𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝟎𝟐. 𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟔𝟔𝟔

It was half a day's walk to Solomon's settlement. It wasn't in a flat, sunny clearing like Union was. His sturdy wooden cottage was hidden under a canopy of dense trees in the midst of the thick, shadowy woods.

When you finally skipped over the bubbling stream and nodded respectfully at the two fresh gravemarkers at the foot of the path, it was already nearing sunset.

"Solomon!" You called, waving your arms to catch his attention. He'd been toiling in the garden that surrounded his home and when he finally looked up, he had to wipe the sweat from his brow in order to see you properly. He looked confused at first, then delighted.

"(Y/N)," he greeted, spearing the hook of his shovel into the topsoil.

"I'm sorry to have come so late," you smiled, leaning against the fencepost that separated you. "I thought I could make it before nightfall, but it appears I was wrong."

Solomon shook his head with a quiet chuckle, letting his long hair fall across his face. "Get inside, girl. Lest you catch your death in these woods." He stepped around the garden gate to invite you inside. 

Like a fool, you accepted.

The cottage was always surprisingly empty, aside from a tall fireplace in the corner that crackled with dying embers. You set your basket on the table when Solomon shut the door tight behind you. "Why have you come all this way, lambkin?"

The nickname rolled off of his tongue and made the tips of your ears flush. Lambkin, lamb. These were his terms of endearment for you and you alone. When his wife and child first died, the townspeople sent you into the woods with a sympathetic offering—the firstborn spring lamb.

Solomon told you later that when he first saw you walk up the pathway to his home, he couldn't tell who looked more frightened—you or the animal cradled in your arms.

"I should have left sooner," you said, distracting yourself by lifting the cloth cover of your basket and sifting around inside. "But I wanted you to have this before bed."

You handed him the sachet of lavender and stood back with a proud smile as he inspected it curiously. You could have filled the pouch with sand and he would still have been amused by your offering.

"You're too good to me, (Y/N)," he said at last. "I do not deserve your kindness."

"If I had a single brick for every time you've said that to me, I could have built myself a fine house by now," you laughed.

Solomon joined in, tossing the sachet in one hand as he stepped closer. "Patient, lamb. You'll have a husband to do that for you any day now." He smiles, though there's something hidden behind it. "Thank you, truly."

"Of course," you beam, nearly swelling with pride as he walked over to his mantel to set the lavender down beside his collection of assorted bottles—mostly oils and balms. Most you've delivered here yourself.

With his back turned to you, Solomon sighed and shook his head. "If there were anything I could offer in return, I would do so in a heartbeat."

You fiddled awkwardly with the round button that held your cloak over your shoulders. There was a question resting on the tip of your tongue, but Thomas' words still echoed in the back of your mind.

You're an angel amongst devils here, lass. Confiding in Solomon Goode won't change that.

"Actually," you chirped, twisting the button against the seams to busy your nervous hands. "There is...something."