Change of plans

I have no idea when I fell asleep. The morning light’s already pushing through the cracks in the shutters, soft and grey. My clothes are still the same as yesterday. Great. Not even enough sense to change. I sit up slowly, stretching the stiffness from my shoulders.

The room is quiet.

I glance toward the other side, where he’s still sleeping. After the kind of evening he had, I’m not surprised. His breathing is steady now, but shallow. His brow’s still creased, like the weight of everything he felt hasn’t quite let go. It probably hasn’t.

So. What now?

If it really was the presence—and it looked like it was—then it’s only going to get worse for him near people. The buzz of crowds, stray emotions, too many voices in too small a space… it could all tear him apart. He needs quiet. He needs time.

Which means I need to keep things moving.

We still have a deal to uphold. The merchant’s expecting us. Or more accurately—expecting goods. We also need to pay for this room. We probably will have to stay for longer than we thought.

So… that means I’m going. Alone.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and run through the plan in my head.

I can take the cart. The merchant’s stall isn’t far from here. The city’s layout is surprisingly clean for something this size. A few wide main roads, lots of winding alleys. I’ve been there. I remember the landmarks.

I shouldn’t have trouble finding it again.

Still… what will they think when I show up without him? Is that normal? Do people here travel alone often? Do women?

Hopefully. I’ve seen others move about without men trailing behind them. Still, I should assume nothing. Best not to stand out. No raised voices. No eye contact. Keep my head down. Be another face in the crowd—or better yet, outside the crowd.

If I’m lucky, I’ll reach the stall just as the merchant’s setting up for the day. Fewer eyes. Quicker business. At worst… I’ll have to linger in a side alley and wait.

...Should I wake Nate? Just to tell him?

No. After everything yesterday? Not smart. He needs rest. He needs to stay in this room. Far from crowds. Far from sound. I’ll be back before he even realizes I’m gone—if I’m fast.

Improvise, then. Like always.

###

I change quickly—slipping out of the layered dress I used to pass as someone wealthier than I am. It’ll only slow me down. I choose something simpler. Still practical, but close enough in appearance to keep up the persona. The merchant needs to recognize me. If he gets suspicious, the deal might vanish faster than yesterday’s warmth.

I make sure I hide my ears with this stupid veil. I tie the loose end tighter and take one last look around the room.

Right. A note.

I tear a page from the back of my ledger. I write quickly.

“I went out. Stay here and wait. Be calm!”

It’s not warm. But he knows me by now. If he wanted a softer voice, he’d have picked someone else to run into in another world.

I place the note on the small table near the bed, weigh it down with a chipped mug.

One final breath. Cart’s downstairs. If it hasn’t been stolen. The street’s probably waking up by now. As much as I can be—I’m prepared.

Time to go.

###

So far, so good.

The city’s quieter than I expected—no shouting, no clattering wagons, just the occasional squawk of a rooftop bird and the soft creak of the cart behind me. The streets are still blue with morning, shadows long and thin between the buildings. I suppose city people like to sleep in… or maybe it’s just this part of the city. The merchant quarter seemed livelier yesterday. Maybe I’m too early for the noise.

I managed to get the cart out without incident. No one stopped me. No locks, no questions. I’m not sure if that says more about my competence or the innkeeper’s laziness. I should probably feel relieved, but mostly I feel wary. Things that go too smoothly tend to turn on you when you least expect it.

The wheels rattle slightly as I steer down a gentle slope. The road broadens as I near the market square. I plan my approach—if I circle in from the opposite end, I might catch the merchant before the square gets too busy. The streets are simple enough here, laid out like a grid cut into the earth. No winding hills or stacked alleys like the deeper quarters.

So far, the city’s behaved. Let’s hope it stays that way.

More people now. Just a trickle—figures moving with purpose, arms full of crates or cloth. Mostly merchants staking their claims for the day. I pass a young man rolling out a canvas stall cover, and an older woman muttering to herself as she sweeps dust off her stones. No customers yet. Just competitors. No one pays me much attention.

Good.

Still, something nags at me. A thought I should’ve had earlier.

Will he even be in the same place?

