Mother and I left the bustle of the market behind, slipping into a quieter side road. She said it was the quickest way to Sandra Lynn’s, but I knew the truth. If we had gone directly through the stalls and vendors, we both would have been hopelessly tempted to stop—she at the cloth merchants, I at the pastry carts. This way was faster, and safer from distraction.

  The day had warmed, but a cool breeze drifted down the narrow lanes, carrying the scent of stone and soap, balancing the sun’s heat. We passed rows of laundry hung on lines, bright linens swaying like banners, and neighbors sweeping stoops or scrubbing buckets. The rhythm of ordinary life gave the street its heartbeat.

  Familiar homes came into view, and I spotted one before the others. Tuggy’s place.

  Tuggy was an orc, a rarity in the heart of Melrose. Most of his kin kept to the outskirts or formed their own settlements, clinging to traditions far from the walls of cities. But Tuggy had chosen differently. He sold weapons—swords, shields, axes—and though his wares had little to do with our family’s bread, his stall was as well-known as my father’s ovens. He and his family lived just like ours, except their home smelled of steel instead of yeast.

  Tuggy still clung to parts of his heritage. When he and his family had first moved here, it had caused whispers among the townsfolk. They thought the dirt and stones he pressed into his home’s walls were some kind of orcish ritual. In truth, Tuggy had been making a vertical garden. Flowers spilled down the stones in bright cascades, vines heavy with vegetables.

  A small orc child, no more than five, plucked a few of the blooms into a wicker basket. His skin was a brown-green shade, his tusks just beginning to show, giving him an overbite that looked more endearing than fierce. If not for that, he might have been mistaken for a goblin. He caught sight of us and smiled shyly, raising his hand in a gentle wave.

  We returned it, my mother dipping her chin kindly. “Tuggy’s eldest is your age, I believe,” she remarked. “He may be in school with you.”

  The thought stirred in me. For weeks, it had sat at the back of my mind. I had recently passed the entrance exam for classes—an achievement in itself, for not every child had the chance. Many families sent their young into trades early, or into the Red Post, or into odd work that barely scraped by. Schooling was reserved for those who could manage basic arithmetic and letters before their teachers would allow them further. My mother had pushed for it, though my father had argued that I would do better to inherit his trade.

  But my mother was a Demarco.

  She had grown up in the City of Sunset, a jewel of wealth and power, her family owning nearly a fifth of its streets. They made sure every child of their blood was well-educated, groomed for more than simple trades. My mother had carried that insistence with her, even here in Melrose, even into our little home above the bakery.

  I looked up at her as we walked. “Do you think Sandy will be in school?”

  Her expression softened. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I know Mr. Thatcher had her take the test.” She paused, her voice dipping into a note of doubt. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  I followed her gaze. Ahead, rising above the rooftops, was the silhouette of an old barn weathered gray by time, its rooster-shaped vane still spinning proudly at the peak. The building had long since been remade into the Thatchers’ home.

  My heart leapt with anticipation. Sandra Lynn’s house was close, and with it the promise of adventure, secrets, and laughter.

  The side road opened into a clearing where the Thatchers’ home stood pressed against the shadow of Melrose’s inner wall. Once, it had been a proud red barn, but the paint had long since faded under years of rain and sun. From a distance it looked more brown than red, weathered and worn, though its bones still stood strong. The great sliding doors that once opened for livestock had been sealed shut, replaced by a framed entry door and two square-paned windows.

  The yard was a mess of curiosities. Broken wagon wheels leaned in a heap, rusted metal scraps sat in piles, and half-built contraptions were scattered across the grass—levers and pulleys, gears and springs, all remnants of ideas abandoned before they could become inventions. To my young eyes, it was less a yard and more a puzzle, every piece whispering of something I was too small to understand.

  We had taken no more than three steps toward the door when a crash split the quiet.

