.

  But logic insisted that his intervention would only worsen the situation, and he remained frozen in position, his body vibrating with suppressed need to act. His entire focus narrowed to the scene unfolding in the square—to Talia’s posture, the way she kept her hands from shaking, the carefully blank expression she maintained despite the obvious distress she was feeling.

  The male gestured, a dismissive, contemptuous movement, and finally walked away, leaving her standing alone by her cart. Even from this distance, he could see the tremor that ran through her as she finally released the tension coiled in her muscles.

  She’s been hurt. Not physically, but emotionally. The male’s words had been weapons, and she had been the target. Rage, cold and sharp, burned through him. This male had attacked the one person who had shown him compassion without calculation, who had given him shelter when she could barely feed herself and her nephew.

  The rest of the market activity blurred into meaningless movement. He tracked Talia as she loaded her cart with the last of her traded goods, her movements stiff and precise, her head held high despite the clear weight of what had happened. She was proud. Strong. But she was also hurting, and that was unacceptable.

  He descended silently from the tree, landing in the snow without leaving a significant impression. He needed to return to the homestead before her, needed to be there when she arrived.

  Moving quickly and silently through the forest, he reached the homestead well before her cart. To occupy himself until she arrived, he began work on some small tasks that needed doing. The barn door had developed a gap that let in a cold draft and he took measurements for a replacement. Nimbus’s water needed refreshing. They were tasks that served no tactical purpose, but they supported their household and that satisfied him.

  He heard the cart approaching and positioned himself to appear naturally occupied rather than obviously waiting. He would let Talia come to him. He would offer support without demanding an explanation.

  She rounded the final bend and he saw that the proud posture she'd maintained at the market had finally crumbled, leaving her small and vulnerable against the vast, cold landscape. But then he caught his first clear view of her face. There were tear-tracks on her cheeks and her eyes were red from crying, but her jaw was set with a determination he recognized.

  She is wounded but not defeated. Hurt but not broken.

  Pride filled him as he met her at the barn. She pulled the cart to a stop, and he said nothing, merely stood ready to assist.

  “Good market,” she said, the words brittle and false. “It's not enough, but it will help.”

  He simply nodded and began unloading the crate of traded goods, moving with an efficiency that did not require her participation or input. She watched him for a moment, her shoulders slumping as if she'd released a heavy burden.

  He carried the crate into the house and set it down by the hearth, then turned back to her. She stood in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold despite the warmth from the fire.

  “Theo will be home soon. I need to reheat the stew,” she said, clearly not willing to talk about the market.

  "I will do that. Sit."

  She didn't argue, which concerned him almost as much as her tears had done. He set the stew on to heat, then made a pot of the tea she so carefully rationed. He poured it into a mug and added a spoonful of the even more heavily rationed sugar, then carried it over to where she was slumped in a chair by the fire.

  "Drink," he said, wrapping her fingers around the warm mug.

  "You shouldn't-"

  "Drink," he said firmly. "You had a successful trip, but you are cold from the journey."

  She sipped obediently, and he was pleased to see a hint of color return to her pale face.

 

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