Three days have passed since I kissed her. We've heard nothing from the House of Tradition. I dare to hope it's over. And I dare to hope it's not.

I tie another sheaf and toss it in the cart. Above me, the sky broods in company with my miserable days, shrouding the blue sky and snow-capped peaks above. I wish the clouds would break apart and shine white and wispy, like Kitaryn’s hair.

I shake myself. Frosts, that fox-nip does fester.

I tried, in my misery, to write a letter of apology. Perhaps a hundred of them, each more incriminating than the last.

“Dear Kitaryn, Sorry I overstepped. I regret any offense I caused you.”

“Dear Kitaryn, Sorry I behaved inappropriately. I regret that I did not ask your permission first.” Or, “Sorry I acted against propriety. I regret my actions, except that I would kiss you again if you would let me, but I regret offending you all the same.”

At least the first one is vague enough that if someone else read it, I wouldn’t dragged off for my insult to her, whipped, and made into a manservant. I grit a rye smile. That's the punishment I deserve, but in all likelihood I'd only be fined payable to Kitaryn–a hefty fine.

“Aodan!” My brother’s voice carries down the mountainside from the house.

Quit being a lovesick pony and do some work, yes, I know. If only you knew it was guilt—

“Come quick! We have trouble!”

The panic in the call sends me leaping up the slope before Ionin has finished speaking. Mho-mattan isn’t of the reclusive age yet. It can’t be her, I think as I scan the hill for a sign. A shining helmet catches my eye. Everguard?

I redouble my pace, slipping over stripped stalks of barley. Finally I round the crest to see five soldiers—no, four and a dark-haired she-elf—standing outside the cabin. Loud voices argue inside.

“What is it?” I pant to my brother, who points into the house.

“House of Tradition.”

My stomach flops into my feet as I step through the threshold. I'm met with the steady glare of that gray-haired Trom. His nose wrinkles when he sees me, as though I'm a bad smell on the bottom of his boot.

“I’m afraid you are leaving us with very little choice, ma’am. If you had turned it over when I asked, then you would have avoided this. Captain!”

A helmeted she-elf with brown hair pokes her stern face through the door. “Sir?”

“Please have two of your fine guards escort this esteemed member of the Cultivator society to the Courts to hold for questioning. The rest of you will need to search the house for that recipe.”

No. I look around for Kitaryn, but she's absent. She wouldn’t.

My mho-mattan reaches for the broom and wields it like a weapon. “Oh no you don’t!”

“Erynas!” My mattan grabs the handle. “Don’t do that!”

Then the captain swings the door wide and gestures for two guards.

My fists clench, white-knuckled, and I stride up to Trom. “You can’t do this! Don’t you need a writ or warrant or something?”

The elfman pulls out a scroll bound to a small strip of wood. “It’s all in order.”

I snatch it, reading a portion aloud. “If the person involved refuses to produce the recipe for investigation, she may be detained for questioning, and her house searched as necessary at the discretion of the House of Tradition.” I clench the scroll in my fist.

Signed: Kitaryn Willowbirth, Middle Clerk.

She would and she did. I thought she was incapable of petty revenge. But she publicly shamed Trom. Why not hit me where it hurts most: my family.

“Erynas, just give them the recipe!” My mattan wrestles the broom from her.

“This is a violation!” She rasps, waving a fist. “You say you stand for the good of the people, and now you would drag an old lady out of her home!”

An everguard places a hand on Mho-mattan's shoulder and begins to gently push. “Please, elftress.”

Blessedly, she does comply.

“How long should we hold her, sir?” The captain asks. At a flick of her hand, another guard sweeps into the back of the house. I hear furniture scrape the floor as he shuffles it around to search.

Hold her. In some miserable room in the roots of the mountain away from the sunlight and wind. The thought sets me boiling.

“Until we have our answers about the recipe. Longer, if it proves atraditional. We shall find out by the end of the day, I imagine. And put these on her.” It's a pair of cuffs, detached from one another, inscribed with unrecognizable characters. Useless, but anyone who sees her along the path will know she’s under arrest.

“Is that really necessary? She’s going willingly,” Athyr cuts in, standing between the guards and Mho-mattan.

“In the case of a potential user of magic, it is protocol,” the captain explains. 

My outrage boils over. I shove past the captain, my fingers strangling that scrap of paper called a warrant.

“Where do you think you are going?” my mattan demands.

I pause in the doorway and unclench my jaw just long enough to speak. “To pay a visit to the Center of Culture.” If Kitaryn wants petty revenge, she should take it out on me, not my grandmother. “You all just focus on making Mho-ma comfortable. I’m going to sort out a misunderstanding.”

I trudge on. Maybe, if I take responsibility, Kitaryn will leave my family alone. Whatever it takes, I will protect them.