Then his gaze darted to the side of the fence, where a few thick branches had been trimmed earlier. His eyes lit up.

  “Wait here.”

  He darted off and returned five minutes later, dragging two smooth, sturdy limbs—about the length of walking poles—and a coil of old twine.

  He tied the bags in clusters of three, looping them tightly along the poles, spacing them for balance. Then, with a proud grin, he swung the first makeshift yoke across his shoulders and hooked one basket over his arm.

  Ilyari crossed her arms. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  She took the second pole and basket, fitting it into place across her own back. Together, they looked like mismatched merchants from some rustic tale—one in too-clean sleeves, the other with a knot of twigs in his hair—but they were loaded, balanced, and ready.

  As they left Willowgrove, the scent of crushed mint and lemon balm followed them, mingling with the sun-warmed air.

  Their first stop was the herbalist, a small shop tucked beside the westbound market lane. A wind-chime made of pressed glass tinkled as they stepped beneath the green awning, their burdens rustling with every step.

  Tazien shifted his pole and leaned it carefully against the outer wall. “One delivery of fresh-cut, apothecary-grade herbs,” he announced, brushing a leaf from his sleeve with mock pomp. “Still dewy.”

  The woman behind the counter—a sharp-eyed herbalist with silvered braids coiled high on her head—arched an eyebrow as the scent reached her. Without a word, she stepped around the counter and unlatched the first bundle.

  She inhaled deeply. “Lemon balm, chamomile, peppermint, feverfew…” Her fingers moved fast, separating the sprigs like a practiced weaver. “These were harvested today?”

  “This morning,” Ilyari confirmed. “Just before sunrise. Clean cuts, no pests. All grown in old Willowgrove beds—no tainted soil.”

  The herbalist gave her a long look. “From the manor?”

  “We’re restoring the garden,” Ilyari said.

  The woman looked over the bundles again, then stepped to a metal basin and retrieved a curved device—the Ledger Lens. She pressed a glowing Vatra coin from her belt pouch into it, tapped the side, and turned back to them.

  “I’ll take all seven bundles,” she said. “The feverfew alone is worth ten fins per gram right now. Market’s undersupplied.”

  Tazien blinked. “What’s the total?”

  “Seventy-three Vatra and twelve fins,” she said crisply. “I’ll transfer it now. Hold out your pouch.”

  Ilyari passed her the stamped leather pouch Vaylen had given her. The herbalist pressed her Ledger Lens to the coin slot, and the glyphwork glowed faintly as the amount transferred.

  “Confirmed,” Ilyari said, checking the pouch’s embedded thread.

  “Come back tomorrow with more of this quality,” the herbalist added, tying the bundles with a deft hand. “Especially if you’ve got calendula or fresh horehound.”

  “We’ll see what blooms,” Tazien said with a grin.

  They stepped outside into the warmth of early afternoon. The light glinted off the glyph-stamped pouch.

  Tazien bumped Ilyari’s shoulder gently. “Seventy-three Vatra and twelve fins,” he whispered. “We could eat like mid-level nobles.”

  Ilyari smiled. “Let’s just aim for clean cloth and fruit that’s not bruised.”

  With the second pole balanced between them, they turned toward the tea seller.

  Tazien adjusted the second pole over his shoulder with a grunt, the bundles of fresh-cut tea leaves swaying slightly with every step.

  “I smell like minty determination and sweat,” he muttered.

  “You smell like someone who’s about to earn dinner,” Ilyari replied, shifting her own load as they turned into the polished stone corridor of the Central Market’s tea row.

  The storefront they approached gleamed with gold-accented glass and a delicate chime that sounded as they stepped inside. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars of dried florals, exotic roots, and branded blends with calligraphic labels. Behind the counter stood a tall, thin man in the silver vest of a lesser noble, his dark hair combed into a perfect wave, his expression immediately condescending.

  He didn’t wait for them to speak.

  “No coin,” he said, already waving them toward the door. “Out.”

  Ilyari blinked. “We have coin. And product.”

  “We don’t deal in charity or wild-harvested gutter greens,” he sniffed. “We certainly don’t do business with charity cases.”

  “We’re not here for charity,” Tazien said, trying to keep his voice calm. “We’re here to sell tea.”

