"The magic's gone," Hjordis said. "Da's sword pulled it out."

Mads peeled himself from the wall, his breath steadying.

He crossed to the desk and finally reached for the bear — carefully, with pinched fingers like testing whether a coal had cooled. He turned it over. Facial muscles softened into a sad smile.

"Aye. 'Tis cold Jordie."

Hathora said nothing, eyes running from the paper bear in Mads's hand to the cold blade.

"Could I have it?" Mads said, his voice cracked slightly. "As a good luck token, I reckon'. Need all the help I can get, don't I?"

Hathora looked at him for a long moment, her eyes hardened. "You may."

He nodded and tucked the bear into his tunic's pocket. Left the small room without a word.

Hjordis lingered a while longer. It was true. Her father's presence had been in the room, but she, not the sword had done something. Opened a window perhaps and let what remained of him soar with the wind. Or — she looked down at the metal. He was with her now. More of him, within the blade. Her blade now.

Hathora turned, key in hand. "Let me offer you both some tea, for the nerves. Estan brew, seems fitting."

"Aye." Hjordis said, eyes lingering on the books, the closed drawers beneath the desk. Thought about going through them tomorrow if her aunt allowed it. "Seems fitting."

The sitting room soon smelled like bergamot and jasmine. Those golden biscuits back beside the tea service. Mads didn't take one. Sipped his tea quietly, eyes on the door, like he expected Trinny to burst in any second, Hjordis thought. Or the Magistracy announcing they caught her.

When they'd sat long enough that the fire had dropped lower and the conversation had found its way to the quality of the sugar cane and the expense of trade routes, Mads set down his cup with a loud clink. "The sword," he said. "Magic recognising magic. It wants to flood together, like."

"Like water?" Hjordis asked. Hathora looked at them with raised brows.

"Tomsun always said — kept separate it's harmless, but once it starts combining—"

"I take your meaning." Hathora said, not unkindly.

"A flood." Hjordis filled in, her mind still in that room. On that warm extraordinary feeling she'd glimpsed. That bright blinding light.

Mads nodded, a shy look that sat wrong on his face, sipped loudly on his tea again. The clock struck its ninth hour. Hathora rose.

"I must retire. Bertha will provide whatever you require." She paused at the door. "Let's pray Ilion will grace you both tonight."

Then she was gone, only measured footsteps up the stairs. The fire settled. Greenlake moved outside the window despite the late hour. Cartwheel on cobblestone, distant voices.

Mads dove for the biscuits. Pressing sugar crumbs into his mouth, then another. Hjordis stared at him. Set down her cup. Mads stopped, crumbs on his jaw, blue eyes fixed on her.

"We should go upstairs. My room. Things to discuss. Village duties. All of that."

Mads just looked at her. Hjordis's cheeks flushed hot.

"Besides." She struggled to keep her voice level. "There's still that thing ye promised."

Another long pause. His face went slack, then frowning with calculation, then relaxing again with a sickening realization. "Aye," he said and swallowed. "That."

His eyes darted to the direction of the door but darted back when Hjordis grabbed his wrist.

"Come with me, upstairs." She said again, sounding more like herself. "Please?" Mads nodded with a slack jaw and followed. His hand limp in Hjordis's strong grip, pulling the larger boy up to the top floor.

The sunflower room with the slanted ceiling shrank when Mads ducked through the door. Mads moved to the colourful window, pulled out the bear from his pocket and turned it over in the dim colourful light.

Hjordis adjusted her skirt, took a deep breath and clutched her palms against her sides.

"Mads," she blurted, heart pounding so fast he could hear it. "I like ye. I have for a long while now. I'm not tryin' to use ye to rid the red, if that's what ye might be thinkin'."

Mads froze, the bear slipping from his limp fingers and landing softly on the floor. He turned to face her with wide eyes.

"Hjordis…"

"I can sense ye're different now," she pressed on, the words tumbling out of her, "Like ye've been unleashed after Tomsun's death, and I'm different too. I like ye and I'm not scared to say it anymore."

Mads backed up, his face pale in the fading light. He hit his head on the slanted ceiling with a dull thud, wincing in pain. "Hjordis, I..." he started, his voice strained.

Hjordis stepped forward before he could retreat further or thought about escaping downstairs to his room. Her hand reached out, finding his cheek, the sparse stubble rough against her palm. The muscle beneath jumped at her touch. Mads swallowed.

"I like ye," she said again, softer. Mads's hand came up slowly, touching her waist, not really holding her and not really pushing her away either.

"After the ceremony, you promised to go through with it. Ye told me you wanted to."

His shoulders climbed towards his ears. "Wanted what?"

She reached back and untied her skirt. He let go of her and just stared, fingers working at his collar. Then his hands moved to work his own shirt strings.

"All right." Hollow. Decided. "I'll give ye what ye want. As promised. As village elder." For some reason he didn't meet her eyes. "No kissin'. Keep it plain. Agreed?"

Hjordis blinked confused. The refusal landed hard in her chest. A pause, then; "Agreed."

Her hands weren't steady anymore as she peeled away the last of it. The red fabric pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it, bare in the candlelight — her modest chest, the curve of her hip, the dark hair between her thighs — and Mads's eyes lifted and took her in for two full seconds before he pulled his shirt over his head. He sat down on the bed's edge and bent over his boots, and as he straightened his fingertips kept tracing the sparse dark hair there, like he'd done in the forest, traced the line of his sternum. The way one would pat a coat pocket to confirm something was still there.

Hjordis stood there, waiting, covering herself, skin rising in goosebumps from cold and anticipation.

Finally Mads pushed away the breeches. Sat with his elbows on his knees, cock soft against his thigh despite her nakedness not two feet away, looking at his own hands while the coloured glass painted him in beautiful warm colours.

