Cordelia sat on the edge of the bed and watched the fire sink. The room felt too large. When she closed her eyes she saw the clearing: her father’s coat darkening, her hands red. She had slept, but the sleep was thin. She had eaten, but taste came and went.
A soft knock. “May I come in?” Leah’s voice.
“Yes,” Cordelia said.
Leah slipped inside, shut the door, and took in the room with one look. “You’re quiet today.”
“I am tired,” Cordelia said. “Unfortunately, sleep won’t fix this.”
Leah came closer and did not sit until Cordelia nodded. She chose the chair instead of the bed, as if to give the space. “Tell me,” she said.
Cordelia kept her eyes on the hearthstone and spoke plainly. “My father set a trap. Dante went to the garden. Men waited with aconite. I ran. I took a knife. I meant to stop a shot. He stepped into the blade. He died. I did not mean to do it, and I did it. The law cleared us. The pack said I could stay. I know all of that, and still I feel…not clean. I am carrying a weight I cannot set down.”
She drew breath and went on. “Since then I am two people. One walks and answers and learns the halls. The other stands in the clearing. When I breathe, part of it stays there. I loved my father. He was hard, but he raised me. He told me the world was trade and watchfulness. But he was still my father, and I chose Dante. But this thought does not stop the ache. I still betrayed the closest and dearest person who cared for me all my life.”
Leah’s hands were quiet in her lap. “You did not go to the garden to harm,” she said. “You went to the garden to save them.”
“I hear your words but they do not reach the place that aches,” Cordelia said.
Leah nodded once. “Want me to tell you a secret?”
“Yes.”
Leah looked at the fire, then back. “Two men came down from the ridge, one carrying the other on his back. I recognized my brother on the stranger’s shoulders. The stranger begged me to open the gate; he said the boy was dying. I wanted to; I wanted to so badly. But they reeked of poison. I could smell the aconite coming from my brother. I didn’t open the gate. It was a trap set by a pack of wild wolves. They tore him to pieces right in front of the gate. I watched him die.”
Silence settled between them.
“At the gate,” Leah said softly, “you stand with your back to everyone you protect. The world in front of you is shouting for a different choice. That winter I learned a sentence that let me breathe: ‘Choose the life behind your back.’ It means choose the lives you are sworn to guard, even when your heart breaks looking forward. You did that in the garden. It won’t make grief vanish. But it tells grief where to stand.”
Cordelia’s fingers tightened on the quilt. “I have words for other people,” she said. “I don’t have them for myself.”
“Then borrow mine until yours arrive,” Leah said.
They sat while the fire found new wood.
“Water does not flow under a lying stone; some stones are naturally washed away over time, but most need to be moved on your own,” Leah said. “If you leave this weight where it is, it will own your days.”
“Tell me how I can move them?” Cordelia asked.
“Work probably helps best,” Leah said. “When you’re busy, your mind doesn’t wander to bad thoughts. It gives the wound time to heal. Or, if you are the sort who rips the bandage off, you can always put your father’s name in our chapel.”
Cordelia listened carefully.
“Also,” Leah added, “when doubt runs fast, say one sentence out loud: ‘I choose the life behind my back.’ Say it to the wall if you must. It will feel strange at first. Then it will feel like a step you can take.”
“What if people judge me while I work?” Cordelia asked. “In the hall. In the kitchen. In the yard.”
“Some will,” Leah said. “Most will not. We all carry our own knots. You already stood in the Courtroom. You do not need to stand in every stare. If a man speaks plain cruelty, tell me once. After that, you’ll answer it yourself and be done.”
Cordelia was quiet. “You make it sound like I can move.”
“You can,” Leah said. “You moved when the world tried to stop you. Moving now will be easier than that.”
“Say the plan,” Cordelia said. “Small things.”
“Come with me to the kitchen,” Leah said. “Ask Mira for work that does not burn. After, the chapel—write his name and one thing you want to keep from him. Then one slow turn in the yard. Later, sit with Dante while he checks patrol lists. You don’t have to fix anything. Just be there. If he asks your view, give one sentence. Tonight, if sleep breaks, we’ll ask Rowan for a draught. Not forever. Just for now.”
Cordelia nodded. The plainness helped.
Leah rose. Cordelia stood with her, fastened her cloak, and paused at the door. “Thank you,” she said. “For the sentence. For the truth.”
Leah’s smile was small and sure. “We lend each other steadiness,” she said. “Tomorrow you may lend me some back.”
They stepped into the corridor. The house breathed around them: voices from the long hall, a burst of laughter on the stair, the smell of bread. In the kitchen, Mira waved them in and set a knife and a board in front of Cordelia. “Onions,” she said. “Small cuts. Watch your fingers.”
Cordelia set to work. The rhythm of slice and slide steadied her hands. Leah sorted herbs beside her and told a quiet story about salting fish wrong the first time and how Herrick had eaten it anyway rather than hurt her pride. Cordelia found herself smiling without surprise.
Later, in the chapel, the small scrap took her father’s name and a single line: Trade fairly, watch the road. She set it by the candle and let her hand rest on the stone.
They crossed the yard, breath white in the cold. Cordelia lifted her face to the air. She was still sad. She was less lost. When afternoon came, she would sit by Dante and be part of the work again. The thought did not hurt. It steadied her.