Chapter 32 Stitches and Shadows
Evie:
The workbench smelled of lavender oil and leather, with a faint warmth that came from hands that worked often and worked well. Sunlight filtered through the vines around the gazebo and made the dust in the air look soft and slow. For a moment, surrounded by pup-sized gloves and a half-mended scarf, the day felt steady. Almost ordinary.
Isla sat in my lap and poked at a loose stitch with careful concentration. Jenna hummed quietly while she worked. The women around us came and went in gentle waves, each one glancing at me with something closer to curiosity than suspicion.
Harrow stood a few steps behind me. His presence made the space feel safer, and for the first time in days, my fingers were not shaking. When Isla took my hand and squeezed it, I realized the tremor had stopped completely.
"You are good with stitches," Jenna said. Her tone was light. "My mother taught me when I was your age. She always said strong hands keep a household together."
"Strong hands do a lot of things," I answered. I smiled at Isla. "Sometimes they mend things that feel broken."
The words surprised me. They felt simple and honest.
Conversation around the bench eased into small stories. Mara told us about a pup who insisted on wearing two left gloves because he claimed it made him run faster. Another woman teased her about raising a future troublemaker. Their laughter was real and easy. It settled something inside me.
Jenna looked at me again. Then at Harrow. Then back at me.
"Where did you learn to climb like that?"
"My father taught me," I said. "And everyone trains. That part is not optional."
"Even the Luna?" she asked.
"Especially the Luna," I said. "He always said if you're leading a pack, you should be able to do so without slowing it down."
Her smile softened.
"It is comforting to see. I worried before. Gossip can make things hard for a mother, and people forget that many young mothers are still learning."
"Fear makes people act quickly," I said. "It takes more effort to choose something calmer."
She let out a slow breath.
"Fear is loud. Courage is quieter."
The day moved gently. Someone brought out moon tarts, and Isla insisted we share one. Sugar stuck to her upper lip, and I could not help laughing. Harrow made an exaggerated face, pretending to reach over and scrape it off. Isla shrieked and tried to smack his hand away. The sound was bright and clean, and it felt good to hear it.
The small moments settled into me like warmth from a fire. A simple kind of comfort. Something that felt like it might last.
When most of the mothers drifted away for their afternoon rounds, Jenna stayed behind. She opened a small ledger filled with tidy handwriting, lists of pups and notes about their shifts.
She handed it to me without thinking.
"You look like you understand systems. My husband used to say a woman who understands her ledger understands how to keep the house upright."
I traced my fingers lightly along the page. The columns were simple and clear. My old habits stirred, and I scanned the lines automatically, spotting gaps and possible improvements.
"You could make this easier on yourself," I said. "I can show you a way to track shifts so you can see which pups need more help. Small changes can make them safer."
Her eyes widened. "You would do that for us?"
"For you," I said gently. "And for the pack."
She hesitated, then nodded. "We would be grateful."
We made small plans. A new rota. A simpler code for notes. An idea for a weekly hour where I could help the pups learn quick-release knots so they did not get stuck in trees again. Isla liked that one.
Harrow watched me rearrange pins and pages as if each one was its own form of reassurance. When I showed him the structure I had in mind, he added one practical improvement and gave me a tiny grin. His approval felt grounding.
It felt like real work. Work I could touch. Work that mattered. Work that did not involve courts, titles, or stares.
Isla suggested adding bells to the gloves so pups could not hide during games. Mara nearly spilled her tea laughing. I snorted into my sleeve. It was a rare kind of peace.
Then Jenna’s expression changed.
Her hand froze mid-stitch. Her gaze shifted to the arched gate at the edge of the garden.
"It might be nothing," she said quietly.
We all turned.
A figure stood just beyond the gate. Still. Watching. Then it slipped away, almost too calmly.
Harrow moved before any of us spoke. His body shifted into protective readiness, and he stepped forward enough to block the view.
"Who is that?" I asked. My voice sounded smaller than I intended.
"I do not know," Jenna whispered.
We waited. Nothing moved. The gate stood empty again, as if the moment had been imagined.
But I felt that cold pull in my chest. An old instinct. Someone had been watching. And in Silverbourne, people rarely watched by accident.
I set the ledger down. My hands were steady, but only because I made them be.
"I will walk you back," Harrow said. His voice was firm.
"You do not need to," Jenna began.
"It is my duty," he said gently, but with no room for argument.
She nodded, unsure but thankful.
As we walked down the shaded path, I looked back one more time. The space behind the gate was empty, but the feeling remained.
Something had shifted. Something unseen had marked the moment.
I told myself it was probably nothing. Maybe a guard passing through or someone looking for a shortcut.
But Harrow’s presence gave me a sense of safety.
We had been noticed.
Our peace had been noticed.
But even so, we had Isla’s laughter, and the ledger, and the tiny, steady warmth of a day spent earning trust.
Small things that mattered. Small things we could build on.
We kept walking.