  The noble didn’t even look at the bags. “And I’m here to run a reputable establishment. Find your coin elsewhere.”

  The door slammed in their faces.

  Ilyari stood frozen for a heartbeat, the sting cutting deeper than she'd expected.

  “Well,” Tazien said through gritted teeth, “now I want to find someone better on principle.”

  The meat stand owner, still tending his flame, caught sight of their expressions as they passed. He tilted his head.

  “Trouble?”

  “Just a little tea snobbery,” Tazien muttered.

  The man snorted. “Don’t bother with Phoran’s House of Leaves. He’s never sold a real blend in his life. But there’s an old lady two streets over who does real steeping. Little shop with a vine-draped sign. She’s odd. But she knows her herbs.”

  “Name?” Ilyari asked.

  “Indrale Phindrase,” he said. “You’ll know it when you see it. Smells like flowers and wit.”

  They thanked him and turned down the alley he pointed out. True to his word, the air thickened with the scent of dried lavender and smoked orange peel. A narrow storefront, nearly hidden beneath overgrown wisteria vines, came into view. Painted across the hanging sign: Phindrase & Leaf.

  Inside, the shop was warm and golden, its walls lined with mismatched jars, hand-labeled teas, and bundles of dried flowers hanging from exposed beams. A thin woman in enormous round glasses peeked over a cluttered counter. She looked up at the sound of the door—and lit up immediately.

  “Brinna!” she chirped.

  Brinna—who had been inspecting a jar near the chamomile shelf—turned with a smile. “Well look-a-here!”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “Wait,” Ilyari blinked. “Is this the shop you always got your tea from? You know the owner?”

  Brinna beamed. “Of course I do. This is Indrale Phindrase. My tea twin. And my old school mate when she still had elbows too pointy for steeping.”

  “I was graceful,” Indrale muttered, already bustling toward them. “Like a panicked mouse.”

  Ilyari laughed, her tension melting away.

  “We’re here to sell tea,” Tazien said. “From our garden. We’ve harvested fresh herbs, sorted by type, no damage.”

  Indrale sniffed the bags as they offered them, her nose twitching. “Thyme. Lemon balm. Sweet mint. Calendula—oh, you brought me calendula.” She turned to Brinna. “Brin, they brought me calendula.”

  “We hope that you find everything to your liking,” Ilyari chuckled at the way the woman's nose moved and twitched as she sniffed each bag. She really did look like a mouse.

  “You have absolutely wonderful tea leaves,” Indrale said, hands clasped tightly, “But, I can’t afford what this is worth. Not unless I sell my shop to pay for your goods. You’re growing apothecary-grade blends.”

  Tazien looked crestfallen and looked at Ilyari a plan forming in his mind. “So how do you feel about Phoran's House of Leaves?”

  Brinna raised an eyebrow. “Phorans... don't tell me you went there first. That noble curr wouldn't know good tea leave if it bit him in the a-”

  "I know him," Indrale interrupted. "And I know his wares. He buys cheap and sells high and pretty much discriminates against anyone not Kaisulane nobility."

  Tazien pulled Ilyari to him and whispered in her ear and Ilyari smiled and nodded.

  "We didn't like his attitude, and you have been nothing but kind and if you are a friend of Brinna, then maybe we could offer you a contract?" Ilyari smiled kindly.

  Indrale thought for a moment. "And what my young dear are the terms?"

  Ilyari held up three fingers. "Exclusive tea leaves from our garden for three years. We'll sell them at a reduced price for the first year and then increase the price 2.5% each year. We also ask for 5% of the sales, but only from our tea leaves."

  Indrale hummed for a moment and then clicked her teeth. "You drive a hard bargain, how do I know that you will deliver or that you have a patch big enough to sustain us for that long?"

  Ilyari beamed, "We would love it, if you came for tea and a tour. We are at the Willowgrove House."

  Indrale slapped the counter. "That haunted roost!"

  Tazien sighed, "It really isn't haunted. Unless you count by us."

  Indrale hummed again and hesitated seeming to hear something, tilting her head.

