"So, can you make it any cheaper?" The man complained, his two small mustaches looking as if they'd been hastily glued to his face. "Look here, girl." He pointed skyward. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

  "One," Elisa replied, blinking her innocent eyes.

  "It's two!" The man planted his hands on his hips indignantly. "It's getting late, girl. Why are you being so stubborn? You've sold a lot today--can't you cut me a break?"

  Elisa had no choice but to explain again. "I have sold quite a bit, sir, but your offer is simply too low. For ten glens, you couldn't even buy a barren hen."

  "God help any chicken like that!" The man persisted. "Fifteen glens, miss. Take it or leave it."

  "Twenty glens, sir—my absolute best price. Earlier I sold to another gentleman for thirty!" Elisa stood her ground. "At twenty glens, I'll sell you another barrel at the same price. I only have two left. Please be reasonable, sir!"

  The man fingered his sweat-soaked mustache, appearing torn. "Let me be honest. I'm buying this without my wife knowing, and I don't have much money. I need the rest for medicine for my sick daughter. So..."

  "Seventeen glens," Elisa conceded quickly. (I've never sold it this cheaply before,) she thought. (But he does look rather pitiful.)

  "Make it sixteen, miss," the man pleaded, eyebrows furrowing. "I truly can't afford more."

  "Fine then, sixteen it is."

  "Great!" The man clapped his hands, eyes crinkling with delight as he leaned forward. "I'll take both barrels."

  The maid watched the man's retreating figure and the two barrels of wine on his cart, sinking into contemplation. (Something feels strange about that exchange.) She cupped her chin in her hands. (Did I just get swindled?) She quickly shook her head. (I'm just being paranoid, Elisa. He really did seem desperate.)

  Almost every morning, Elisa came to the marketplace to sell their homemade wine. The majority came from the Clawyn estate, with a smaller portion from the Wynlers estate. Cherry Wynlers, now with child, could no longer tend to the vineyard, so Daisy Clawyn had invited her to stay at the Clawyn estate and assumed responsibility for her care. (I should be the one caring for Lady Wynlers,) she thought while packing her stall. (But beyond household duties, I'm completely ignorant.)

  ("If you don't know something, I can teach you," she recalled Lady Clawyn's reassuring expression. "But I won't entrust this to anyone else. You're my most trusted person.")

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "After all, there's hardly anyone else you can trust," the girl murmured to herself.

  "Aren't you heading home, miss?" A boy wearing a small round cap approached Elisa. He claimed to be a traveling bard who came to the market on weekends to perform. He often justified his presence by claiming to spread poetry's blessings throughout the realm, but Elisa dismissed such notions. "You're just a fancy beggar," she had once told him, nearly bringing him to tears.

  "I'm leaving now," the maid replied, emptying her coin pouch to count the day's earnings. "Two hundred and six glens. Not excessive, but adequate." Elisa smiled with satisfaction. "I can spend two glens on fine honey cakes for milady, three glens on herbs for the young miss. And with this last glen," she glanced at the bard, whose face reddened at her smile, "perhaps you'd sing me a song, Master Poet?"

  "Uh!" The boy turned away, flustered.

  "What, is one glen too little?" Elisa feigned disappointment. "I never expected such greed from you, Lucas. Most people pay half a glen for your songs; some only give three glen cents. Don't think I haven't noticed."

  "No, that's not it at all." Creating an impromptu song expressing his admiration for Elisa would be simple enough for Lucas. But doing so would transform a romantic ballad into an awkward declaration of love. At that moment, Lucas's mind felt as empty as a hollow eggshell, with all his familiar melodies and rhymes flowing away like spilled egg whites. "I..."

  "Okay, okay. I get it, great poet. Who'd sing for a girl like me?" Elisa pulled her two braids forward across her chest. "If you're willing, though, include me in one of your poems sometime. Any role will suffice." She extended her palm toward the boy. "Here's a pristine one-glen coin. I specifically chose one without wear. Buy yourself something nice, my great poet."

  The boy couldn't tear his gaze from the gleaming coin in her hand. "This—"

  "This is really good," an unfamiliar voice cut through the merchants' farewells on the street. "It's the finest I've tasted. Besides stealing from my father's private collection, I've never had better wine—even 'Crimson Sunset' doesn't compare."

  Despite the fading light, Elisa could clearly make out the approaching group. Five men, three of whom were hulking figures in leather armor with broadswords at their waists—unmistakably guards. The bald man who exuded authority spoke first: "Where's your wine?" He scanned the empty stall. "Where is it?" The curly-haired man beside him shifted uncomfortably.

  Elisa hastily pressed the coin into Lucas's palm. "I'm terribly sorry, but we're completely sold out for today." She sounded both apologetic and slightly proud. "Please return tomorrow. I'll reserve a barrel specifically for you."

  "You seem to have misheard me, woman." The bald man pressed his palm onto the wooden table, his tone glacial. "Let me rephrase: where is the wine kept?"

  "And you seem to have misheard her, sir." The poet stepped protectively in front of Elisa, mustering his courage. "Allow me to repeat: the wine is sold out. If you return tomorrow, you might secure a barrel."

  The bald man listened silently, then erupted in laughter. "Your attire is quite comical, boy. Are you some street performer?"

  "I'm a poet," Lucas corrected promptly.

  "Very well, poet. Tell me, what's your relationship with this girl?" His smile turned sinister. "Girlfriend? Or something else?"

  "I don't believe that's any of your concern," Elisa replied, discretely gripping Lucas's trembling hand. "The market is closing, and we were just departing. Please return tomorrow." She met the man's gaze unflinchingly.