The merchant from yesterday didn’t exactly have a permanent stall. He was perched near the edge of the square. For all I know, he just wanders until he finds somewhere unclaimed.

I’m moving too quickly. That’s the real problem.

I can already hear Nate’s voice in my head, dry and amused.

“A little impulsive today, aren't we?”

I shake the thought off and press on.

It should be just around this corner. If I’m lucky. Please. Please, old man. Be there. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.

###

“I expected you to come later,” the old merchant called out as soon as I turned the corner into the square.

I hadn’t even reached the cart’s hitching post yet. Sharp eyes for someone half-asleep behind his stall. Nate would probably appreciate that.

“Well… I thought it would be best to handle it quickly,” I replied, realizing immediately it wasn’t the best line. Too stiff. Almost rehearsed.

The man tilted his head slightly, one brow raised. “You came alone?”

There it is.

I kept my expression neutral. “He wasn’t feeling well this morning. Nothing serious. Just something he ate, I think.”

Let it sound ordinary. Dull. Boring. No one digs deeper into boring.

The merchant hummed—noncommittal, but not pressing the issue either. “City food’ll do that to you,” he muttered, then glanced past me at the cart. “You brought the sacks?”

“Yes,” I nodded and stepped to the back, fingers curling under the rough wool of one of the bags. Heavy, but manageable.

Before I could lift it, his voice stopped me. “Don’t bother. I’m not so old I can’t help a pretty lady.”

…And there it is again. That strange brand of old-man charm that walks a tightrope between harmless and awkward. I stared at him for a beat, lips pressed thin.

Is this something that happens to men over time? Some developmental phase I’ve never understood? I wonder if Nate will eventually start doing this too—calling strangers “dear” and complimenting their elbows.

He didn’t wait for permission—just moved past me with surprising ease and started unloading the sacks one by one, fingers checking the quality as he did.

“This is clean work,” he said, giving a small nod of approval. “You two didn’t skimp on the wash. That’s rare these days.”

I gave a polite nod, arms crossed loosely. “We aim to meet expectations.”

He snorted. “Most people don’t aim at all. Just toss what they have at the nearest buyer and hope for the best.”

Once he was done checking the last sack, he reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a small leather pouch. Coins clinked as he handed it over—solid weight, not a cheat’s handful.

I took the satchel, opened it just enough to peek inside. Denominations were right. No counterfeit. No clipped pieces.

“Looks good,” I said, tucking it into the inside of my coat.

The merchant wiped his hands on his apron and gave me a longer look. “You’ve got a head on your shoulders, girl. Don't let that partner of yours do all the thinking.”

I offered him a thin smile. “I don’t.”

He chuckled. “Didn’t think so.”

With the deal done, I offered a small nod of farewell and turned back toward the cart. Time to leave before he got too curious—or started asking after Nate more directly.

As I climbed back up and flicked the reins, the weight of the pouch settled against my side. Solid. Reliable. The kind of weight that meant we could stay here for longer.

I need to get back to the inn.

###

It’s a good thing the trade went quickly.

More people are spilling onto the streets now—merchants, buyers, errand runners, children chasing dust with sticks. The city is waking up, and with it, eyes are opening. Watching. Judging.

Perfect time to vanish before anyone starts wondering why a woman is riding alone with an empty cart.

Did the old man only notice because Nate wasn’t with me? Or is this the kind of thing women just don’t do here? I should’ve asked. But we’ve only been here a few days, and I’ve been walking a thin line between fitting in and not giving away too much.

I leave the merchant’s square, steering the cart the same way I came in. But something feels… off.

Not wrong. Just tilted. Like a loose plank underfoot. The Presence doesn’t scream, but it pulls. There’s weight in the air that wasn’t here before. A subtle pressure.

I’m better at handling crowds than Nate. Yesterday I felt nothing walking this path. It’s not even that crowded yet.

Then why?

Emotion. That’s the most likely answer. Strong, unfocused emotion can ripple—especially if it’s close. Anger. Hunger. Malice. Something base enough that it vibrates through the noise of the day.

And now I know where it’s coming from.

A man.

I caught a glimpse of him when I made the last turn. Hooded, tall, keeping just enough distance to not stand out. Or so he thinks.