  “Ma?” a young man’s voice called from the back. “We’re low on red clover—”

  A figure stepped into view, awkward and lanky. Eiggim Phindrase looked about seventeen, with soft brown hair and too-long sleeves. His eyes caught on Ilyari—and caught again. He froze.

  Ilyari blinked. Tazien narrowed his eyes.

  Eiggim’s shoulders rose like a frightened owl.

  “Eiggim,” Indrale said with perfect calm. “Fetch the agreement scroll. And for the love of moonroots, wipe your face.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” he squeaked, vanishing behind the curtain.

  Tazien smirked, folding his arms.

  Brinna swatted his shoulder. “Be nice.”

  Indrale produced a gilded parchment from a drawer and laid it out on the counter. “Three years. Exclusive sale. Five percent to you, deducted quarterly, with all tea labeled accordingly. I steep it. He weighs it. You grow it.”

  Ilyari took the stylus.

  She signed.

  Tazien signed next.

  Eiggim returned to press the ledger lens over the parchment fumbling with it for a moment and his ears turning red while Brinna and Indrale rolled their eyes. Once he was done verifying the contract he pressed the ledger lens with a soft beep of stored mana to the crest on the paper.

  It was sealed. As the pouch of vatra clinked into Ilyari’s hand, she let out a slow, stunned breath.

  “We’ll go buy good food,” she whispered.

  “And new cloth,” Tazien said, pocketing the contract. " I would like you to make some travelling robes. But super nice for me and super mysterious. I'd also like silk underwear. I have a royal butt and it needs to be treated as such."

  "Your butt will get cotton like everyone else. And if you keep it up, I'll make it rough wool." Ilyari teased.

  They told Brinna and Indrale good-bye and set a date for the tea. Then walked over to the market and then to Vaylen's shop.

  Vaylen paused mid-fold, the fabric slipping slightly in his hands. “Wait—did you just say Indrale Phindrase?”

  Ilyari looked up from her neatly stacked bolts. “Yes. We just signed a supply contract with her. Three years, exclusive to us.”

  He let out a low whistle and turned to lean against the counter. “That woman has the most loyal clientele I’ve ever seen. I’ve bought her teas since I was sixteen. She once sold me a blend that cured a fever I didn’t even know I had.”

  Tazien raised an eyebrow. “So… she’s legit?”

  “Legit?” Vaylen scoffed. “She’s practically a city institution. If you’re supplying her, you’re not just farmers anymore—you’re merchants.”

  Ilyari blinked. “I suppose we are now.”

  Vaylen gave her a long, thoughtful look. “Then you need to get licensed.”

  Ilyari and Tazien shared a glance.

  “Licensed?” she echoed.

  He nodded. “Kaisulane Merchant Registry. You don’t need to join a house or anything—just register. But if you want to look professional, especially when dealing with nobles and guild patrons, you’ll want to test into a guild.”

  Tazien crossed his arms. “Aren’t guilds for… well, older merchants?”

  “They’re for anyone who wants legal protections and access to better resources. Contracts, courier networks, mediation services. And if you stay in one long enough, people start trusting your name.”

  “Even if we’re exiled?” Ilyari asked.

  Vaylen shrugged. “You’re not selling your title—you’re selling tea. As long as the leaves don’t argue politics, you’ll be fine.”

  “And the test?” Tazien asked.

  “Standard. Reading, math, merchant ethics, product handling, regional trade laws. You’d pass it in your sleep,” he said, nodding at Ilyari. “And you,” he added, gesturing at Tazien, “will at least be charming enough to confuse the examiner.”

  Ilyari smiled. “And the cost?”

  Vaylen exhaled. “Not ruinous, but not small. Sixty to register. Another forty each to sit the test.”

  Tazien whistled. “That’s over a hundred Vatra.”

  “Which is why,” Vaylen said, folding his arms, “you keep doing what you’re doing—quietly. Under the table. No records. No loud banners.”

  “And if we get caught?” Ilyari asked.

  “Then you claim you were in the process of applying. Most people won’t report you unless you start making too much money too quickly. Once you do, they’ll want a cut.”

  “Stars,” Tazien muttered. “This city’s a whole different kind of garden.”

  “Just with more weeds,” Vaylen said. “But you’re sharp. Keep your head down. Pass that test before the end of term, and you’ll be ahead of half the legitimate sellers in South Ward.”

