Chapter 96

The snow was soft that morning, falling in a slow, lazy drift over the rooftops. October woke to the sound of wood crackling in the hearth. The air in the cabin was warm, the kind of warmth that wrapped around her like a heavy blanket, but the faint chill near the windows reminded her that the world outside was still deep in snow.

She sat up in bed, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. Baldwin wasn’t there. His side of the bed was already cold, which meant he’d been up for a while.

From the main room came the sound of a low hum. Not singing exactly—Baldwin wasn’t the type—but the deep sound of him thinking aloud as he worked. She followed it, padding barefoot across the wood floor.

He was standing by the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly damp as if he’d washed his face in the basin outside. Elara sat at the table in her nightdress, swinging her legs and holding a wooden spoon like a sword, stabbing at the air.

“You’re awake,” Baldwin said without turning.

October leaned against the doorway, smiling softly. “You didn’t wake me.”

“I tried not to,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You looked peaceful. That’s rare.”

She ignored the comment. “What are you making?”

“Porridge,” Scheuer answered before Baldwin could. She grinned, showing

her perfect rows of front tooth. “But I said we should add honey. He said no. You should tell him he’s wrong.”

Baldwin gave her a look. “We have one jar of honey left for the month. If I put it in your breakfast, you’ll expect it every day.”

Elara wrinkled her nose. “You sound like an old man.”

“I am an old man,” Baldwin replied flatly, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

October crossed the room and sat at the table beside Scheuer. “One spoonful of honey won’t end the world.”

Baldwin arched a brow at her but didn’t argue. He scooped steaming porridge into three bowls, drizzled the smallest line of honey over Scheuer’s portion, and placed it in front of her.

Scheuer grinned triumphantly. “Told you she’d win.”

“You’re both impossible,” Baldwin muttered, but his voice was softer than his words.

They ate in quiet for a few minutes. The only sounds were the faint clink of spoons and the muffled howl of wind outside.

It was in these moments—ordinary and slow—that October felt something like safety. No crowded ballrooms. No court whispers. No looming threat of execution. Just them.

Still, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel the weight pressing at the edges of her thoughts. The Southern Kingdom was far away, but not gone. And shadows from both their pasts still knew their names.

After breakfast, Baldwin went outside to chop more firewood. Scheuer busied herself drawing on scraps of parchment, and October began sweeping the floor. She could hear the thud of Baldwin’s axe splitting wood, steady and rhythmic.

“Do you think we’ll stay here forever?” Scheuer asked suddenly.

October paused, leaning on the broom. “Why do you ask?”

Scheuer shrugged, looking down at her drawing. “I just like it here. It’s quiet. But you and Baldwin … you always look like you’re thinking about something else.”

October swallowed. “Maybe we’ll stay a long time,” she said carefully. “But sometimes the world doesn’t let you choose.”

Scheuer was quiet for a moment, then changed the subject to show October her drawing—a clumsy but charming sketch of a fox in the snow.

By mid-morning, Baldwin returned, brushing snow from his coat. “We should go into the village today,” he said, setting the wood by the hearth. “We’re low on salt and flour.”

October nodded. “And maybe more parchment for Scheuer.”

“Only if she finishes the last stack first,” Baldwin said, glancing toward the girl.

Scheuer huffed. “You’re unbelievable, i am not a child.”

They bundled up and set out. The walk to the village was long but not unpleasant. Snow crunched under their boots, and their breath came out in pale clouds. Baldwin carried most of the heavier supplies on the way back, but on the trip there, he let October and Scheuer wander ahead, their voices carrying on the wind.

In the village, they stopped at the baker’s stall, where the smell of fresh bread made October’s stomach growl. The baker, a plump woman with rosy cheeks, greeted them warmly.

“You’re early today,” she said, handing Baldwin a loaf.

“Trying to beat the storm,” he replied.

The woman leaned closer. “Storm, yes. And other things. You should keep an eye out—word is there’ve been strangers asking about new faces in the area.”

Baldwin’s expression didn’t change, but October saw the faint tightening of his jaw. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

They bought what they needed and began the walk back. The air felt different now—quieter, heavier.

That evening, after Scheuer was in bed, Baldwin sat at the table sharpening his knife. October poured two cups of tea and set one in front of him.

“You heard what she said,” October began.

“I did.” His voice was low. “It’s probably nothing. But it could be something.”

October met his gaze. “Do you think it’s the South?”

“I think,” Baldwin said slowly, “that the South doesn’t forget. And neither do the people who once served them.”

The fire popped, sending a spark into the air. October reached across the table and rested her hand over his. His hand was warm, steady.

“We can’t run forever,” she said softly.

“No,” he agreed. “But for now, we can keep them safe.”

For the rest of the night, they didn’t speak of it again. But when October lay in bed later, listening to the wind outside, she knew that their quiet life was more fragile than it seemed.

And somewhere out there, the shadows were still moving closer.