Immediately several people offered the use of their homes, some even the use of their beds, saying they would sleep on the floor.

“Spend the night here,” Dunstan said. “It’s raining out. Do you really want to wander around out there in the dark? You can actually make a fine bed out of the flour sacks in the storeroom.”

“How would you know that, Dun?” Hadrian asked, chuckling. “The wife’s kicked you out a few times?” This brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.

“Haddy, you, my friend, can sleep in the rain.”

“Come along, Wife.” Royce pulled Arista to her feet.

Arista looked up at him and winked. “Oh right, sorry. Forgot who I was.”

“Don’t apologize, honey,” Armigil told her. “That’s why we’re drinking in the first place. Ya just got there quicker than the rest of us, is all.”

The next morning, Arista woke up alone and could not decide which hurt more, her head from the drink, or her back from the lumpy flour bags. Her mouth was dry, her tongue coated in some disgusting film. She was pleased to discover her saddlebags beside her. She pulled them open and grimaced. Everything inside smelled of horse sweat and mildew. She had brought only three dresses: the one worn through the rain, which was a wrinkled mess; the stunning silver receiving gown she planned to wear when she met Degan Gaunt; and the one she presently wore. Surprisingly, the silver gown was holding up remarkably well and was barely even wrinkled. She had brought it hoping to impress Gaunt, but recalling her conversation with Royce about how the Nationalist leader felt about royalty, she realized it was a poor choice. She would have been much better off with something simpler. It would at least have given her something decent to change into. She pulled off her dirt-stained garment, removed her corset, and pulled on the dress she had worn at Sheridan.

She stepped out of the storeroom and found Arbor hard at work kneading dough surrounded by dozens of cloth-covered baskets. Villagers entered and set either a bag of flour or a sackcloth of dough on the counter along with a few copper coins. Arbor gave them an estimated pickup time of either midday or early evening.

“You do this every day?” Arista asked.

Arbor nodded with sweat glistening on her brow as she used the huge wooden paddle to slide another loaf into the glowing oven. “Normally Dun is more helpful, but he’s off with your husband and Haddy this morning. It’s a rare thing, so I’m happy to let him enjoy the visit. They’re down at the smithy if you’re interested, or would you rather have a bite to eat?”

Arista’s stomach twisted. “No, thank you. I think I’ll wait a bit longer.”

Arbor worked with a skilled hand born of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of repetitions.

How does she do it?