Mable’s face perked at the sight of the girls, and Nox waved a quiet hello. Mable, scarcely in her thirties, was an honest young woman with the kind of simple generosity that seemed to foster no dreams that reached beyond the walls of her life in Farleigh. Her hair had curled a bit against the heat of the kitchen, sweat and steam unraveling a few loose strands from the bun she’d gathered at the nape of her neck.

The girls smiled at the matron in her pressed gray linens and apron, kneading dough on the wooden block table where they opened the door to the room. Mable knew as well as anyone in the manor that it did no good to draw attention on days the bishop visited. She wordlessly jutted her chin upward and to the left, motioning the girls toward the pantry as she smiled in farewell. Nox offered a thankful gesture and led her friend into the dark, enclosed space, shutting the door behind them.

The air was slightly cooler behind the closed door. Earthy smells of dirt and root vegetables overpowered the stew that simmered just beyond the pantry door.

“Welcome to your kingdom for the day,” Nox said dryly.

Amaris ran her finger along the shelf to collect dust. She made a face at the dirt.

“Careful. Don’t get a splinter,” Nox cautioned.

Amaris attempted to blow the dust off her finger, but it was caked on too heavily. She wiped it on her pants. “Goddess forbid I get a splinter. The world would end.”

Nox’s mouth quirked into a half smile as she answered, “They’d blame me if you got hurt, and you know it.” She took a seat on the floor of the little room and reclined against a sack of flour. She raised one arm, allowing Amaris to tuck herself in tightly.

“I hate the first day of the month,” Amaris said.

Nox pressed a kiss on the top of Amaris’s head with a reassuring gentleness. “I don’t think it’s so bad.”

While the kitchen smelled of what would undoubtedly be dinner and the pantry of roots, Amaris’s hair had always smelled like juniper. It was the sweet, lingering scent of the forest and the melting snow that signaled the end of winter. The girls were roughly two years apart in age, and while some days it seemed like no time at all, in these protective moments, it felt like a lifetime.

“What if we just…didn’t hide? Would it be so bad if we stopped running and let the bishop see me? Or”—Amaris reached her hand up to a shelf, threatening to touch it—“what if we just cut up my hands on splinters? Let’s cover me in scars!” She smiled at the suggestion, but Nox didn’t return the expression.