  Glass shattered as something came flying through the right-hand window, scattering shards across the dirt. My mother’s arm was around me instantly, pulling me behind her skirts in practiced instinct. We both held our breath, waiting for another projectile.

  Instead, voices spilled from the window.

  “Sandra!” A man’s hoarse cry, roughened by years of smoke or shouting.

  “Sorry, Dad!” came the quick reply, high and innocent, a girl’s voice I knew well.

  “If you’re going to use it, do it outside! And Benson and Mrs. Plad will be here any minute. Go get changed!” The man’s voice boomed again, punctuated by the metallic clang of hammer on steel.

  “Okay!”

  Mother exhaled, long and heavy, and straightened her posture as if shedding her alarm. She strode to the door with firm steps, my smaller ones trailing behind. She paused, collected herself with a deep breath, and knocked sharply on the wooden frame.

  “Damnit!” the man barked inside. “Sandy! Double time—they’re here!”

  “Okay!” came the echo again, eager but unhurried.

  I glanced up at my mother, whose lips pressed thin with frustration. I knew that look. She wore it often in my father’s kitchen when he made too large a mess, or in the plaza when a customer tried to haggle over what wasn’t negotiable. She tapped her finger against her arm as we waited, and I fought not to giggle.

  Because, if nothing else, I knew: whatever awaited us inside, it would never be boring.

  The door swung open with such force it slammed against the wall, rattling the old barn on its hinges. The man who filled the frame winced as though embarrassed by the noise.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Ugh. Hey, Martha. Bens…athasia,” he said, fumbling my name with a sheepish nod.

  “Hello, Calvin,” my mother replied, unimpressed but softened with a hint of sisterly fondness.

  Mr. Calvin Thatcher was a man carved by work. He stood a little shorter than my father but broader in the shoulders, his physique the kind that made doors look too small for him. His white shirt was stained black with oil or coal, his overalls marked with the same. His hair was cropped unevenly, as though singed away in patches, and in one massive hand he gripped a crowbar.

  My parents spoke of him often and honestly: an extraordinarily hard worker, brilliant in his craft, a loving father—and utterly clueless about anything outside the scope of his work or hobbies. By trade, he was a repairman, but everyone in Melrose knew him better as an inventor. To Calvin Thatcher, nothing was ever merely fixed—it was improved, reshaped, made to work better than before. He was trained in blacksmithing, carpentry, leatherwork; it seemed no craft was beyond him.

  “Sandy should be down any second,” Calvin said, striking a metal rod against the doorframe. The hum vibrated through the barn, deep and resonant, echoing like a song only he understood. He tilted his head, listening as though it whispered secrets back to him. Then he glanced at us, grinning. “Maybe two minutes. So—where you headed?”

  “The market. And dinner at the Cabbage Bar,” my mother answered.

  For a heartbeat his face soured, but he smoothed it quickly. “I gave her a bit of an allowance,” he said carefully. “But I thought it best if you held onto it, Martha. If that’s all right?”

  “Of course.” She reached out to take the small pouch he offered.

  “Better with you than her. Otherwise she’d come back with a pet spider. Or a wand. She’s been on a marble kick lately too, so if those are for sale—gods help us.”

  “No dangers or pets. Got it,” my mother said, her voice adopting the firm, motherly cadence she always seemed to slip into around Sandra Lynn.

  Calvin shifted, his expression softening. He glanced at me. “Benethasia, I… just want to say…” His words faltered under my mother’s sharp gaze, but he pushed them out anyway. “Thank you. For being such a good friend to Sandra Lynn. It’s been a rough few years. I don’t know what she’d do without you.”

  Mother’s glare melted into something sadder, her eyes heavy with memory. I didn’t fully understand then, but I remembered enough.

  It had been two and a half years ago. Sandra Lynn’s mother, Claudia, had gone missing on a trip upriver to Mellight. Calvin had gone searching, leaving Sandy in our care for two weeks. I remembered sneaking downstairs one night, hoping for a snack, when I overheard my parents speaking through the family’s message stone—an expensive charm used rarely, usually to speak with my Aunt Tilda. They had calibrated it to Calvin’s before he left.