He saw the exchange. The satchel. That’s why.

My pulse quickens. I keep my hands steady on the reins.

I can’t bolt—the street’s too narrow. Pedestrians crowd the edges. A sharp turn and I could run someone over or tip the cart. And even if I did, the sound alone would draw more eyes.

Think.

I can’t outrun him with the cart.

And if he grabs me—he’s taller, heavier, probably much stronger.

Could I find a guard?

No. Not safely.

They’d ask questions. Who I am. Where I’m staying. Where I’m from.

Too risky. If word spreads, the wrong person might start wondering about me and the foreign man I’m traveling with.

He’s getting closer.

Still pretending not to follow. Still weaving between people, pausing by stalls, keeping pace without making it obvious.

But I feel him now. That low burn. Like I’m being watched from the wrong angle. Like I’m prey in someone’s mind.

What’s his problem? Do I look that weak? That out of place?

Or maybe that’s the point. He saw a woman make a deal. Handle money. Leave unaccompanied.

And in this city, maybe that’s enough to make someone angry or to take me for an easy target.

Think. Come on.

The cart’s a problem. It’s loud. Slow. Heavy. Empty now, so there’s nothing worth guarding—except the horse. And even the horse isn’t mine.

Can I ditch it?

If I run, I might lose him in the crowd. The inn is close. I could make it inside before he closes the distance.

But what if he sees me go in?

What if he waits?

Watches.

What if he tells someone?

Aghh. No good solution. Every path branches toward risk.

He’s closer now. I can hear his footsteps sync with the horse’s hooves. Not perfectly. But close enough to match my pace.

I tighten my grip on the reins.

No time.

Disappear.

I nudge the horse toward a side alley—not narrow enough to be suspicious, just enough to dip out of the main road. At the halfway point, I slide from the cart, fast and quiet, landing light on my feet. I leave the reins loose. The horse will keep walking. For a few steps, it might even look like I’m still there.

I dart sideways—toward a bakery stall, then between two shoppers.

Let him follow the cart.

Let him guess wrong.

Let me vanish.

###

He’s still following me—I know he is. That pressure hasn’t lifted. I can’t see him, but I can feel the weight of his attention like a rope around my ribs, pulling tighter with every step.

Not good.

Very bad.

And now I’ve ditched the cart and it didn’t work. Great.

We might still recover it later—if we’re lucky. But losing it now would be a blow. Not just the cost, but what it would mean. That I failed to handle this alone.

Why is he so persistent?

Is it just about the money?

Or… did he see something? That made him think I’m not one of them?

The streets are unfamiliar again. I’m farther from the inn than I wanted to be. That’s not ideal—but it might be the only reason I’m not cornered already. If I’d gone in, he might’ve waited near the door.

Think.

Where do I go now?

The crowd helped. He backed off once I slipped into it—I could barely see him. That’s something.

Now’s the moment. I can lose him completely, if I act fast. An alley. A side path. Something narrow and quiet. I haven’t moved like I’m in a rush yet. If he’s still behind me, he’ll think I’m sure I have lost him already. I hope so.

Let him feel confident.

Let him believe he still has time.

There—up ahead. A crossroad. Faded plaster walls, hanging laundry, sun-warped wood. That’ll do.

Now.

I pivot, sharp, slipping down a narrow street between two leaning houses. The back roads are different here. Uneven, crooked. The kind of layout you can’t map—only feel.

I weave left, then right, ducking past stacked crates and a half-sleeping cat. Stone turns to packed dirt beneath my feet. The city stops pretending to be organized back here.

Is he behind me?

I glance over my shoulder.

Nothing.

No footfalls. No shadow. No threat.

Finally—finally—something going right.

Then—

"Ahh—!"

My foot catches.

The ground rushes up. A jolt shoots through my palms as I hit the stones. My knee scrapes against gravel. Air knocks out of my lungs.

Damn it.

These roads—brittle, cracked, uneven as old teeth. Would proper paving be too much to ask? Apparently yes. Far too much trouble for this city.

I try to breathe.

Why am I so winded?

When was the last time I ran like this?

Focus.

Get up.

You need to get up.

I plant my hands against the road and try to push myself upright. But instead of cold stone under my palm, I feel something soft—fabric.

