Interlude: The Contents of the Canvas Satchel
The freezing sleet of the previous evening had transitioned into a quiet, dense snowfall by the time the pale grey light of Wednesday morning filtered through the frosted window. The Morcant bedroom smelled faintly of hot iron and drying wool, creating a thick domestic cocoon against the bitter winter weather outside.
Callis sat on the edge of the mattress, dragging his drained body upward to face the chill clinging to the floorboards. He ran a hand through his dark hair, shaking off the heavy exhaustion of the long night while his mind slowly reoriented to the waking world of Hartsgate.
Lysa was already awake and moving quietly near the small iron stove in the corner. She had draped his damp linen tunic and wool trousers over the nearby chairs to dry overnight, taking care to arrange the fabric near the radiating heat. She wore her faded blue dress loosely laced over her curves, her skin still carrying the radiant flush of the intimacy they had shared.
As she gathered his leather scabbard belt and the small canvas satchel he carried for rations, she lifted the bag by the wrong strap. The brass buckle slipped immediately under the shifting weight, causing the leather flap to fall open.
His traveling kit emptied onto the braided rug in front of the stove. A heavy whetstone clattered against the floorboards alongside a spare pair of thick wool socks, followed immediately by two distinct pieces of women's undergarments that tumbled after them, landing plainly in the morning light. One garment consisted of sturdy, unbleached linen carrying the distinct scent of rosemary, while the other was a narrower cut of coarse cotton stained slightly at the hip with a smear of forge-grease.
A sudden spike of adrenaline rushed through Callis's chest as he recognized the territorial markers. Mara and Yselle must have slipped the garments into his satchel before he left The Stag & Ember. They had packed their claims beside his rations, as if food, steel, and belonging all served the same purpose on the road.
He braced his muscles for the inevitable fallout, expecting the fragile domestic peace to shatter. He anticipated Lysa would deliver a furious rejection and force him out into the freezing street before Pavel returned with the draft wagon.
Lysa stared at the spilled garments for a long moment. The quiet crackle of the wood burning inside the iron stove served as the only sound in the tense bedroom as she processed the sight of the foreign clothing on her rug.
A calm, undeniable curiosity settled over her features as she evaluated the scene. She leaned down to pick up the linen smallclothes, brushing her thumb thoughtfully over the tight stitching before turning to look at him.
"You must have a very busy life inside those tavern walls, Callis," Lysa murmured, her tone devoid of accusation as she walked back to the bed to hand him the garments. "The rosemary is Mara Vell, obviously, and the coarse cotton with the grease suggests you also spend a significant amount of time keeping the smithy warm."
Callis accepted the discovery without attempting to formulate an excuse. The scattered clothing left him no useful lie, forcing him to address the situation with the directness he used on the frontier.
"They took me in when I had nothing, and they keep me alive," Callis admitted, keeping his voice steady as he took the smallclothes from her hands. "I belong to their hearth, Lysa. Bringing their claim into your home was a careless mistake, and I apologize for the insult to what you gave me."
Lysa sat down beside him on the edge of the mattress. She reached out to rest her warm hand gently over his fingers, using the physical contact to soothe the sudden anxiety locking his shoulders.
No sharp jealousy rose in her as she studied the fabric. She felt only a strange, settling relief, looking at the garments like a woman who understood the brutal arithmetic of Hartsgate, recognizing that one pair of hands was rarely enough to keep anyone alive on the frontier.
"You have nothing to apologize for, Callis," Lysa assured him softly, a warm smile touching her lips as she leaned her head against his bare shoulder. "In a city as freezing as this one, a man like you needs all the mothers and lovers he can find to survive the winter."
She shifted closer, her soft weight settling against his arm as she studied the heavy linen and the grease worked deep into the cotton. The proof of other women’s labor did not wound her, but instead steadied her against the isolation she had carried for so long.
"I spend my entire life in the curing shed, and I have forgotten what it feels like to have women near me who understand the weight of this city," Lysa whispered, her eyes lifting to his. "Tell me about my hearth-sisters, Callis. Tell me how they keep you walking after the things you do in the dark."
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