She was finding it hard to breathe because the air had gotten so thick and the pepper in the soup was stronger than she’d realized, making her eyes water. “No one likes me.”

“That sister was bawling her eyes out when you took your leave of them—”

“She’s my husband’s daughter, not my sister. I don’t have any obligation toward them now their father is dead.”

“Which is why you are mad at me for taking you away from them. Hrm, that makes sense. Anyway, presumably your husband liked you.”

“He tolerated me. He needed a second wife quickly because the first died in childbed. I’m the prize he got!” Her voice had risen. Folk seated at other tables looked at her and quickly away when she glared at them.

“Here, now,” said Volias with a sneer. “If you feel a little more sorry for yourself, even I might begin to dislike you despite your wonderful ability to say cutting things to people deserving of a cut like that idiot, Siras, who fancies himself a future marshal just because the fawkners here pet him so and signed him up to run errands for the marshal. So how many people do you suppose are dead already, and how many more do you suppose are going to die, with the way things are these days? Maybe we need reeves right now. Maybe we need the work reeves can do. Maybe the gods are desperate enough to touch you, or maybe you’re just someone who could be a good reeve. Think about it.”

Now he did ignore her, working at his bowl in silence. The hum of other conversations surrounded them. The hall had windows open to a courtyard. Rain pattered on the pavement outside. Lamp flames trembled under the breeze raised by the twilight rains. The hall easily sat two hundred; truly, Nallo had never in her life been under a roof so large because not even Sapanasu’s temple in her village had been anywhere this big. She might as well be outside as inside because there was so much loft hidden by darkness up in the open rafters. And yet it did smell like indoors: the shavings that covered the floor to keep down dust and mess had been mixed with herbs to sweeten the air. The scent reminded her of home.

Home.

Not the house where she had grown up, which had smelled of goats, but her husband’s house. His was not a violent or expansive temperament. He was quiet and kind, and he liked things to be tidy and pleasant, and yet unlike the landlady, he didn’t fuss unnecessarily to make a point that it must be done his way or not at all. He was a good ropemaker, a true artisan, because he had an eye for detail and a real love for doing things right just because that’s what satisfied him. She had respected him, but she had never loved him.

Overcome with feelings she did not understand and could not explain, she slumped forward with her elbows on the plank table and covered her face with her hands.