No…

My veil.

It’s slipped loose.

I reach for it, heart thudding, but I already know it’s too late.

I’m exposed.

Hair unbound, pale and unmistakable in the morning light. My ears free. Open. Bare.

Someone’s standing over me.

And I didn’t sense them coming.

Why?

Are they not hostile?

Why couldn’t I feel them?

Why is the Presence silent?

###

Should I move?

Sit still?

What now?

My breath catches in my throat. I’m exposed. Off-balance. Everything is wrong.

Shit, shit, shit.

Why now?

If I run, I’ll only draw more attention. But if I stay… What if they saw my face? My ears?

Do I flee the city?

Leave Nate behind?

If they connect us, it’s over. We’re both as good as dead.

Then—

“Tee hee.”

…What?

A chuckle?

Now?

I raise my head slowly, unsure what I’m about to face—soldier, thug, witness. But what I see is—

Feet. Small, feet in worn out little shoes, just inches away.

A child?

I lift my gaze.

A little girl stands in front of me, hands clasped, head tilted with quiet curiosity. Blonde hair. Wide blue eyes. Familiar somehow.

Wait…

Is this… the kid from yesterday?

From the food line?

She’s just staring at me. Then, without a word, she crouches.

Her tiny hand reaches forward—hesitant, but not afraid—and brushes a strand of my hair.

Then she grabs a lock of her own.

She holds them side by side, comparing the color.

Close. Not exact, but close enough for a child’s eyes.

“Tee hee.”

Another laugh. Light, breathy. No malice in it. No fear.

She’s just a kid.

Relief floods in like warm water. I let my body shift, easing into a sitting position. We’re nearly eye-level now.

She reaches again—this time, toward my ear.

I freeze.

No one’s ever done that before. Not even Nate.

What will she—

“Ohhh,” she breathes, in awe, fingers brushing the curve like it’s something sacred.

And I let her.

Why am I letting her?

I should stop her. Pull away. Cover up. But I don’t.

She’s smiling.

Happy.

Just… happy to be near me.

The moment stretches. No one interrupts. No footsteps, no eyes watching. Just her and me and the hush of a back alley.

I should say something.

Anything.

“Do you like my ears?”

It escapes before I can think better of it. Possibly the strangest sentence I’ve ever spoken.

She nods, still beaming.

Right. Time to reclaim some dignity.

I reach for the veil, shake off the dust, and tie it back into place. The fabric’s warm from the sun. Familiar. Shielding.

I stand and brush the grime from my skirt. Another small crisis survived.

I glance down.

She’s still there.

Still watching me.

Still smiling.

I look around—no sign of parents, no one searching or calling a name.

“Are you lost?” I ask, voice quiet.

She shakes her head. No.

“Do you want to go home?”

She nods, then—without hesitation—grabs my hand and tugs.

Pulls.

Like I agreed to come with her.

Wait… did she think I meant together?

I hesitate. I need to get back to the inn. Nate’s waiting. But… I can’t just leave her here. Not like this.

And I definitely can’t have her talking to anyone about me.

I glance down at her—soft pale hair, dust-smudged cheeks, impossibly bright eyes.

“Hey… can you… not tell anyone about me? Or my ears?”

She looks up at me, tilts her head slightly.

Then, with exaggerated seriousness, she puts a finger to her lips.

“Shhhh.”

That’s a yes… right?

“It’ll be our secret, okay?”

She nods.

I study her more closely now. How old is she? Six? Maybe younger? I’ve never been good at guessing. Her clothes are simple—mismatched layers, sleeves too long. Her shoes don’t quite match. No emblem, no family crest.

No sign of where she belongs.

She looks like us.

Not the ears, no. Hers are… ordinary. Rounded. But the rest—skin tone, features, hair—they’re familiar. Uncomfortably so.

We step out of the alley and into the noise again—bright light, bustling crowds, market voices rising in waves. Mid-morning, by the look of it. The city’s in full motion.

But here she is, leading me like she knows exactly where she’s going.

Hand still in mine.

###

The streets narrow as we walk, stone walls rising taller with every turn. The light shifts—less direct sun, more shade cast by spires and tiled roofs. It’s quiet here. Quieter than it should be.

