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“We’ll vote again,” she said, calling it out.

Hands were raised and they agreed we needed kisses on the mouth.

The room cheered after Asha called out the verdict.

“I, um…” Bram bolted for the front door and it banged behind him.

In the flurry, three sprites dropped from the rafter beam onto Mrs. Honeycake’s tray, seized a jam-filled croissant each and Zephyrine’s dangling silver earring on the way past, and zipped up the chimney before anyone had finished pointing. Zeph, still in her apology phase, apologized to the sprites.

Melissant added SPRITE-PROOFING to the fair agenda.

Mercenary work, Ginger said, from my shoulders, watching the rafters with narrow eyes. Now they’ve made it mercenary work. If I’m expected to handle this, I’ll require fish.

The rumor reached me during the meeting break, when I was sipping my second cup of cider, and it arrived in Mrs. Piddock’s kindest voice.

“Is everything going well at the farm, dear?” Mrs. Piddock asked as she dropped into the seat beside mine. “Such a careful man, our Mr. Brack.” She glanced over her shoulder at where he leaned against the wall by the door. “Whatever the tea did or didn’t do.”

“The tea did nothing.”

“Of course, dear.” She patted my arm. “Nothing at all. My sister’s girl said the growl carried all the way to the fountain.”

She got up and returned to her children, whispering something that made them laugh. I remained in my seat, cupping my mug of cider while three different conversations near me went oddly quiet.

Goran’s ears went flat and dark. He met my eyes and strode across the room, which in a packed tavern meant people stepped aside to let him through. He planted himself at my side and said nothing. Just drank his ale, appearing unbothered.

Too unbothered. His horn-bases had gone bright.

The meeting started up again with Melissant completing the rest of the agenda. She adjourned the meeting, and Goran and I left, sucking in cool air that held the hint of snow. On the wagon ride home, under a sky full of misty stars, with Ginger a warm scarf around my neck and the faelamp swinging on its hook by the bench, I laid out my strategy.

“We can’t kill the rumor by hiding,” I said. “That only feeds it. Which means we need to do the opposite. We’ll be seen everywhere. Together. Completely at ease. Committee nights, market mornings, and during the fair. Two people so plainly comfortable together that the story starves.”

“Hm.”

“There need to be terms, of course. One, we attend all fair business together. You’re my ride anyway, so this costs you nothing. Two, in public, we chat. Casually. You’ll have to hold up your end of the conversation. Entire sentences, out loud.”

“Steep terms.”

“Steep is the going rate, and you’re good for it. Three, no blushing.”

Goran said nothing from the driver’s side of the wagon.

“Goran,” I said. “Term three.”

“Strike it,” he said to the road. His horns had darkened deep enough to see by faelamp. “Can’t be met.”

I lost the next quarter mile to laughing. Ginger stirred against my neck and put a paw on my jaw.

Add me to this campaign, she said. I want a rank.

“Ginger wishes to be included,” I said.

“She’s got a war already with the sprites.”

“She’s prepared to run two.” I did not say what her first campaign had been. I did not say she considered it her finest work, or that she was purring about it against my collarbone at that moment. “She wants a rank.”

He thought about it for most of a hill. Turnip’s hooves knocked on the cobbled road. The faelamp swung.

“Quartermaster,” he finally said. “She steals supplies.”