The street was dark when the shop finally closed up, the thick oak shutters sliding into place with a heavy thud. Amy sat at the small back counter, her thumbs tracing the coarse linen of the pouch beside her before tipping its contents onto the wood. She counted the coins, stacking them in neat, metallic columns under the dim glow of the oil lamp.
Not enough.
It was above her baseline threshold, certainly, but if she was going to hit her target before the end of the week, she needed at least twice this amount. And today was supposed to be a good day—the best day, with the crowds of Ferendal filling every table and spilling into the narrow streets. There were still people out there right now, stragglers who somehow still possessed the energy to dance to the dying beat of the drums.
Carefree, endless people. Watching them through the cracks in the glass, Amy felt as though they all shared a grand, funny secret that they had deliberately chosen never to tell her.
Outside, the cobblestones were painted in vibrant, overlapping washes of festival red and bright yellow from the hanging paper lanterns. The ribbons danced with the people to the tunes echoing through the streets. Ancient songs of saints.
Amy stepped out into the night and pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders. She was entirely invisible in this world of bliss, a pale shadow slipping past drunken laughter and joyful songs.
She could see the house now at the end of the lane. A warm beam of yellow light still cut through the front window, illuminating the dining room. The Fitzgeralds were still awake. Of course they were. It was the night of Ferendal, and they always stayed up the longest during the festivals, holding onto the lingering cheer of the district. Amy paused at the edge of the yard, wishing with everything in her that they had gone to sleep early tonight—that they had given her even a sliver of peace.
Lately, Mrs. Fitz had become unbearable. Usually, the woman was merely prickly—like a wild rose bush covered in sharp, hidden thorns—but ever since the night they sat Amy down and told her about the arranged wedding, she had grown infinitely worse. Amy couldn't do anything right anymore. If it wasn't the seasoning in the cooking, it was the speed of her cleaning, or the plain, stiff way she walked. Or how odd the words she used were when she spoke. Mrs. Fitz always found something to pick apart, as if trying to break down whatever small resolve Amy had left.
Mr. Fitz was different, too, though in a quieter, heavier way. He used to ramble endlessly about his day, about the shop prices, or how some of the men in the lower ward were planning a hunting trip over the weekend. Now, he was mostly silent. And whenever Mrs. Fitz launched into her bitter complaints, he simply stared at his plate and said nothing at all.
Amy stood on the porch, her cold fingers hovering over the heavy iron door knob. She took a deep, steadying breath, turned the latch, and pushed it open.
"You're late," Mrs. Fitz started immediately. She was sitting stiffly at the head of the dark wooden table, her hands folded over a piece of mending cloth.
"It's Ferendal," Amy said softly, keeping her eyes low as she stepped inside and shut the chill out behind her. "There were far more customers than usual."
"So more money, then?" Mr. Fitz spoke up, stepping out from the narrow kitchen corridor to join them in the light.
Amy hesitated, her fingers twitching against her coin pouch. "No. Not really."
"Oh." Mr. Fitz's shoulders slumped, his voice heavy with a flat, quiet disappointment.
"You need to stop this, child." Mrs. Fitz shook her head slowly, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.
"I can still do it," Amy insisted, her voice rising slightly despite her attempt to keep calm. "I can still make enough money to pay him back."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"I did the calculations," Amy started, taking a step toward the table and pulling out her small, creased scrap of paper. "If I can make this amount twice over for the rest of the week, then it could—"
"Stop. Just stop." Mrs. Fitz slammed her palm on the table, cutting her off instantly. "You haven't made even half of the earnest money he paid us up front. Even if you made three times this amount every single night, you'd still be short. You can't do it, Amy. It's not possible. So just stop doing this to yourself—and to us."
The words hung in the air, cold and definitive. She was right. Deep down, looking at the tiny pile of coppers in her hand, Amy knew there was no mathematical way she could raise the sum required in seven short days. But saying it out loud felt like surrendering to a life she didn't choose. It felt like accepting defeat, and she wasn't ready to give up. Not that easily.
"I can still try," she whispered stubbornness bleeding through her exhaustion.
"You silly girl," Mrs. Fitz spat, her eyes flashing with a mix of genuine frustration and anger. "What is so terrible about this arrangement that you would go out of your way to completely ignore the brutal truth?"
I don't want to marry him. I don't want to belong to a man who looks at me like a piece of furniture
The thoughts raged behind her teeth, but Amy didn't respond out loud. She simply stood her ground, staring at the scarred grain of the table.
"Maybe we all just need to sleep," Mr. Fitz finally spoke up, stepping between them and placing a heavy hand on the back of a dining chair.
Mrs. Fitz shot her husband a sharp look of total disdain and annoyance, snapped her sewing basket shut, and swept out of the room without another word, her heavy skirt rustling against the floorboards.
Silence settled over the room like dust.
"She means well, Amy," Mr. Fitz said quietly after the bedroom door clicked shut down the hall. "She's just... very passionate about the whole thing" He pulled out a chair beside her and sat down with a weary sigh.
"Anything interesting happen today at the shop?"
I met a strange boy. He had eyes like a storm and told me we'd see each other again.
"Nothing," she lied softly, pulling her gaze away. "Nothing happened. Just the festival and all the noise."
"Ah, the festival this year was remarkably lively, wasn't it?" Mr. Fitz started his quiet rambling again, the familiar cadence of his voice returning as he leaned back. "I didn't go out myself, of course, but the neighbours—they were so loud this afternoon, talking about the decorations near the square..."
She liked him like this, when he was just talking to fill the empty space. It made the house feel normal again, if only for a few minutes.
Amy turned her head slightly, looking past his shoulder and out the small glass pane of the dining room window that faced the back field. The night was pitch black beyond the glass, save for the faint, flickering amber glow of the lantern.
She blinked. It had to be a trick of the light—a trick of her tired, desperate mind—because right behind the tall, dark silhouette of their haystack, a figure was standing.
It stood entirely still, tall and shrouded in dark cloak fabric, staring directly through the glass at her. For one agonizing second, her heart hammered against her ribs as their eyes met across the dark yard. Then, as smoothly as a shadow merging into night, the figure turned away and vanished into the treeline.