Page 36 of Severe Husband Warning

The linen blouse has been washed so many times the fabric feels almost weightless beneath my fingers, and my boots still bear faint traces of red dust despite the servants' persistent attempts to polish them clean after every visit to the market.

The guards posted at the gate bow as I approach before stepping aside to allow me through the towering doors.

The gesture still feels strange.

Only a few weeks ago I would have needed permission simply to stand before these gates. Now they open because I belong inside the spire they protect.

Warm stone and red earth greet me as I step outside. Dust quickly coats my boots while merchants begin arranging their stalls, familiar voices weaving together beneath the ever-present sky.

I slow my pace, content to let the streets carry me wherever they please until Cora Bell’s stall comes into view.

“There you are,” she says, relief softening the worry around her eyes. “I was wondering when we’d see you again.”

“You make it sound like I moved to another continent,” I reply, smiling despite myself.

“You may as well have.” Her smile fades as she glances toward the neighboring stalls. “Another family’s gone.”

My heart sinks. How many have disappeared since I moved into House Stromgarde?

Before I can ask anything further, she reaches beneath the counter and produces a neatly wrapped bundle.

“I finished mending these.” She places it carefully into my arms. Father’s old coat rests on top, with two shirts folded neatly beneath it. “I’m happy to do this for him. He’s always been kind."

Gratitude tightens my throat.

“Thank you.”

She pats my hand before another customer claims her attention, and I continue toward the little house where Father still lives beneath Rothgar’s protection.

I find him asleep in his chair beside the window, the morning light softening the lines illness has carved into his face. I leave the mended clothes nearby, replenish his medicine, set enough food aside for several days, then pull the blanket a little higher over his shoulders.

He stirs just enough to murmur my name.

“I’m here,” I whisper, giving his hand a gentle squeeze until sleep claims him once more.

Stepping back outside, I glance toward Old Man Theron’s cottage. He’s checked on Father nearly every morning since I left for the spire, yet his little herb garden has gone untended, and the front door hangs slightly open.

A quiet unease follows me as I make my way to his home.

The silence inside the cottage unsettles me the moment I step across the threshold.

“Theron?” I call softly.

My voice disappears into rooms stripped almost bare.

The bed has been cleared of its blankets, the cupboards emptied, and the shelves that once held jars of herbs and folded cloth now stand vacant, leaving only pale outlines against the walls where his belongings used to rest. Someone has removed every trace of the old weaver's life with meticulous care.

My gaze eventually lands on the loom beside the window. It remains exactly where it has always stood.

The sight stops me. No weaver abandons a loom willingly.

I kneel beside it, and as I steady myself against the frame, I notice one floorboard sitting slightly higher than the rest. It lifts with surprising ease beneath my fingers, revealing a narrow hiding place carved into the floor.

Inside lies a single weaving shuttle.

I turn it over carefully, and my attention catches on a fine strand snagged near its needle. I recognize it immediately.

Storm-moth silk.