  That night, his voice broke through it, hoarse with grief. “She’s gone, Arturo. We found her by a riverbank. Please… don’t tell Sandy yet. I need to figure out how. I can’t let her see her mother this way.”

  My mother had swallowed back her tears, her voice steady but raw. “Calvin, we won’t say a word. Anything you need—anything—we’re here for you.”

  “Yes,” my father had added. “No question of it. You’re family to us.”

  “Thank you. If you could… speak to the undertaker. Prepare a box. I can’t—she can’t—see Claudia like this.”

  Sandra Lynn had overheard too. We currently were sneaking downstairs to steal some snacks. She had fled upstairs to my room, tears streaming as she buried herself against me, sobbing into the pillow. I had held her tight that night, trying to console her in the only way a child could—by being present, by not letting go.

  That memory flickered in my mind now as Calvin looked at me. His expression was caught between joy and sorrow, as though this moment might be the last.

  “Of course,” I said brightly, trying to match his tone. “Sandy’s the best.”

  Relief spread across his face, blooming into pride. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  The metal rod near him thrummed again, the sound resonating through the barn walls. Calvin’s grin returned, this time sharp with excitement. He glanced upward.

  And from the top window, a figure came tumbling down—arms flailing like a fledgling bird before tucking gracefully into a roll. Sandra Lynn landed in the yard like an acrobat, her feet hitting the ground with a flourish, her laughter carrying into the air.

  The young girl tumbled across the yard and into my arms.

  “Benson!” she cried.

  I squeezed her tightly, grinning as though we hadn’t seen each other in months. In truth, it had only been three nights since we’d shared supper together at Grandpa Prosic’s, where she had been staying while her father was out of town. But that was Sandra Lynn: every meeting was a reunion, every embrace a celebration.

  My mother’s mouth hung slightly open, awe mingled with concern. Her eyes flicked toward Mr. Thatcher in silent parental judgment. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. He was beaming as though his daughter had just taken first place in a race.

  “Those new boots are working for you, aye?” he called. “You rolled a bit late, though. Next time, tuck sooner and the boots’ll catch you quicker.” His voice carried the calm certainty of a man explaining gears and levers, not his daughter nearly hurling herself out of a window.

  Sandra Lynn pulled away, standing tall as though she were presenting herself on stage. She was nearly my height, her blond hair pulled into a loose ponytail under a hastily knitted beanie. A washer, of all things, was stitched to the top like some strange badge of honor. Her brown eyes sparkled, freckles scattered across her cheeks like constellations. She grinned, hands planted on her hips, posing like a hero from one of Prosic’s old adventure tales.

  Her outfit was as chaotic as her landing: a black-and-pink flannel shirt, a leather skirt layered over black trousers, and a wide strap crossing her chest from shoulder to hip. It connected to a belt bristling with trinkets—a Y-shaped slingshot on one side, a wooden-handled screwdriver on the other.

  But it was her boots that caught my eyes.

  They were sturdy, warm-looking, brown leather stitched with delicate leaf patterns. The moment her father mentioned them, I understood.

  “Are those… magical?” I asked, barely containing my excitement.

  “You betcha!” Sandra Lynn declared.

  “I found them in Sunset,” Calvin explained, pride in his voice. “Made for littlefolk, so they don’t hold all the enchantments, but they’ve got a nurturing feature. They’ll grow with her. Best boots I’ve ever bought—never need another pair.”

  My mother broke out of her awe at the mention of her hometown. “The Plower Brothers?” she asked.

  Calvin nodded. “Aye, the shop by the cove. Great deal on them.”

  “That would be Genthel,” Mother said knowingly. “The dwarf. His younger brother Denthel runs the branch in Uphaven.”

