Wren yanked the needle through the stubborn cloth of her daycloak, her eyes boring holes into the floor. The peace she'd gotten after coming home hadn't lasted long, and her mother was already making her want to scream. It wasn't a surprise, really, that she'd found Wren another suitor already. That didn't make thinking about it sting any less.

"Won't you think about it, just for a moment?"

Wren shifted her gaze on the fabric and refused to look at her mother across the tent. She knew what she would see already. Dark eyes, judging her every movement, eyebrows curved in a question while her mother's arms crossed her chest and her foot tapped on the floor. But there was no thinking about this, because she'd already given her answer.

"Wren."

"I already said no, Mother."

Wren's eyes flickered upwards for just a moment, meeting her mother's frosty glare. She turned them back down again and pretended to inspect her stitchwork. She wished her mother had gotten the message with the last suitor. He'd tried to claim her in public, in front of everyone. It had taken all her restraint not to punch him. She'd giggled with glee--privately, of course--when his parents had left with him at their last caravan stop.

Not that he had been awful. He'd treated her well enough that sometimes she almost had fun hanging around him. But still, his hand on hers made her skin prickle and sparked an urge to run. The memory ran a cold feeling down her back.

"You’re nineteen years old, Wren. Do you realize that eventually you won’t be asked anymore at all? That day is coming. Especially when they see you running around with another boy." Her mother folded her arms. "The neighbors saw you out with him again yesterday. Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

Wren's face got hot. She wasn’t so sure not being asked anymore would be a bad thing anyway. She thought maybe her parents would have given up mentioning Armand by now, since she'd been careful to only spend time with him where they couldn't see her doing it. But of course they'd know about it anyway.

Of course, leaving the tent had been a bad idea after all, and come to think of it she should have stayed home. If her mother knew Rannok was back in the caravan, she would likely not let her leave at all. Not after all the trouble he’d caused them back in the village. Not after he’d gotten them thrown out.

“We were going to the medical tent, Mother. I had a headache.”

“And why was he at our tent to begin with? This must be the hundredth time we’ve gone over this, Wren.”

Wren didn’t answer right away. She glanced up again, mouth creasing purposely into a frown, while her eyes flickered around, searching for her father. His grey eyes avoided hers as he dug through the crate that served as her parents' writing desk. He was looking for something or other that needed to be taken to the market. Which is where Wren wished they still were, but her mother seemed to think bothering her was a better use of their time.

"Leave the girl be, Meria," he said, without looking up.

"We keep having this conversation, Maron, and it's going nowhere. I am tired of it. Talk some sense into your daughter if you want to help."

Wrene would have given anything to get up and walk right out of the tent, but that would just mean more shouting later, when it was harder to get away from. Her father continued digging through the crate, but didn't look up.

"I think she’s being perfectly sensible. Nobody isn’t nervous about the prospect of marriage, Meria."

"She'll get over it, everyone does. You did. I did." Her mother didn't seem to notice that Wren was even in the room anymore. Wren wondered if her mother realized she wasn't her mother.

Her father retrieved a roll of leather bindings from the inside of the box and set it down on top of the crate that served as his writing desk. "Then you understand why she's like this. Give the poor girl some space."

"I'm sitting right here, you know," Wren replied, voice a little louder than was necessary. The thread snapped when she pulled it through the fabric of her cloak, stabbing her in the thumb. She swore under her breath. Her mother stood, and Wren's stomach flipped.

The room filled with tension. Wren took her eyes off her work. Her parents made knowing glances at one another, a silent conversation she wasn't meant to hear. It made her steam. Her father looked back down into his crate of things and shrugged his shoulders.

Wren fixed her eyes on her needlework for a few minutes. Her mother’s anger radiated off her like heat lines off the sand. Her eyes darted to the woman’s face for a brief moment. She’d folded her arms, and her eyes stared daggers into Wren before she relented.

"Fine then." Wren's mother's voice broke the spell of awkward silence binding them. "Maron, we need to go back to the market soon. And you." She looked over at Wren, gaze still frosty, then turned away and folded up the parchment she'd been reading. "Don't think this conversation is done."

Wren didn't deign to answer as her parents shuffled through their tent, kicking up motes of dust as they readied their things. The market would be an all-day affair, lasting until the sun set and the crews began to pack up their belongings. The whole caravan would be on the move soon, and the last few days before a move were always the busiest. Wren thanked the stars it would keep them busy enough that she could do what she wanted.

She watched as their backs retreated out of the tent flap, then released her breath as if she expected the sound to summon them back. Wren waited a few moments before she moved, peeking out between the cracks in the canvas to make sure they were really gone. The tension left her shoulders once she was sure they were.

She was going to need to talk to Armand about showing up here. They couldn’t afford that kind of mistake again. Not if she wanted to retain her freedom.