By the fourth morning, Vesaria had learned that the smokehouse fires needed tending twice before midday, that the woman who oversaw the granary kept her keys tied to her waist with red leather, and that nobody paid much attention to a woman carrying dirty linen.
She discovered the last advantage when a washerwoman thrust a basket into her arms and sent her across the yard. Rather than take the path behind the communal hall, Vesaria wandered toward the stables, where two boys carried hay between the stalls and a man struggled to calm a horse that kept snapping at his sleeve. Beyond the fence stood the armoury, its iron-bound door open just enough to reveal racks of shields and spears.
A warrior called to her before she could see farther, pointing toward the workhall and then at her basket, his voice growing louder when she failed to move. Vesaria lowered her gaze, turned around, and walked away with the linen pressing heavily against her hip.
Later that morning, she returned with an empty pail and discovered that the armoury had two guards instead of one.
At home, servants had brought everything she needed to her chambers, and she had managed household accounts without once having to concern herself with where the firewood came from.
Here, a girl younger than herself spent half the morning teaching her to separate usable herbs from rotten ones, occasionally taking a handful from Vesaria's basket and shaking her head.
Vesaria listened with an expression of mild embarrassment, then placed another unsuitable root among the good ones. The girl sighed and began explaining again, taking the basket away when Vesaria made the same mistake a third time.
She sent her to fetch blankets instead.
Freya accompanied her to a storeroom adjoining the communal hall, talking cheerfully as she pulled folded wool from the shelves.
Along the rear wall hung travelling cloaks, their broad hoods lined with fur, with winter boots stacked beneath them. Vesaria brushed her fingers across a dark cloak while Freya searched a chest, testing the weight of the fabric before withdrawing her hand.
"Vesaria?"
She turned to find Freya waiting with an armful of blankets. Vesaria gathered the nearest bundle, leaving two behind, and followed her outside.
Freya discovered the omission before they reached the workhall and laughed as she caught Vesaria's sleeve, steering her back toward the storeroom. Vesaria endured another cheerful explanation, although she paid more attention to the wooden latch Freya lifted before opening the door.
By midday, Vesaria had endured three corrections, misplaced a basket, and learned that the rear service gate opened onto a narrow track behind the granary. Two guards watched the entrance while carts passed through, although one abandoned his post when the midday meal began, leaving the other stamping his feet beside the wall.
She had counted the interval twice, but on her third attempt to pass the gate, carrying folded hides toward the nearby storehouse, a familiar voice stopped her.
"Little Rabbit."
Vesaria tightened her grip on the bundle before turning.
Azgar stood beside a timber post with Varn, his dark cloak hanging open despite the cold. His gaze travelled from her face to the hides in her arms.
"You are lost again?" he asked in his halting Southern.
"No."
"Then you know where those go?"
"Of course."
He waited, watching her with an expression that made her wish she could throw the entire bundle at his feet.
Vesaria turned toward the nearest storehouse, only for Azgar to call, "Other door," before she reached it.
Varn chuckled, and Azgar's mouth curved as she looked back at him.
"Your people have an unfortunate habit of putting identical buildings beside one another," she replied.
Azgar glanced toward the two storehouses, which bore almost no resemblance to each other, then returned his attention to her.
"Of course."
She walked past him without answering, aware of his eyes following her until she disappeared inside. Only when the door closed did she release the breath she had been holding.
~*~*~*~*~*~
That evening, Vesaria returned to her room with aching shoulders and a short length of braided cord tucked inside her sleeve.
She had slipped it from a basket of discarded bindings while the women packed away their work, winding it around her wrist beneath her cuff before leaving the hall.
She knelt beside the cot and lifted the loose floorboard, then tucked the cord into the hollow beneath it. The length would barely secure a travelling bundle, but there had been more among the discarded bindings, and she could collect another piece when the opportunity arose.
She lowered the board and pressed its edge flat before sitting beside the hearth, rubbing warmth into her stiff fingers.
Three days remained before the week she had allowed herself would end, and she still needed boots, a horse, and some knowledge of the roads beyond the ridge.
Outside, the wind rattled the shutters as Vesaria looked toward the darkening window, wondering how much she could accomplish before someone began asking questions.
Three days.
