The next few days passed without incident, which Asoka told herself was precisely how they were meant to pass.
Life did not rearrange itself simply because a letter had arrived. The village did not pause. Bread still needed kneading, floors still gathered dust with stubborn loyalty, and the bells at the church rang at the same hours they always had. If anything, the sameness of it all felt reassuring, as though the world itself were reminding her that one unexpected invitation did not warrant upheaval.
Still, she found herself counting.
Not deliberately at first. Only in the smallest ways. She noticed how many mornings had followed the letter, how the moon's shape changed almost imperceptibly each night, how the air seemed to carry a growing coolness after sunset.
Seven days, he had written.
She did not know why that detail lingered with her.
On the fourth morning, she nearly forgot about the letter altogether.
She had gone to the market early, basket hooked over her arm, her mind occupied with the price of grain and the irritating tendency of apples to bruise if handled with even the slightest impatience. A woman two stalls down argued loudly with a vendor over the weight of a loaf, and a child darted between legs with all the confidence of someone certain the world would bend out of his way.
It was ordinary. Comfortingly so.
She was choosing between two bundles of herbs when she heard her name.
"Miss Asoka."
She turned.
Tristan stood a few steps away, hands loosely folded behind his back, as though he had been waiting without wanting it to appear that way. He looked much as he always did—neatly dressed, composed, the faint trace of travel still clinging to him despite his efforts to appear settled.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," she replied, surprised despite herself.
She told herself she had not been expecting him. That was true, technically. But the fact that her heart gave a small, unmistakable jolt suggested that some part of her had been less honest.
They exchanged pleasantries first, as people did. He asked after her health. She asked after the roads. He remarked lightly on the market's energy, noting that it seemed louder than the last time he had passed through.
"It's the bread," she said without thinking.
"Someone always disagrees about bread."
He smiled at that. "Of course."
There was a pause then—not uncomfortable, but weighted.
"I trust you received my letter," he said, gently.
She nodded at once. "Yes. I did."
"And?" He did not press, merely left the word open.
She exhaled slowly. "I haven't written back yet."
"That's all right."
She glanced at him, unsure whether he truly meant it. His expression was calm, unguarded.
"I wanted to speak to you first," she said. "If I could."
"Of course."
They moved away from the stalls, settling near the edge of the square where the noise softened. A cart rattled past, its driver muttering to himself about a stubborn wheel. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed far too loudly.
Asoka clasped her hands together, suddenly very aware of them.
"I can't accept your invitation," she said, the words coming out more firmly than she felt. "I'm sorry."
Even though she longed to see the country, she refused to let her dreams become a burden to anyone else. She had saved a modest sum of orinths, enough to make her own plans. It had taken time and effort, enough to at least cover up for the money that was stolen from her some months ago.
Tristan drew a slow breath, the kind taken by someone who had more to say than he intended to release all at once.
"May I ask why?" he said.
The question was calm, but it wasn't careless. He asked it the way one asks permission, not challenge. Asoka hesitated, her fingers tightening together.
"I don't wish to inconvenience you," she said. "It would be selfish of me."
His brow creased slightly — not in offense, but in disbelief.
"You wouldn't," he said at once, then stopped himself. His mouth closed, and for a brief moment, she saw the protest he didn't allow to form fully. When he spoke again, his tone was more measured.
"It wouldn't be an inconvenience."
She shook her head. "You say that now. But travel is costly. Time is costly. I wouldn't feel right accepting something so… generous."
"Generosity isn't a burden," he replied.
"It can be," she said gently. "To the one who receives it."
That gave him pause.
He glanced away, watching a cart rattle past the square, its driver struggling unsuccessfully to quiet a complaining wheel. The noise seemed to fill the space between them, giving him time to gather himself.
"You believe," he said carefully, "that you encouraged this."
She winced. "I spoke too freely. I asked questions I shouldn't have. I let my curiosity lead."
"That's hardly a crime."
"Perhaps not," she said. "But it can still mislead."
He turned back to her then, studying her face with an attention that made her acutely aware of herself.
"You didn't mislead me," he said. "I knew what I was offering when I wrote to you."
"That doesn't make it right," she replied.
There it was again — her quiet certainty. Not stubbornness, but resolve. The kind that didn't raise its voice.
For a moment, he looked as though he might argue further. His lips parted, then pressed together again. Whatever protest had been waiting behind them was set aside.
"I see," he said finally.
The disappointment was there — she could hear it — but it was restrained, folded neatly into courtesy.
"I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful," she added quickly. "I'm not. Truly."
"I know," he said. "That's precisely why this is difficult."
She blinked. "Difficult?"
"For me," he clarified, with a faint, self-aware smile. "Not for you."
That surprised her into a small laugh, which she quickly tried to hide.
"You shouldn't make it so," she said.
"I'll try not to," he replied. "I can't promise success."
Despite herself, she smiled.