Fyr-Ceann Kitaryn strides away in search of my mattan, with the trail of her pastel skirts swaying in her wake. The excessive fabric makes me feel naked by comparison in my basic work linens, brown to hide the dirt. Her hair wafts behind her like a cloud, light and rippling. I don't think I've seen anything like it.

“If you don’t quit staring after that pompous birdling, I might have to accuse you of being fox-nipped,” my cousin, Larchin, jests from beside me. “And it’s not even winter.”

Fox-nipped. The phenomenon of winter lovers for which, at just about two-hundred years old, I'm supposedly overdue.  It'd take the eighth fool to be fox-nipped for someone from the top tier of the city. There’s no hope of either kind of union there: matronage or marriage. A parental contract has to be agreed upon by both the partners and their parents–usually the fathers. And a permanent union? I've never considered “marrying up,” as they say.

“You didn’t feel the chill in the air?” Ionin, my younger brother, holds up a finger as if testing the wind. “I think it’s winter wherever that girl goes.”

“Maybe, since our boy can’t hold down a relationship with one of us, he’s decided to try his luck with the top!” Blatus teases.

I shake my head with a grim smile. “You should speak of people with more respect. Especially a Fyr-Ceann. It's a part of the title, keeping her distance and parading around. Who knows? Maybe she doesn't even want to do it.” I don't know that I fully believe what I’m saying, but I also can't believe someone could be so self-consumed that they literally look down their nose like that. It seems like posturing.

“Yes, her neck must get sore from lifting her chin all day. Such a sacrifice she’s making for the rest of us.” Larchin laughs heartily at his own joke, earning a chuckle from Blatus and Ionin.

My lips draw tight, but I don't argue more. They'll only push the teasing further, and I don't like talking about someone I don't know. They might call it harmless banter. It's common enough to talk bad about the high-tier city folk. They're so far removed from daily life outside the walls that they often seem like caricatures of elves. Yet, they run the nation. Our only representative is the Ceann of Cultivation–one of the five Ceanns. I heft a crate of bad gourds to my shoulder. Authority must be a burden, at least some of the time.

I bring my crate of bruised goods to my mother, who cuts them for puddings and pies, and then I hurry to organize and unpack. We're behind, but we can catch up if the Fyr-Ceann doesn't take too long. I keep one eye on her as she wafts between stacks and piles, writing notes.

If she’s impressed by the excellence of our harvest, she gives no sign. Her eyes remain focused and her lips downturned in a serious expression. Somehow, it doesn’t seem natural on her face. Her brow isn't hard enough for it, and from time to time her nose twitches as if itching to break the expression.

She should be impressed. For a thousand years, my family has worked to perfect the art of farming. Timing, co-planting, rotating fertilizing: you name it, we experimented. Only this year, my Mho-mattan–on my father’s side–found a book of old fertilizer recipes, which she guards closely. They have worked better than anyone dreamed. The ingredients are odd and expensive, but the results are gorgeous, winning us this festival’s competition along with the honor of catering the final day. It's just about the highest honor a Cultivator can achieve–not that we were wanting for respect. We'd already been doing well.

As Fyr-Ceann Kitaryn glides toward the cranberries, her expression morphs to confusion. I drop some apples into a water bucket for apple-bobbing and chase after her.

As I approach, the Fyr-Ceann finishes scratching a note and reaches her pale, delicate hand toward an open basket of cranberries.

“Irresistible, aren’t they?” I say, my chest swelling as I lean on the edge of the cart. I'm proud of our family for this.

“Eep!” she flinches and spins toward me, withdrawing her hand. She straightens again all too quickly, turning up her chin. It's almost cute how hard she's trying to cover it. “Aodan, good. I have some questions about your crops.”

“Ah.” I reach past her, grabbing a berry and rolling it between my fingers. I know I didn't tell her my name, so Mattan must have passed her off to me. “Questions that involve sampling the goods?”

She presses her lips against each other, outwardly unamused. “I intended to determine whether they were as tart as the late season berries.”

“Of course!” I flatten my hand, offering her the berry with my best salesman smile. “The Barleyblossoms wouldn’t offer anything but the best!”

Something about the way her eyes flicker makes me believe that she wanted to roll them, but she keeps her expression neutral as she takes the berry. “Lovely of you.” When she pops it in her mouth, not only do her pale lips pucker, but her whole face wrinkles with them. It feels like watching a child have her first taste of lemon.

“See? Nice and tart.”

She forces it down. “Very. You know, cranberries are meant to be preserved in jellies and jams, or perhaps made into frosted berries.”

If she likes that sugar-coated dessert, then she has a strong sweet-tooth on her. “We all have our preferences, Fyr-Ceann, but we wanted to offer a rarer delicacy this season.”

