Crown of Iron

Chapter Four

The night carries with it a biting chill, warning of autumn which would shortly settle in. Soon the leaves would turn shades of gold and amber, falling to the ground with a hushed sigh as the earth and its people began to quiet. She had never much cared for winter. The cold sinks into her bones, and the snow suffocates any trace of life beneath a thick layer of white.

She'll cling onto summer's dying breath for as long as she can.

Anya casts a glance at Elias out of the corner of her eye as she walks. She's starting to think that his poise and grace isn't just a mask he wears in front of nobility. Surprisingly, he'd accepted her invitation to dinner happily enough. She hadn't expected him to, but he'd just smiled and said, "Sounds lovely" like he didn't know that she's trying to understand what he's doing in Mórsail.

Perhaps he doesn't care. The thought had crossed her mind. She doubts that his presence here is fully innocuous but maybe he's looking for a lost relative.

Why can't you take anyone at their word? she asks herself, lips pursing.

It's not that she's incapable but her instincts have rarely led her down the wrong path. She knows he's hiding something. That isn't in question. What is in question is what he's hiding. Anya hopes her family can get more out of him than she'd been able to.

Her family home isn't anything to brag about. The thatch roof needed to be repaired years ago, and it barely has the space for all five members of her family. Still, it's more than most people have, she knows that, and it's... Enough. It isn't perfect, but isn't good enough more than they need? They're lucky to have as much as they do, even if they want for more.

She can smell Brigid's rabbit stew before she even opens the door, her shoulders sagging in relief as she watches the red-haired woman fret about over the food. The table's already been prepared, wooden dishes and glasses set out. Neither of her brothers are anywhere to be seen. She can't see her father either, but she can't remember the last time he left his room.

"Anya, can you—" Brigid pauses as she looks up from the wood-burning stove and sees Elias standing in the doorway. She's as taken aback by the mere concept of a new face as Lord Rian's estate had been. "You brought a guest."

Anya hangs her faded crimson cloak on a hook by the door, taking Elias' tattered jacket and placing it beside hers. "He can have Father's seat," she says without looking at the red-haired woman. "It's not as though he'll be joining us."

She doesn't have to turn to know that Brigid's delicate features are contorted in a disapproving frown. "Diarmuid needs time," she says, voice soft and quiet but no less sharp. "He blames himself for your mother's death—"

"Which was ten years ago," she returns. "Elias can have his seat at the table."

Brigid lets out a sigh but drops the matter, refusing to have this argument again. It's a lost cause at this point. "I made stew," she says instead, turning to Elias. "I hope that's alright with you?"

Elias flashes her one of his dazzling smiles. "My lady, it would be my honour to eat anything you serve me. I have spent many weeks on the road—a homecooked meal sounds divine."

Anya pours herself a glass of ale from a pitcher in the centre of the table as she takes her seat, gesturing for Elias to take a seat beside her. "Elias, meet Brigid. My brother's wife and probably the only reason our household functions at all. Speaking of: where are Tiarnán and Eámann?"

"Gods only know," Brigid says. "They said they'd be back before you came home, but I've long since learnt to stop believing Tiarnán when he says he won't drag Eámann into trouble."