  She perked up at the gossip, thrilled to add a morsel of trivia to the exchange. They slipped into conversation about Sunset—his travels, her memories—and for a moment I felt a twinge of jealousy. My best friend had magical boots and dressed like she was about to march into a dungeon for the first time, while I stood in my simple clothes, plain as bread.

  “What do they do?” I pressed, unable to hold it in.

  Sandra’s eyes lit up, her whole body practically buzzing with eagerness. “They’re called the Light Boots of the Branch,” she said, lowering her voice as if confiding a secret. “I’m not a halfling or a gnome, so I don’t get all the fancy enchantments. But if I curl into a ball when I fall, the boots will flip me right back onto my feet—no matter how far I drop!”

  To prove it, she stood on one leg, shrieked a mock death-cry, curled herself into a ball, then snapped upright with arms outstretched. “Ta-da!”

  I clapped, wide-eyed, half in awe, half imagining the mischief we could find with such a thing.

  “What else?” I begged.

  “Outside of growing with me? Not much.” She leaned closer, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “But if I were littlefolk… oh, Benson, then I could run and climb faster than anything. And if I hid in a tree? I’d vanish completely.”

  She pointed down at the leaf-stitched leather. “And look at these leaves! Aren’t they cute?”

  I laughed, shaking my head. She was a little girl just like me, but she carried herself as if she were already halfway to legend. My mother’s greatest fear was that I might turn into a tomboy. If Sandra Lynn was the measure of that fear, then perhaps my mother’s worries were already wasted.

  Together we laughed, while our parents finished their conversation in the yard—Calvin gesturing grandly as he spoke of Sunset, my mother nodding along with nostalgia. And all the while, Sandra Lynn and I stood side by side, two girls in the shadow of a barn, one in magical boots, the other caught between admiration and envy.

  The conversation wound down as my mother strode toward us. Her gaze flicked from me to Sandra Lynn, then lower still.

  “You’re ready to—” she began, then stopped. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked past us to Mr. Thatcher. “No. I can’t allow her to bring that with us.” She pointed directly at the slingshot hanging from Sandra Lynn’s belt.

  “But he said I had to use it outside!” Sandy whined, clutching the strap like a knight defending her sword.

  Mother and I exchanged a glance, the broken window still fresh in both our minds.

  Calvin came over, heavy steps and all, his crowbar still dangling from his grip. “Hey,” he said, lowering his voice into that tone of fatherly finality. “We spoke about this. Anything Mrs. Plad or Mr. Plad tells you is no different than if it came from me. Understood?”

  His words carried both sternness and love, discipline delivered with a steady hand. He held out his palm.

  Sandra Lynn threw her head back in theatrical misery, groaning as though the weight of the world pressed upon her shoulders. She dropped the slingshot into his hand and straightened, lips pursed in defeat.

  “Keep it up,” Calvin teased, his smile returning, “and I’ll make you wear a dress to school.”

  That earned him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. My mother, however, only sighed, her eyes softening with something more complicated—concern, pity, perhaps both.

  “You got in?” I blurted suddenly, unable to contain myself.

  Sandy’s head whipped toward me, and her frown vanished into a triumphant grin. “Of course,” she said, puffing her chest. “Dad said it was obviously a miracle.”

  Mother snorted, the sound halfway between a laugh and disbelief, while Calvin grinned wide and nodded knowingly. Pride radiated off Sandy in waves, her hands finding their way to her hips as though she were already halfway to conquering the world.

  “Alright, you girls get out of here,” Calvin said at last, waving us off. “I’ll pick her up at the Cabbage Bar.”

  Mother returned his wave with a nod, and with a flick of her hand, she shooed us down the road ahead of her. A smile had crept back onto her face. Brief though it was, the strange, chaotic exchange had lightened her mood, scattering whatever shadows she had carried into the barn.

  Behind us, the door closed with a heavy thud, and soon after, the metallic rhythm of hammer on steel rang faintly once more.