A Crowd of Strangers, a King's Day

With its streets brimming with people taking advantage of their free Monday, the bazaar was bustling and cacophonous. People were moving at a glacial pace, pausing at what seemed like every stall, and the hustle and bustle filled every corner. To put it briefly, the journey was excruciatingly slow.

Bloom let out a long sigh. Monday mornings were usually quiet and serene, but this commotion surpassed even the busiest Saturday afternoon. As she attempted to push by two women who were lingering in the center of the street, she thought somberly, "All I wanted was some dried lemon peel for my scones." I ought to have recalled King Marius Day.

After King Marius III gave his life to save an entire hamlet in Eredon more than three centuries ago, the festival was created. Towns, cities, and villages all celebrate the great king's valiant last deed on the thirty-first day of July every year. The majority of people relished the day off from work, and there was a lavish feast and dancing in the evening. Everyone put up their best effort for the beloved event, and the food was always great and the dancing was a yearly treat. At least one marriage proposal was accepted at every village dance, making it a day of happiness and fresh starts. "I'm not going," Bloom thought sourly.

Finally, she arrived at the stall she was looking for. An old mother cared for the produce as her burly son stood close by, a formidable presence designed to deter robbers. Bloom, however, was wiser. You could see the kind, uncomplicated intellect behind Rory's hazel eyes.

When Sarelle, Rory's mother, first saw Bloom, her eyes widened with ecstatic astonishment. She said, "How is my little Sugarbloom doing today?"

Bloom kissed her grandmother's face and said, "Not so little anymore, Grandmama." "Good morning, Rory."

When Rory saw his niece, a broad smile spread across his face. "Good morning, Bloom," he replied, giving her a gentle kiss in return.

"Sweetheart, to what do we owe the pleasure?" Sarelle asked. She was a chubby woman with black, wavy hair and a rosy complexion. Laughter, not stress or wrath, was the source of the wrinkles in her blue eyes. She didn't resemble Bloom at all.

Bloom clarified, "I'm making bloom scones." "I didn't realize it was King Marius Day." I arrived here after a very long time. I might reclaim the alleys.

The crimson face of her grandmother turned pallid. "You dare not! You've been told what's been happening! I don't want to listen to you talk like that.

Bloom let out a sigh. "It was only a thought," she whispered.

Strange whispers of a strong wizard, or even a witch, had been circulating in Armendale lately. In the town's alleys, girls continued to be found raped and killed; their deaths were so strange that people speculated about magic. The first, a maid from the home of a local nobility, looked as though she had been strangled—her neck had broken, her windpipe crushed—but her skin showed no signs of burns or bruises that would indicate a rope or string. The second had fallen over five house heights, although her body was discovered in a meadow far from any such elevation. The body had not been moved from the scene of her death, investigators insisted.

Eleanor, Bloom's dearest friend when she was six years old, was the third female. Even though their relationship had changed over time, Bloom still loved Eleanor dearly, and her already broken heart was severely hurt by her passing. Eleanor's destiny was the most horrific of the three. Her body had been discovered twisted strangely, as though she had turned to rubber, and packed into a tiny pail. Until they attempted to remove her, authorities were unable to comprehend how her killer had done it. She was boneless. She was actually only skin, with no muscles, organs, or anything else. The worst part was that there were no wounds, scrapes, or other signs that her internal organs had been removed. They appeared to have just disappeared. The remains had been accidentally discovered by Bloom, who then vomited a lot. The boneless body plagued her dreams for two weeks. She didn't want to become like poor Eleanor.

Bloom made a vow to her grandmother that she would not go down the alleys.

With a clear sigh of relief, Sarelle changed the subject. "Have you heard the positive news? The conflict is over! Our knights are free to return home.

Eredon had been at war with Jimara, its neighbor, for two years. Despite being brief, the battle had been intense, with innumerable bloody engagements that had left no town unaffected, not even the tranquil Armendale.

"This implies that, if he isn't already here, the young lord will also be returning home," Sarelle added. "Lady Denara will be happy that her son is finally coming home."

Bloom scraped lemon peel into a little bag and nodded absently. Bloom didn't waste time thinking about other people's lives, particularly the nobility', even though her grandmother might like town gossip.

Before Sarelle could continue, she interrupted, "Grandmama, I have to go. What is the cost of the lemon peel?

Sarelle answered, "Oh, dear, you know you don't have to pay for something like that." Bring me one of your scones, please! The gods are aware that you produce the nation's best scones.

Bloom accepted the compliment with a smile, bid her uncle and grandma farewell with kisses, and left.

Sticking to the center, where the pace was a little faster than the sides, she weaved back through the congested streets. Distractedly, she thought, I must go weed. It appears that the corn and peas are in need of it. If I want strawberries next year, I'll need to water them again.

She glanced to a stall on the right, filled to overflowing with seeds and starter plants. Bloom floated over. The grape vines were too alluring for her to resist, yet she knew she shouldn't. Her desire to establish her own arbor was strong.

"What is the cost of the grape vines?" Her eyes were downcast as she asked.

She didn't have to worry. Still, the seller knew who she was. "Witch, we don't sell to your kind."

When Bloom looked into the woman's enraged eyes, hurt and rage surged. She had a glimmer of genuine dread beyond the anger. Fearing a scene, the people surrounding the stall fell hushed as they waited for the local witch's response. However, their concerns were unfounded. Bloom turned and left without saying anything.

Tension and resentment still coiled inside her, but as she moved away from the stall, less people saw her. Talking to a peasant had been a mistake. Prejudice and, occasionally, downright cruelty were fostered by their mistrust of anything—or anybody.

As she left the market and headed toward the residential area of the hamlet, the crowd began to thin out. She was so preoccupied that she didn't notice the man until she ran into him.

"Oh, I apologize!" As Bloom's luggage fell to the floor, he yelled. "I didn't pay attention to my direction. I apologize.

Bloom looked up and crouched to get it. The man must have been unfamiliar with Armendale because he would have run away when he saw her eyes.

"I'm to blame, sir," she said.

He looked about her age, maybe a little older. He started to say something, but she gave him a small curtsy and continued. She had no desire to converse.

A worn path led through a copse of trees to her small cottage, which was off the main road. With a sigh, she followed it home and entered. "I don't eat babies," she thought sourly. I merely cultivate a garden. Risky ideas. She shoved them away.

She took away the lemon peel after hanging her purse and coat. She stirred a tiny amount into the scone dough that was waiting. Bloom sighed at the mixture, but the scones were ready to bake. She didn't feel like it. Later, she would bake them. She would garden for now.

She pulled her long hair up, changed into a loose blouse and an old pair of men's breeches, and left through the back door.

Her yard offered a stunning view. Hartfield Manor, to the left, was the residence of Lady Denara and, according to Grandmama, Lord Julian Hartfield as well. The village stretched to the right. A modest wooden fence was the only thing separating Bloom's garden from the Hartfields' expansive field, where horses ran free, which stretched straight ahead.

She occasionally sat on the fence to enjoy the scenery or to watch the sunrise. A forest stretched far beyond the horses, and gorgeous mountains loomed beyond that. With the possible exception of the mansion itself, it was the most picturesque view in the village.

She picked up her gardening equipment, crouched down among her plants, and inhaled the aromas of life. With a final smile and a peaceful wave sweeping over her, she got to work.