“I’m not talking about preferences, Aodan. I mean to say that offering cranberry pies at a Harvest Festival is atraditional. I’m afraid you will have to take them off the menu. Cranberries as a whole, really.”

I blink. I'd forgotten, for a moment, that I am speaking to Fyr-Ceann Willowbirth, the daughter of the callous House of Tradition. She isn't here to taste and be impressed. “Right. We can do that.”

Ionin will be disappointed. He insisted on including our plethora of early berries, sure it would attract attention–and a market to trade them. My little brother has an incredible head for business. I'm fairly certain the lad’s uncanny ability to talk up to others helped win us this spot. He had spoken to the right people of how our family treated farming like an art. This upper tier only cares about art. It is, according to them, the highest achievement one can aspire to. Ionin's appeal had been effective without the lad ever directly soliciting our goods.

“Good. No cranberries, then.” The Fyr-Ceann is writing on her papers again. “Tell me, Aodan, has your family changed cultivation techniques recently? Perhaps you found water on your land?”

Her tone is conversational, but after she nixed the berries, I doubt she's really just chatting. “No, no techniques. No water,” I answer honestly.

“It hasn’t been this bountiful of a year for other farmers,” she notes, her eyes alighting on mine. They're a crisp blue, full of curiosity, but so sharp they cut my soul. ”Surely you must have done something different.”

So she is suspicious of how well our crops our doing. In a way, it's a compliment. She actually is impressed with us. “Well, yes, we did change fertilizers. My mho-mattan found some old recipe that had been lost.”

Her brows rise in surprise, delicate lines of light on her forehead. “Ah, what kind?”

This is fun. I lean in conspiratorially, letting a smile play on my face. “Recipe’s a family secret, Fyr-Ceann, from my mho-mattan’s side. We can’t have that go public.” I give her a wink, hoping she will understand that I mean to be friendly, but can't give out the recipe just because she asked. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. My grandmother hasn’t shared it with any of us, only some of the ingredients.

An amused smile creeps over her face, softening her features. This, as before, doesn't seem quite like the expression most natural to her, but it's closer. “Oh? We can’t have you sharing family secrets. Unless they aren’t secrets. I’ll put in an audit request for your mho-mattan’s family to see if there are recipes documented in our archives, and then you can confirm if they are correct. What is her family name?”

“It was Greenblaze before it was Barleyblossom, I think. Is that really necessary?” I can't see how it would benefit the House of Tradition to investigate a fertilizer. It's not exactly relevant to our culture.

“Greenblaze, got it.” She jots it down anyway. “And yes, I’m afraid I must knot the pattern on all the edges or it might fray. That is, I noticed an oddity. It’s my job to ensure it is an acceptable one.” Though her face has returned to an even expression, there is a burdened edge to her voice, almost bored.

“Sounds tiresome, always tying the ends and never stitching. You must get yourself up in knots over it,” I say, offering a cheeky grin. Stupid.

She nearly giggles, her mouth opening into a bow and eyes twinkling for so brief a moment that I think I dreamed it. It's so much closer to the perfect expression that I want to keep talking and make it happen again.“You have no idea,” she says. Then she stiffens. “It’s a time-honored duty, and I’m glad to have it. I do it well and am pleased to, but it can be mundane at times. That is all I mean.”

I study her, wondering if she means any of that as she scribbles something at the bottom of her scroll. “I see.” What I can see is that she at least partially meant it, but something about her position oppresses her. She does indeed have her own burdens.

“Here,” she tears off the bottom of her page and hands it to me. “This is your writ of approval, provided you remove the cranberries. I will follow up with your family about the recipe either way. That is all.” She bobs her head and turns to go.

“Fyr-Ceann,” I speak to keep her from leaving, but once I have, I don't know what I intended  to say. I shift my boots under me, hearing them scrape on the stone. Before the thought fully forms, my mouth is moving. “If you need a break from the mundane at the festival tonight, perhaps you could offer a dance to me?”

She pauses, her white brows pinching for a moment, but then she lets them melt once again into an amused smile. I've done it again. “Alright.”

I barely remember to stoop into a bow as she leaves. I asked a high tier citizen to dance, a Fyr-Ceann. And she agreed? I'm not sure whether to be proud or ashamed of myself. It's a pointless move. I have no desire to ever leave the farmlands. But she's a rare woman indeed, and I have to admit I'm curious. Besides, she seems to be in need of some laughs, and I can provide her with that. Perhaps it will help her, if it accomplishes nothing else.

I trod off to deliver the writ and the unfortunate news about the cranberries, smiling despite the misfortune. My brother will forget all about the berries when he sees who I dance with tonight.