~*~*~*~*~
The following morning, Vesaria volunteered to return a basket of leather scraps to the saddler's shed, a task that should have taken no more than a few minutes had she not chosen the path through the stables.
The yard was already busy when she arrived, with grooms leading horses from their stalls and warriors fastening saddlebags before departure. She kept close to the fence as she passed, watching a pair of riders leave through the main gate before turning her attention to the animals that remained.
A grey mare caught her attention near the far end of the yard. Unlike the restless bay beside her, the animal stood patiently while a groom adjusted her saddle, and Vesaria slowed to examine her.
She could ride a well-trained horse, but she had never saddled one herself, and the unfamiliar arrangement of straps gave her little confidence that she could manage it in darkness.
The groom looked up, and Vesaria immediately lifted her basket, pointing toward the saddler's shed as though she had stopped to ask directions. The man smiled, nodded, and returned to his work.
She had nearly reached the shed when someone spoke behind her.
"Vesaria."
Her stomach dropped.
Azgar stood beside a saddled black stallion, watching her while a groom waited with the reins. He said something in Northern, and the man led the horse away, leaving Vesaria alone with her captor.
She had never told Azgar her name.
For an instant, she wondered whether she had misheard him, but he had pronounced it correctly, with none of the awkwardness she had come to expect from his Southern.
Freya must have told him. Vesaria remembered their conversation in the communal hall, when Azgar had sat close enough to hear them, and wondered what else he might have learned simply by listening.
"Good morning," he said, approaching.
Vesaria inclined her head. "My lord."
His eyebrows rose slightly at the courtesy, though his attention soon shifted toward the horses.
"Looking for something?"
"The saddler."
Azgar glanced toward the building barely twenty paces away. "He is there."
"I can see that."
"Then why stop?"
"One of your men was saddling a horse. I did not wish to get in his way."
Azgar looked toward the groom, who had already led the grey mare inside, then returned his attention to her.
"Very thoughtful."
Vesaria adjusted the basket against her hip. "I have work to finish."
He stepped aside when she moved to pass him, but his next question brought her to a halt.
"You ride, Vesaria?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Well enough."
"Good." His gaze moved briefly toward the stable doors. "Then you know which horses are for riding."
"I imagine most of them are."
Azgar shook his head. "Some pull carts. Some carry warriors. Some are too young." He stepped nearer, lowering his voice. "And some throw strangers into the snow."
"How fortunate that I have no intention of riding any of them."
"No?"
"No."
Azgar rested one hand against the fence, close enough that his cloak brushed her sleeve. Vesaria shifted the basket between them, unwilling to retreat simply because he had chosen to stand so near. His eyes dropped briefly to the movement before returning to her face.
"Then you will not mind," he said, "if I ask why my wife has spent so much time near the horses."
Her heart gave an unpleasant thud.
"I have been sent here twice."
"Three times."
Vesaria stared at him.
Azgar's mouth curved slightly. "Yesterday, too."
She remembered passing the stable yard on her way to the eastern well, when she had paused to watch two men leading horses toward the service gate. She had seen no sign of him.
"I was fetching water."
"Of course."
"If you intend to question every errand I run, perhaps you should tell the headwoman to stop sending me outside."
Azgar gave a quiet laugh, though he did not move away. "She might agree."
Vesaria narrowed her eyes. "Then perhaps you should find another wife to run your errands."
His smile widened, and she immediately regretted giving him another reason to enjoy himself.
"My name is Vesaria," she added coldly, before he could produce that ridiculous nickname again.
"I know."
"Then use it."
Azgar bent slightly, bringing his face nearer hers. "Vesaria," he said, drawing out the syllables with infuriating care. "Better?"
She lifted her chin. "Much."
"Good, Little Rabbit."
Vesaria gave him a look that would have sent any sensible man retreating, but Azgar merely laughed and stepped aside.
"Go. Your saddler is waiting."
She walked past him without another word, resisting the urge to hurry until she reached the shed, where she set the basket down with enough force to make the saddler look up from his work.
Behind her, Azgar called the older groom over and spoke to him in Northern. The man listened, glanced toward the saddler's shed, and nodded before returning to the horses.
When Vesaria emerged a few minutes later, the grey mare was gone. She found the animal inside the stable, behind a half-door the groom had just secured with an iron bolt, and paused long enough to watch him test the fastening before turning away.
Azgar was no longer in the yard.