The tower is close now. I can see it clearly—grey stone climbing above the rest of the city, a narrow silhouette against the morning haze. The bell hasn’t rung yet today, but its presence is heavy, even in silence.

She’s leading me to the church. Or near it.

That alone puts a knot in my stomach.

What’s her connection to this place? An apprentice? A messenger? Does the church take in children for something other than prayer and chores? I have no idea how their systems work.

We spent some time near here yesterday. Nothing happened.

I should be safe.

Probably.

But then… she passes the path that leads into the main square. The one with the food lines and the marble steps. We’re not going there. She keeps walking, unbothered, tugging gently at my hand like she knows exactly where she’s going.

Where are we going?

And why hasn’t she said a word?

The narrow alley opens into a courtyard. Tucked against one of the outer walls of the square is a smaller building—no stained glass, no gold trim. Just worn stone, wood-beamed awnings, and a simple arched door.

She approaches it with the casualness of habit. Her small hand reaches up to knock. The sound is barely more than a tap.

I stay still.

Too still.

My heartbeat has started to climb—not from the walk, but from something deeper.

Too close. We’re too close to the church. One wrong look, one wrong question, and this could all come apart.

Then the door opens.

And I see the one thing I didn’t want to.

A man in a robe.

A priest.

He steps into the light slowly—elderly, with thin white hair and robes the color of dry bark. His face is creased with age, not scorn. His hands hang at his sides, steady. Not reaching for anything.

Still, I freeze.

Utterly.

Not even when standing before the old chief, scolded for stepping out of line, did I feel like this. That fear had a shape. A pattern. I could endure it.

This?

This is unknown.

“Ohh, you’re back,” the priest says, voice gentle, as if he’s greeting a bird that’s landed on his windowsill. “And I see you’ve brought a friend.”

The girl nods, silent.

As always.

“You should get something to eat,” he adds, brushing her hair lightly with a hand.

She releases my hand and skips past him into the hall beyond.

“Didn’t you forget something?” he calls after her, still with that softness.

She turns, looks back at me, and waves.

A smile on her face.

I raise a hand, wave back, and watch her vanish into the shadows of the corridor.

“She lives here?” I manage, trying to push the words out before he can ask about me. My voice is even, but thin.

“Oh yes,” he says with a tired fondness. “Since she was a newborn. She likes to wander, but she always comes back.”

So she’s an orphan. Born into this place. Raised by robes and quiet corridors.

That’s what the church does here?

The thought doesn’t comfort me. But it doesn’t terrify me either. That’s what’s unsettling.

He turns his eyes on me now, and I brace—expecting scrutiny, doctrine, questions I can’t answer.

Instead he just smiles, gentle as worn linen. “Don’t waste your morning talking to an old man like me. Looks like you’ve got your own family to take care of.” He gestures lightly toward my veil.

Right. He thinks I’m married.

That detail saves me.

I nod politely—short, automatic, enough to close the conversation.

He nods in return and begins to turn back inside.

I should leave.

But then—

“Please wait!”

The words leave me before I’ve even decided to speak them.

He pauses.

I reach into my purse and pull out a coin. It’s not much, especially not after today’s deal. But it feels necessary.

“Please take this,” I say, stepping forward. “And… look after her.”

I press the coin into his hand. His fingers close around mine, warm and firm. Not imposing. Just… steady.

“Thank you,” he says.

No scripture. No blessing. Just two words.

Why do I want him to say more? Why do I half-expect a ritual, a psalm, some declaration of virtue or divine favor?

Would it make it easier if he were exactly what I feared? If I could reduce him to the robe and walk away?

But he’s not. He’s just an old man in plain clothes with steady eyes and a soft voice.

I think… I understand what Nate was doing, a little more now. All that doubt. The way he tries to poke holes in everything until it’s safe to feel something.

The priest nods again and steps back into the orphanage. The door closes with a muted click.

I stand there a moment longer. The street is still quiet. The tower looms in the distance.

I turn away.

The walk back is slow. The roads are familiar now.

I should get back.

I think I’ve learned more in the last ten minutes than I expected to in a year.