Twenty minutes later, Darien stepped forth refreshed, Celeste beside him, standing poised and attentive.
"You have a skillful touch," he said warmly. "Who taught you?"
"When my mother was alive, I often helped ease her shoulders," Celeste replied softly.
Darien felt the sorrow behind her words. She had known her mother's care; he had never seen his own.
He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Then you are fortunate. I never knew my mother."
Celeste's eyes widened. "My lord… forgive me, I did not mean to speak so freely."
Darien smiled faintly. "Peace, Celeste. My words aim only to comfort, not trouble you."
To lighten her spirit, he asked, "Have you eaten lunch yet?"
"Nay… I waited for you," she murmured, turning her face aside.
Darien chuckled, perceiving she had grown fond of his cooking. "Then we shall dine anon. I have arranged a light meal before the auction starts."
Celeste lowered her gaze, ears warm. "As thou wilt, my lord."
With that, Darien led her toward the hall, where the auction was to be held. Already, merchants of weight and standing gathered, their eyes sharp with intent.
"Oakwyn!" called a stout merchant, richly clad, "I scarce thought to see you here."
Oakwyn turned to behold Slate, a tall fellow famed in the stone trade, flanked by two servants.
"Lord Slate? I deemed thee bound for Falkenridge, not Brindlemark," Oakwyn said, brows raised.
"I passed through of late, and hearing stirrings here, I chose to tarry," Slate answered with a grin.
Men of trade had noses keener than hounds when it came to fortune's scent.
"Shall we go together, then?" Oakwyn offered.
"Aye, that was my thought as well."
As they walked, Slate leaned close and whispered, "Oakwyn, tell me—what do you know about Brindlemark's new lord?"
"Little to naught," Oakwyn admitted. "I have not yet stood before him."
"Truly? Strange, for a man so long in this town." Slate frowned.
"The lord only came but days past. I have had no chance."
"Even so," Slate mused, "I reckon he is no common man." He drew forth a small pouch from his robe.
Oakwyn's eyes narrowed in recognition—refined salt, finer than any in the Bravendal Kingdom, even the capital.
"Ah, so you've got one too, eh?" Slate said, his eyes gleaming with experience.
"Aye." Oakwyn did not deny it.
"Ha! A rare windfall, mark my words," Slate muttered, his voice gravelly with age and experience. "Were we to move such wares in bulk, no lord nor baron could match our coffers."
Oakwyn's eyes shone. A rare smile passed between them, though rivalry simmered still.
The town hall loomed quiet. Darien had sent the idlers away beforehand.
Crossing the threshold, both merchants froze.
Six women stood by the doors, clad in black tailored skirt suits. Their hair was neatly styled, posture proud, smiles soft yet composed.
The merchants simply stared.
Noble daughters? Nay—these had a dignity beyond such.
"Welcome."
The word, spoken in perfect harmony, startled them. Both men flushed and fumbled.
"Y-yes, we… ah…"²
"May I see your invitations?" one asked gently.
Oakwyn thrust forth his card, Slate following quickly, sneaking a glance at her smile.
"This way."
She dipped in a graceful curtsy, one hand grazing her skirt as she turned to lead them.
Neither Oakwyn nor Slate spoke, both caught adrift in the spell of her beauty.
When she came to a polished door, she gestured with elegance.
"Here, my lords."
Oakwyn returned a courteous bow. He had not felt so young since the days he lined up with fresh loaves of baked bread tucked under his arm, eager to barter in the market square.
---
🔍 Did you know?
- During the Middle Ages and Renaissance, formal gestures like bows and curtsies were more than manners—they were a language of status. Nobles, ladies, and even merchants used them to show respect, acknowledge rank, and build trust. A poorly timed or sloppy bow could cost you favor—or a lucrative opportunity.