“Isn’t quiet good?”

“Not always.” He bit a dumpling and chewed thoughtfully. “Not always.”

Yuna’s eyes went wide. Father had never said such a thing. She wanted to ask him a million questions but found she, too, was silent, thinking over his words that could have meant very little, or could have just changed the color of Yuna’s sky from blue to orange. She looked up at the sky to check.

“I am getting old, Yuna. Someday this garden will all be yours, along with the business. I have always had you. But the garden isn’t company enough. The quiet isn’t, either.”

So many words. So much. Yuna could hardly bear it. “I need to go to town,” she said, standing up from the table.

She packed a bag. Taking her horse, she rode into town quickly. She went to the smithy’s stall. The wood beams of the stall were stained with smoke and grease. One of the junior smiths was there, clanging away on a crooked sword. Other workers were sharpening blades on spinning whetstones.

She went boldly up to the stall, though her ankles felt weak. Her face was sweating.

“Is . . . may I speak to Himil?”

“Himil?” The smith paused his hammering and wiped his forehead. “Somewhere here. He was oiling whetstones.”

A clod of earth hit her back, and she turned quickly. A small group of boys held their handfuls high. Their jeering faces made Yuna quake with shame.

“Look, it’s the poi—”

She spun around, standing tall. Her heart hammered so hard it might pop right out of her chest. “You disrespect me. And you disrespect this business by throwing dirt. The sand will mar their sharpening stones.”

“And you disrespect this lady,” a voice said.

Yuna turned around, and Himil stepped out from the back of the stall. He came out into the square to stand beside her.

The little boys stared at them and hooted. “Pox! Pox on all of us if we get too close!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yuna said. “None of the smiths have gotten the poxplague. There hasn’t been a poxplague epidemic in ten years. Have you not minds to think?” Her voice was shaking. Her mouth was so dry that she feared she would choke before she could get the words out. “And . . . I am not poisonous. A smith is not made of iron, and a master poisoner’s daughter is not made of poison.”

“Who says I am not made of iron?” One of the smiths bulged his bicep, and the small crowd about them laughed aloud. Yuna smiled, and the smith winked at her.

The boys gaped, their eyes round. Yuna stepped up to Himil and took his hand in hers, her throat now too dry to speak. And the smiths hooted and clanged their instruments in cheer.

“Why stop there? Give Himil a kiss!” hollered the Master Smith. “He’s been pining after you for a year now!”