#fall:r1

Komei is not, by nature, a man prone to nerves, but tonight is different. He steps to the bar and orders himself a small glass of whiskey, turning it once in his hand before downing it in a single, decisive swallow. The burn steadies him, settles something restless in his chest. Then he waits.

When Jodie arrives, she is not difficult to spot. Komei straightens, crossing the floor to meet her and offering his hand, wasting little time  leading her into the next dance. Though neither of them are particularly talented dancers, they move well enough together, in quiet understanding of the other’s rhythm. 

When the song ends, they do not part immediately, Komei instead guiding her just beyond the busiest part of the floor. For a moment, he says nothing; then, gathering what courage remains (either from the whiskey or something deeper) he speaks.

“I have come to care for you,” he begins. “More than is wise, perhaps. More than I had intended. But I would rather be honest than silent. If you would have me,” he says, “I would ask you to be my wife.”

Jodie’s breath catches not in hesitation, but in something closer to relief.

“Yes,” she says, almost at once. “Yes, I would.”

There is a quiet, selfish sort of happiness in it, to be chosen for love alone. No financial arrangement, not for obligation, none of the uncertain reasoning that seems to guide her twin’s own impending marriage to Angela Pleasant. Whatever that union may be built upon, this feels different; this feels entirely her own.

Later, when the lanterns dim and the crowd thins, Komei leads Jodie outside to where his horse waits, offering her a steady hand as she climbs up behind him, the road to his cabin stretching ahead beneath the stars.

Dawn creeps through the trees long before the town cockerels begin their crowing, but Olive is already awake. She does not bother to change from her nightdress before setting to work. Sleeves rolled neatly, she moves about the small table near the hearth where bundles of dried herbs hang overhead. Mortar and pestle grind in steady rhythm as she crushes sagewort and angelweed for a poultice. A kettle simmers gently beside her, steam rising fragrant with lordleaf and thyme. By the time the sun crests the treeline, three remedies are finished and labeled in her narrow, deliberate script.

When the sun has properly risen, and, at a much more reasonable time of day, Ophelia stands at Olive’s lectern near the window, spellbook open before her. The leather binding creaks softly each time she turns a page. Unlike her aunt’s darker practices, Ophelia’s studies remain within the bounds Olive calls “neutral arts”. Small manipulations of nature rather than dominion over it; a candle flame bending without being touched, a spilled mess evaporating instantly at her quiet command. She concentrates fiercely, brow furrowed, repeating the incantations in a low, steady murmur until the movements feel less like effort and more like breath. 

At midday, Olive ventures to the small beehive tucked against the southern wall of the cabin. The bees stir lazily in the cool air as she tends them with surprising gentleness. Honey is as valuable as any tonic; useful in salves, syrups, and other concoctions. She inspects a honeycomb with a critical eye, murmuring softly as though the insects are confidants rather than livestock.

By evening, the cabin is warm with cooking. Ophelia stands at the hearth stirring a thick stew of root vegetables, lentils, and leftover animal fat, seasoned with herbs gathered that week. When it is ready, she ladles the soup into hollowed rounds of crusty bread. They sit across from one another at the small wooden table, supper cradled in their hands.

 “The woods have grown quite accustomed to your wandering feet.” Olive remarks lightly before taking a measured spoonful.

Ophelia stills only briefly. “I needed air.”

“You wanted the Grunt boy.” Ophelia keeps her gaze lowered to her meal. A pause lingers; but it is not hostile.

“He is not unkind,” Ophelia ventures.

“Nor are wolves, when fed,” Olive replies calmly. Ophelia exhales, half amused, half exasperated. 

“You think me foolish.”

“I think you young,” Olive corrects, “and I have buried men more charming.” 

Frost still clings to the grass when Victor rises and pulls on his boots, stepping outside to tend to the small flock of sheep that graze along the edge of the property, checking the fences and scattering feed while the animals bleat softly. Not far off, Luis has already gone out to hunt,  meaning to bring a handful of wansdering deer down for meat before winter settles fully over the valley.

By midday Victor makes his way into town for Trading Post day, bringing a bundle of wool and a few lengths of cloth. The square hums with the usual bustle of wagons, farmers, and traders calling out their wares. Victor strikes a fair deal with Lazlo Curious, purchasing vinegar to clean the wool, before moving on to trade cloth with the tailor. 

Back home, the day stretches quietly into evening. Elizabeth puts her back into the washboard, ensuring the family has clean clothing for the week to come, while the girls play together in the yard out front. 

Luis returns from the woods tired but satisfied, the work of the hunt finished and the deer properly dressed. As the sun begins its slow descent toward the horizon, he sits for a moment outside the house, watching the sky deepen into the warm colors of sunset. It is there, in the quiet of that fading light, that another visitor approaches.

When the tall figure of the Grim Reaper appears at the edge of the yard, Luis does not startle. Instead, he rises slowly to his feet and greets Death as though welcoming an old acquaintance who has arrived exactly when expected. There is no fear in him, only the certainty of a man who has lived well and trusts that those he leaves behind will carry on. He casts one last glance toward the house where his family moves about inside, voices drifting faintly through the open window.

Circe emerges from the smaller tent, hair plaited at her shoulders, still dressed in her drawers and a camisole from the night before. She means only to relieve herself and fetch water to take a quick sponge bath, but she stops short.

Across the clearing, Bella stands far closer to Loki than she ought, but her posture is animated, almost bright. She is speaking softly, smiling in a way that does not quite fit the circumstances.

“You were very brave,” Bella is saying, reaching a hand for his sleeve. “I do admire a man who can bargain with Death itself.” Loki neither pulls away, nor corrects her. 

“I am not known for surrendering valuable assets.” She steps even closer, nearly flush against him.

“I could be… grateful in other ways.”

