Page 7 of Reign

Even if I donned something as daring as she did, no man worth risking my reputation would spare me a second glance—not with her beside me.

I ran my hands down my chest. “What could I possibly flaunt? I’m as flat as an anvil.”

Avice giggled, her fingers darting toward my kirtle, but I clutched the linen close to my bony frame.

With a swift tug, I grabbed the hem of her frilly chemise, which peeked above her kirtle, and pulled it upward to cover her chest.

“Need I remind you, you’re engaged,” I said, though jealousy simmered beneath my words.

She embodied everything a woman was meant to be—everything I wasn’t—and I envied her for it.

Avice delicately took my hand in hers. “By summer solstice, I’ll be residing in the Walled City, married to a man I’ve never met. Let me steal a few moments of joy while I still can,” she said, a lone tear trickling down her cheek.

Before I could apologize for my sharp tone, Finn slammed three tankards of ale onto the table.

“Here you go,” he said, sliding into the seat beside Avice.

She reached for one, her fingers grazing his as she claimed the handle.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly.

Finn slid mine across the table’s uneven surface. I caught the tankard just before it tipped over the edge, though a splash of ale still escaped the rim, dampening my lap.

“Finn!” I groaned, glaring at him while he smirked.

He was trying to show off, and I wasn’t about to play the role of his jester so he could entertain Avice.

As the lovers whispered secrets into each other’s ears, I chugged my ale.

It wasn’t that I’d never yearned for affection—I had. But I knew that being someone’s wife made me their property. I had a better chance of becoming a master blacksmith as a spinster than if I surrendered to marriage.

Yet with each passing year, the burdens of womanhood crept closer, and I knew I couldn’t outrun the expectations—marriage, children, household duty—for much longer.

From the corner of my eye, I sensed someone staring my way. Even in the fuzzy stretches of my sight, I recognized the sway of his braided beard as he teetered on his barstool. Todd. He was old, widowed, and always drunk. Despite his good-hearted nature, Todd lacked an understanding of social cues—or simply didn’t care to adhere to them—subjecting anyone who met his gaze to his inebriated nonsense.

I tried not to glance his way, but my eyes kept flitting to him. Todd regarded me with a pitiful smile—as if he believed we were both lonely. Yet I had friends at the table, even if they were more interested in each other than me.

Todd eventually staggered to his feet and weaved his way through the crowded tables. I stretched out as far as possible, hoping to make the seat beside me appear occupied. Still, Todd continued closing the distance.

I kicked Finn’s shin beneath the table, but he remained engrossed in his conversation with Avice. I watched as the gold pendant around her neck jingled every time she giggled at his whispered words—both of them carefully avoiding my gaze. Frustrated, I kicked again, this time with enough force to make my toes throb. Finally, Finn flinched.

“Stop doing that,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “Not for the kick—but for what’s heading our way.”

Finn turned and groaned. “How many times do I have to tell you not to look at him?”

Before I could reply, Todd reached us. “Evening all,” he mumbled, his voice as rough as sandpaper, thick with ale. “Feels like just yesterday, you were here, lad, in this very tavern—your father, proud as a peacock, showing off his firstborn son.” He collapsed onto the bench, missing the empty space and half falling onto my leg. “Now I hear—you, eh—you might be a better blacksmith than him, eh?”

I swallowed down a bitter wave of envy, knowing I’d crafted every notable piece of iron since Father left.

Finn shook his head. “I highly doubt that. I look forward to his return.”

After he spoke, Finn turned toward Avice to resume their private conversation, abandoning me to endure the sot alone. Yet again, I’d drawn the short stick. I slumped forward, resting my chin on my fist, sulking at the idea of an evening spent with the village drunk.

“I reckon my absence weren’t much noticed, eh?” Todd asked, but I didn’t bother to answer—his glassy-eyed expression told me he couldn’t hear much over the ale sloshing inside of him.

“But if—if you were wondering, I just returned from the Marshlands,” he said. “Visited my brother. Old sod’s consumed by sweating fever, an’ he won’t be here come Yuletide. Won’t be anywhere… Aye, death’s got an eye on us all, eh?”