"I'm untouched, Jordie," he told the floor, "I've never—" he stopped.

She sat down beside him, thighs pressed tightly together. Her hand found his chest, she felt his pulse under her palm, fast and slightly irregular and then she guided him back against the pillow. Mads laid down, limbs stiff, hands awkward at his side. Hjordis swallowed and took him in hand. Worked him slow and careful while Mads's eyes flew wide — not with the lazy looks of pleasure Hjordis had seen in Tomsun that one time, the expression was wrong for pleasure. Closer to alarm. He stared at her working hand, his molars ground, hands fisting at his side. Agreeing, yet his body his refusal.

"Are ye alright? We could—"

"No it's fine!" Mads managed to choke out, "nerves is all."

"Tomsun told ye how this works?" She asked gently.

"Aye." The laugh came out wrong. "I ken how it works."

Suddenly the candle flame bent hard to one side. No draught. The window was shut. The flame angled sideways, held, straightened. Hjordis saw it, her hand went still on Mads. The prickling returned, walked from her forearms up the back of her neck and kept going.

The fruition ritual. It was working. Goria herself had wandered into the attic room. Making her presence known. There ye are, she thought. There ye are.

She swung her leg over him. Guided him to her. Pushed down slow and took him in and the fullness of it pulled a sound from her chest before she could stop it. His hands locked on her hips and she rocked forward. Mads said nothing. Looked past her, lips pressed shut.

The sunflowers turned.

Slowly. Hjordis caught it from the corner of her eyes. Every painted head on the wall faced the bed, petals forward, attending, watching their coupling. The fat yellow head above the washbasin tilted toward her like a dog hearing its name. Hjordis registered it and kept moving. The ritual was working. She believed it.

She moved and he was moving too under her and the ceiling pressed fractionally lower and the air turned thick as the air before a lightning strike. Mads's hands rested on her hips, but his eyes blown black and his lips were moving on nothing and his one hand moved up and began to trace patterns on his sternum, then his throat, reading something written in his own skin.

"Mads," she panted, sweat trickling down her back, down between her cheeks. Mads wasn't there. He'd gone somewhere inside himself. She dug her nails into his shoulders to bring him back.

Mads didn't come back.

She stopped trying and pressed her forehead to his collarbone, breath coming out sharp and ragged. His pulse under her skin, hard and off-rhythm, hips rocking up hard to meet her, rough sounds pressing out of closed teeth. She closed her eyes and the field was there — Arable's south field stripped to black earth and turned wide open, the furrows running deep and dark. And the sunflowers in the room became sunflowers in the field and both turned towards the same centre, ancient bloodlines crossing and recrossing like worn paths.

Hjordis's lips found his neck. Didn't kiss. Breathed in the scent of turned soil and copper and old rain.

His grip tightened until it would bruise. She moved harder. Built towards it. His back came off the mattress, throat exposed, hand splayed across it, head pressed back into the pillow, and through him came a sound both feral and relieved, the sound of a mechanism completing its function — Mads surrendered, and she clenched around him and her own climax took her fast and hard, back arching, nails leaving crescents in his shoulders, her face shoved into the crook of his neck, breathing in salt and the scent of Arable. Beneath it all was something sugary sweet she had no name for.

Then it broke. The ceiling rose. The candle dropped to normal height. The sunflowers resumed their painted poses their artist once intended for them.

They lay there.

Mads's hands at his sides. Hers folded over her stomach, hips raised, waiting, the way the midwives always said. Give the seed time to settle. Don't move yet, let it take root.

She stared at the painted ceiling and let herself feel it. The candle flame had bent. The walls had known. Goria had attended.

Hjordis saw movement on the walls. Eyes darting to check, but the sunflowers remained still. Only the flickering candle making tricks of her shadow. Everything was very still and quiet, especially Mads.

She turned to look at him.

"Wasn't it… wasn't it pleasurable for ye?" Her voice came out small. "The ritual worked, Mads. I could feel Goria's presence, her blessing. Couldn't ye feel her too?"

"I felt her alright." His voice was thick with emotion she couldn't name.

"Then why—"

Mads sat up. Reached for his shirt without looking at her. Pulled it over his head. Unlaced his boots with his back turned to her. She watched the line of his spine and waited for him to turn around. Told herself he was fine. That he was simply awed by what had happened. At least that was what she was telling herself.

"Cannae do this." He said, quiet. To the boot, not her. "Willnae be like Tomsun. Just a feckin' breedin' bull." He stood, found his breeches. "When the gates open, I'm goin' to Cora. Enlistin'. Like every other lad from Arable."

The warmth left her before the words finished. She sat up, blanket clasped over her chest.

"Run from yer duties? Ye can't just—"

"Mind's made up." He pulled the linen over his head. Still hadn't turned around.

"I'll be replaced." His laugh held no humour. "Imagine there's hundreds of gents linin' up for this job."

"Ye're not just any lad." Her voice cracked on it. She hadn't planned for that. "Not to me."

He stopped with one hand on the door. She watched his jaw work, a smile attempting itself, settling into a flat line. Then he turned, finally, and looked at her. She remained bare in the candlelight with her hands folded over her stomach where maybe the miracle she'd wanted for so long was taking root.

"I'm just down the stairs," he said, attempted a smile. "Second floor if ye need anythin'."

The door closed. His footsteps went down one flight and stopped. She lay back, exhaled, chest burning hot with indignation. Lump burning in her throat. Looked at the sunflowers. She kept her hips raised and her hands folded over her stomach and stayed very still, the way the midwives always said, and let herself believe that what had attended the room had been Goria, nothing else.

It was all she had to hold.