“Bella.”

The single word cracks through the clearing like a rifle shot.  Bella startles. Loki straightens.

Circe strides forward, fury barely contained beneath icy composure. “Back. To. Your tent. Now.” 

Bella retreats, shoulders shrinking as she slips inside the canvas. Circe disappears into her own tent to dress properly as the first light flakes of snow begin drifting down from the gray sky. She rounds on Loki the moment they are alone.

“You’re encouraging this?”

“It was nothing,” he insists, hands raised slightly. “A sick woman rambling gratitude. I humored her. That is all.”

“You were smiling.”

“And you are jumping to conclusions, which a scientific mind such as yours should know better than to do.” Their voices stay low but sharp, the air between them taut as wire.

"I'll show you my scientific mind."

Autumn is loosening its grip, and Winter waits just beyond the treeline. Circe is bundled in a dark winter coat, a scarf wound tightly over her hair. Bella, by contrast, remains in her tent still in her thin, ragged dress.

“If she has energy to flirt,” Circe says coolly, “she has energy to contribute to experiments.” Bella is forced into the wooden chair that sits in the corner of the larger tent, wrists secured. Despite Bella’s pleads, Circe does not soften.

The crackle of electricity snaps through the cold air. Bella gasps sharply, muscles tensing against the restraints. The smell of ozone lingers as Circe observes with clinical detachment, adjusting dials with measured precision. Loki watches from a short distance, jaw tight but silent.

By evening the camp is hushed again. Bella lies weak in her tent, trembling from a combination of exhaustion and cold. Circe keeps her distance from Loki as the fire burns low. Words between them have thinned to necessity. With a stiff sigh, Circe finally moves toward their tent, prepared to crawl inside and endure a strained night beside him, when a sudden, unmistakable pop echoes softly through the clearing.

Trading Post Saturday draws Nervous to town reluctantly, and he moves through the bustling square with his usual hesitant steps. The noise, the crowds, the laughter; all of it leaves him slightly overwhelmed. He nearly collides with David Ottomas near the stalls, the encounter awkward and flustered, David muttering something impatient under his breath before stalking off. Nervous flushes and murmurs an apology that goes unheard, wishing, not for the first time, that the living were as gentle as the dead.

His unease only deepens when a familiar, sharp-eyed figure emerges from the edge of the crowd. Olive, the strange old crone from the woods who is whispered about in town with a mixture of fear and superstition, glares at him. Her words are clipped and her tone merciless, chastising him for his behavior, his posture, and his very existence in a way one would not expect from mere neighbors. Nervous lowers his eyes, unaware of the deeper truth that binds them: a child once abandoned, and a mother who never truly left. Olive departs as abruptly as she arrived, leaving Nervous shaken. 

That evening he forces himself to attend the Barn Dance, lingering near the edges as couples spin and laughter fills the hall. Romance and flirtation have never quite settled comfortably on his shoulders, and he finds himself more interested in the music, the shadows, and the quiet corners than in finding a partner.

On Trading Post Day, Chico is awake just after the sun, stool set beneath the goats as he works by habit and touch, the steady sound of milk hitting the pail. Maria hovers nearby, speaking to the animals as if they were old friends, patting their flanks and laughing when one noses at her sleeves. Chico allows it, as long as she stays clear of his hands and the bucket.

By the time the trading post begins to stir, Maria has claimed a small section of the square for herself, taking after her parents’ ambition. With apples and berries gathered from the woods and a jug of cider balanced proudly on the table, she announces her wares to anyone who passes. Her grin grows wider when Buck Grunt stops long enough to buy a cup, handing over his coins with a polite nod while Maria beams as though she’s made a fortune. She chatters about her “business” for the rest of the morning, guarding her stand like a seasoned merchant.

On Saturday, Herb and Coral make their way to the post, where Herb strikes a friendly bargain with Trapper Cyd Roseland. The two men examine Roseland’s pelts; fox, hare, and a fine stretch of deer hide, and settle the trade with a handshake and a few remarks about the cold season creeping closer. Herb is satisfied, furs bundled under his arm and already eager to see Coral’s reaction.

Coral spends her own morning bartering near the wagons, trading with John Burb for fresh vegetables that still carry the smell of soil. Their exchange is brisk and friendly, full of talk about the girls and harvests and the upcoming winter. While Coral has her reservations about Daniel Pleasant, she is hard-pressed to find anything negative to say about his sister or her husband. 

That afternoon, they reopen the store briefly for the stragglers drifting back from the Trading Post. Business is light, giving them a rare moment together as Coral inspects the newly acquired furs before adding them to the shelves. She smooths a hand over the deer hide, admiring the quality, when Herb comes up beside her and rests his hand atop hers. “Thought you might want to keep that one.”  Coral looks to him smiling, and for a brief moment the ledger, the bell, and the open door are all forgotten.

The following morning, Mary-Sue gathers herself and the girls and heads into town, determined to keep appearances intact. They begin at the tailor’s shop, where Angela stands stiffly on the fitting platform as a wedding dress is adjusted, pinned and smoothed while Mary-Sue offers her approval. Ruth wanders about the shop, more interested in the colorful ribbons than the occasion. From there they continue on to the Trading Post, baskets in hand, where Angela runs into Dustin Broke. Their exchange is polite, almost warm, and Meadow Broke stands a short distance away, her gaze sharp and unblinking as the pair speaks.

Back at the Pleasant home Daniel sits alone, echoes of the previous night’s argument still ringing in his ears and his anger simmering into something reckless. When he passes Kaylynn on the back porch hanging some fresh linens, he stops her with a smile that is all charm and very little restraint. “You’re always the only one who seems to listen,” he says. Kaylynn hesitates. “That’s my job, Sheriff.” “Then stay a moment longer,” Daniel replies, his voice low.