The next morning rain drummed steadily on the thatch, pulling the longhouse awake to a gray, dripping dawn. I was already dressed and out in the yard, sharpening the scythe with a whetstone, when the first whispers drifted to me from the path. Old Widow Tanner trudged past with her basket, muttering to her neighbor about "that Blackthorn drunkard and Miller Harl sharing ale at the Boar's Head last night." The words rode the wet wind: *Elara Thornwood… forced marriage… debts settled…*
I kept my face blank and my strokes even. So Garrick hadn't waited for the full moon. He'd already found an ally.
By midday the rain had eased to a drizzle, and the news had spread everywhere. Miller Harl—fat, prosperous, and one of the three suitors circling Mother like crows over carrion—had publicly offered to forgive Garrick's fifty-silver debt if Elara "joined the family" under his roof. A marriage contract, he called it. Protection for the widow, stability for her son and the Blackthorn girls. Village tongues wagged: some called it generous, others named it exactly what it was—a trade of flesh for coin.
I learned the rest while hauling the last of my surplus peas to the granary. The reeve's clerk, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, owed me a small favor from the last market day. In exchange for a pouch of those same peas, he let me glimpse the tithe ledger in the back room.
There it was, plain as mud on a boot. Garrick had been skimming for months. Not just his own share—village tithes meant for the baron's storehouse had been shorted by nearly a quarter. Sacks of barley and rye marked "delivered" in the books had never left his barn. The reeve would hang a man for less, but Garrick had friends among the baron's lesser guards and enough coin from his other rackets to keep the ledger looking clean enough for lazy eyes.
I copied the key entries onto a scrap of bark with a charred stick, tucked it inside my tunic, and walked home with the rain soaking my shoulders. Power wasn't just silver in a pouch anymore. It was knowing where the rot lay and deciding exactly when to cut it out.
Inside the longhouse the air felt heavy. Mother stood at the table kneading dough, her movements sharp and angry. Mira sat on the bench with Lila and Nora, all three of them silent. The girls looked up when I entered. Lila's usual scowl had softened into something closer to respect; Nora's wide hazel eyes held open curiosity, the kind that came from watching a boy turn into the only man who refused to flinch.
"Harl and Garrick," Mother said without turning. "They came by while you were gone. Harl brought a silver ring and a contract. Said it was for the good of the family." Her knuckles stayed white on the dough. "I told them to shove the ring where the sun doesn't shine."
I set the scythe down and pulled the bark scrap from my tunic. "Garrick's been stealing tithes. Not just his own—village grain. If the reeve sees this, he'll lose more than his wife and daughters. He'll lose his head."
Mira's breath caught. Lila leaned forward, red hair falling across her face. "You're sure?"
"I saw the ledger myself." I laid the scrap on the table so they could read the tallies. "We use this, but carefully. No accusations yet. First we make sure we don't need him for anything."
I laid out the rest of the plan while we ate a midday meal of bread and thin stew. The extra peas had already bought goodwill. I would offer the same to three families whose strips bordered ours—fair wages in grain for help clearing the new fallow field, plus a share of the harvest if the rotation worked. Small things, but in Willowbrook small things turned into loyalty when winter came early and taxes refused to wait.
Mother listened, green eyes steady on mine. For the first time in weeks the steel in her posture looked less like armor and more like pride. "You're building something, Elias. Not just for us. For the village."
"Only because someone has to," I said. "Garrick and Harl think they can squeeze us because we're alone. They're wrong."
Lila spoke up, her voice quieter than her usual fire. "You stood up to Garrick twice now. Most men twice your age would've folded. Nora and I… we noticed." She glanced at her sister, who nodded, cheeks pink. The curiosity in their eyes had deepened into something warmer, something that wasn't quite niece-to-cousin anymore.
Nora added softly, "You brought medicine for Mother Mira. You sold the grain without losing a single copper to cheats. It's… different. Having someone who actually *does* things instead of just talking."
I felt the weight of their gazes, but I kept the moment practical. "Then help me. Lila, you know every hunter in the village. Spread the word quietly—anyone who wants steady work and honest shares can meet me at the north field after dusk. Nora, you're good with herbs. Help Mira turn that bruise salve into something we can trade. Mother… keep the door barred and the hearth hot. We're not running. We're digging in."
The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet motion. I walked the strips with the first two families I'd chosen—widower Hob and his grown son, and the weaver's widow with her three half-starved boys. I showed them the new rows, explained the rotation in simple words, and offered half again what Garrick paid his field hands. They agreed on the spot. By dusk six more men and women had gathered at the edge of the north field, lanterns low, voices hushed. I paid them in advance with the last of the market silver and promised more grain at harvest. Their nods were small, but they were real. Seeds of loyalty planted in muddy ground.
When I returned, the longhouse was quiet except for the hearth's crackle. Mother had barred the door. Mira and the girls were already in the loft, but Lila lingered on the ladder, looking down at me with that new respect mixed with something sharper. Nora's pallet rustled as she shifted, watching.
Mother met me at the table, wiping flour from her hands. "They're talking about you in the village already. Not as Elara's boy anymore. As the one who's making the Thornwood name mean something again."
I nodded, exhaustion settling into my bones alongside the satisfaction. Garrick's threat had been answered with action, not words. The miller's alliance was cracked before it could harden. And the women under this roof—strong, experienced, battle-scarred—were starting to look at me not as a son or nephew, but as the man who could actually shield them.
Outside, the rain had stopped. Inside, the longhouse felt smaller, warmer, tighter with possibility.
Garrick would strike again—harder, meaner. The suitors wouldn't fade quietly. The baron's reeve might sniff around the missing tithes any day.
But for the first time since I'd woken in this body nineteen years ago, I wasn't sighing about the problem.
I was solving it.
And the women I loved—the ones I meant to claim and protect—were watching me do it.
**End of Chapter 5**