The following day arrived with a restless energy that Chloé could not quite shake. She found herself checking her reflection in the polished surface of her wash-basin more than usual, smoothing the front of her wool tunic and ensuring that not a single auburn strand had escaped her braid. The air in the tavern felt thick and slow, and every time the heavy oak door creaked open to admit a customer, her heart gave a small, traitorous thud against her ribs.

  She nervously swept the floor in an attempt to take her mind away from her anxious wait. She opened the tavern door to sweep the day's dust into the street. Leaning against the handle of the straw bristled broom, she took in fresh, crisp autumn air. A vast improvement to the stale ale from the tavern. She waved to the passersby and greeted them warmly.

  She giggled when she saw Mrs. Clary, scurrying down the street with one on her oversized hat and her trademark handbag, too big to carry properly.

  She had a way of meddling that felt like a force of nature, and Chloé found that she didn't have the heart to resist it, and by the sight of her hurrying towards Jeremiah, she knew that she was up to something.

  She returned inside, put the broom away, checked her hair one last time before the door opened again.

  Jeremiah entered the tavern, and removed his hat. Chloé wiped the wrinkles from her dress as he approached her, shyly.

  “I had the strangest conversation with Mrs. Clary this morning,” Jeremiah stammered when he finally mustered his courage. He held his wide-brimmed hat in his calloused hands, his knuckles white against the felt. He looked every bit the nervous farmer, his skin bronzed by the autumn sun and his eyes darting around the dining hall as if searching for an escape.

  “Is that so?” Chloé asked, trying to keep her voice light as she wiped down a nearby table. “And what did our resident gossip have to say for herself?”

  “She mentioned that you were planning on supping with her tonight,” he began, his voice dropping to a hopeful, shy register. “But she also said to tell you that she would be quite busy this evening.”

  “She did, did she?”she asked with an air of suspicion in her tone.

  Jeremiah nodded. “She suggested that I might take you down to the riverside instead, provided you weren't too tired from the rush.”

  Chloé’s eyes told her truth as she fought the urge to laugh at the sheer transparency of the scheme. Caroline had likely spent the entire morning tracking the poor man down just to get him here for this. “And what does the riverside offer that a meddling widow does not, Jeremiah?”

  “Peace,” he said, finally meeting her gaze with a genuine, crooked smile. “And a sunset that isn't interrupted by the clatter of dirty dishes and the smell of stale ale. I’ll have the wagon ready at the tenth hour after sun-up, if you’ll have me.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Chloé whispered, and the look of pure relief that washed over his face made her feel warmer than the hearth-fire.

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  The rest of the day moved with the agonizing slowness of honey on a winter morning. Every chime of the city bells seemed to echo through the tavern, marking the minutes until the dinner rush finally ebbed. When the last of the merchants had departed for their rooms, Chloé retreated to her small quarters to change into her finest deep-blue wool. She took extra care with her appearance, pinning a small silver brooch to her collar that had been her mother’s only legacy.

  Jeremiah was waiting exactly when he said he would be. He had hitched two sturdy plow horses to his family’s farm wagon, and he helped Chloé up onto the bench with a strength that felt steady and sure. The ride out of the city gates was quiet. Neither of them seemed to know quite what to say, so they let the sounds of the evening fill the silence. The rhythmic thud of the horses' hooves and the distant, low roar of the Quoe provided a backdrop to their shared nervousness. Every time Chloé stole a glance at him, she caught him looking at her first, and they would both quickly turn away to hide their smiles.

  They arrived at a secluded bend in the river, far enough from the city walls that the noise of Oaken Meadow was a mere memory. Mrs. Clary’s "busyness" had clearly involved hauling a literal feast to the bank. A small, contained fire crackled in a ring of stones, casting a dancing orange glow over a thick wool blanket stretched across the grass. Upon it sat a spread that made Chloé’s mouth water; a platter of roast venison, a bowl of steamed peas and carrots, and several small custard pies dusted with nutmeg.

  “She’s a fine cook, your friend,” Jeremiah noted as he helped Chloé down from the wagon. He sat beside her on the blanket, his large frame making the space feel cozy rather than cramped. “I think the Squirrel’s Nest would do well to steal a few of these recipes, though I doubt she’d give them up without a fight.”

  “She’d never,” Chloé laughed, beginning to fix a plate for him. “She’d rather use her cooking as bait to lure unsuspecting young men into riverside picnics.”

  “It worked, didn't it?” Jeremiah said, his tone turning more serious as they began to eat.

  They talked long into the twilight, their voices mingling with the lapping of the water against the reeds. Jeremiah spoke of his life on the farm and the weight of being the youngest son on land that was already too small for his brothers' growing families. He spoke of his dreams of owning a tract of his own, and his plan to approach Captain Bridgewater about joining the Peacekeepers.

  “Five years of service for a grant of land,” he explained, his eyes fixed on the flickering embers. “The king has made the promise to any man who can hold a sword and keep the law. I’m good at the plow, but I’m better with my fists, and Oaken Meadow is a quiet enough place. It’s a way to build a future, Chloé.”

  “A Peacekeeper?” Chloé felt a small, cold knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. She thought of the soldiers she saw daily, and while Bridgewater’s men were respectful, the life was still one of violence and risk. “Aren't you afraid of getting hurt? Or worse?”

  “Not as long as I can stay here,” he promised, reaching out to graze her hand with his own. His skin was rough and warm, a solid presence in the cooling night air. “The only trouble we see here is a drunken brawl or a dispute over a pig. And if it keeps me near my family, and near you, then it is a price I am more than willing to pay.”

  Chloé didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in and pressed a fleeting, soft kiss to his sun-warmed cheek. The scent of woodsmoke and clean sweat clung to him, and for the first time in years, the hollow ache in her chest felt like it was finally beginning to heal. “I would like that very much, Jeremiah,” she whispered.

  “I best get you home before Mrs. Clary begins to think ill of me.”

  Chloé smiled. As the moon rose over the Kilgor, silvering the path back to the city, they packed the remains of the feast in a companionable silence.

  The air was sharp with the coming frost, but as they climbed back into the wagon, Chloé felt a different kind of warmth; one that had nothing to do with a hearth-fire and everything to do with the man sitting beside her.