  Ilyari nodded slowly, already calculating. “So we keep selling. Quietly. Study the laws. Pay the fees. And make it official.”

  “Exactly,” Vaylen said, pleased. “Now you’re thinking like a merchant.”

  Tazien grinned. “Does that mean we get discounts here now?”

  Vaylen raised an eyebrow. “It means I’ll let you scrub the back shelves for scraps. But if you bring me another pouch of Indrale’s rosemary mint again, I might be persuaded.”

  By the time they reached Willowgrove, the sun was low on the horizon and the shadows stretched long across the cobbled path.

  Ilyari shifted the weight of her cloth bundles and adjusted the strap of her food sack. “We need to invest in a cart,” she muttered. “Or a steed. Or six children.”

  “Can we afford children?” Tazien grinned, the weight of their shared pole balanced over his shoulder. “Might be cheaper to train corrupted mice to fetch groceries.”

  They stepped through the front door, and both came to a slow stop on the threshold.

  The stairs had changed.

  Still winding, still nestled in the east alcove of the grand foyer—but now bolted with heavy black iron and reinforced timber. The arch of the staircase was more graceful than it had been, curving like the spine of a great beast. And the ceiling above had been lifted. Or... no—cleared. Cleared of dangling rot and crumbling plaster. Light now pooled through a high arch window that hadn’t seen daybreak in decades.

  “It feels taller,” Ilyari whispered.

  “It feels… like a manor,” Tazien said.

  A door creaked from deeper in the house, and Galen Thorne emerged, a bit of sawdust still clinging to his cuffs.

  “Well,” he said, taking one look at the bags in their hands. “Looks like someone’s been to the good side of the market.”

  “We brought stew,” Ilyari said, holding up a cloth-wrapped pot.

  Galen’s eyebrows lifted. “Now you’re truly nobility.”

  They shared dinner seated near the kitchen hearth—simple stools, wide bowls, and hot, heavy stew filled with garden herbs, root vegetables, and slivers of seasoned meat. The broth was rich and dark, flavored with sage, wild onion, and a sprig of lemon balm.

  Galen accepted his bowl with a grunt of gratitude. “Better than anything I’ve eaten on site in months.”

  “You’ve earned it,” Ilyari said, brushing her skirt flat as she sat. “The stairs are beautiful.”

  “And safe,” he added, holding up a spoonful of stew. “We’ll start on the upper floors next week.”

  Ilyari blinked. “Next week?”

  Tazien perked up. “So soon?”

  Galen nodded. “Main floor’s nearly done. Reinforced most of the beams today. Even got the bath working.”

  They both froze.

  “The… bath?” Ilyari echoed, almost reverently.

  “Walls treated. Pipes scrubbed. Hot water’ll take some coaxing, but it works.” He grinned. “You’ve got yourselves a functioning bath, Your Majesties.”

  They barely heard the teasing tone.

  When Galen left—full and slightly smug—Tazien immediately darted toward the work room.

  He knelt beside the crate and gently lifted the cloth covering the flower pods. Each one still glowed faintly, a low, pulsing shimmer like the rhythm of resting hearts. No brighter, no dimmer. Just… holding on.

  “Still here,” he whispered.

  He re-covered them with care, then made his way upstairs.

  The bath was hot. Steaming. With clean stone tiles and a small shelf for soap. Ilyari sank into the water first, her eyes fluttering shut as the warmth soaked into sore muscles. Tazien followed after, cleaning up in his turn once she finished.

  For the first time since arriving at Willowgrove, they were truly clean. Not rinsed. Not wiped down with damp cloths and basin water. Clean.

  Ilyari stood at the fogged mirror afterward, braiding her damp hair with fingers that didn’t ache. Tazien padded down the hallway in a clean shirt, carrying a candle in one hand.

  They didn’t speak much after that.

  Sleep claimed them softly. Sheets fresh. Bodies warm. And a house that—at last—felt just a little more like home.

  ?? Do you trust Indrale Phindrase and her mousey son Eiggim to hold up their end of the tea deal?

  ?? And what are your theories about the Royal Code slowly resurfacing beneath Willowgrove?

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