“Did you ever wonder if your superior Manor lineage might have placed Jirvy in a difficult situation? To be lovers is to be intimate, is it not? To be true lovers is to be equals. What if your elevated status was a third presence in the bed with you?”

Xilsi rubbed her chin, frowning. “He still didn’t tell me about the betrothal, and he let it go on as if nothing had changed. He has a child. Did I mention the child? And another on the way!”

“Ouch. That would make me angry too. Not to be told, I mean. I don’t know anything about how Manors make marriages.”

“Did he think I wouldn’t find out? That I don’t know people, and that people don’t talk?”

All Elen could think was that Jirvy must have been married a rather long time if he had one child and another on the way, and if so, why had it taken Xilsi so long to figure it out, or to be told?

“Yes,” Elen agreed carefully, “I would think people would talk. Just maybe not where you could hear.”

Xilsi grunted thoughtfully, then sighed gustily, clearly making ready to complain some more.

“Will you look at that!” cried Ipis, pointing south, as if toward a miraculous rescue.

Here came the two wagons, now commandeered. Jirvy sat in the back of one, while Luviara had evidently decided to stick with walking instead of jolting atop a load of late-harvest squash. The haunt had taken a seat on the driver’s bench beside a man who, judging by his tiller’s garb, was a farmer taking his produce to market in Farledder Halt. The two of them seemed to be chatting, which made the wardens stare. The ears of the oxen flicked back and forth, and they snorted with unease now and again, but kept plodding obediently forward.

As the wagons rolled up, the haunt announced, “Tiller Mekel and his uncle, Drover Neset, will gladly convey us the rest of the way to the Halt in exchange for protection. It seems bandits have been operating in these parts, stealing produce from local farmers.”

He met Elen’s gaze with a tip of his head toward the second vehicle, to let her know that she might ride, not walk. Simo signaled to Xilsi to walk ahead as vanguard. Elen made a dash for the second wagon. The road stung through the soles of her boots, but she ignored the pain as she ran. The oxen plodded quite slowly, so it was easy to grab the side and swing over into its bed. This wagon carried burlap sacks full to bursting, outsides flecked with unhusked barley.

As she settled in, the driver glanced back at her. Since Kem and Ipis had fallen back to walk the rearguard, she was its only passenger.

“May the High Heavens shine good fortune upon you, Drover,” she said politely.