The morning Lord Antel's visit finally faded into the background, Havenwood went back to being what it always was: cold floorboards, thin porridge, and the endless, low hum of children trying not to be bored.
It was three weeks after the fine horses and leather boots had rolled out of the gravel courtyard. The bright red painted wooden horses Lord Antel brought were already nicked and scuffed from being dropped on the flagstones. The sweet honey cakes were long gone, swallowed down in three bites on a Tuesday afternoon.
Philia sat near the long wash basin in the back scullery, his sleeves rolled up past his small elbows, watching soap bubbles pop against the zinc rim.
Livya was standing at the wooden counter behind him, slicing dried apples into a earthenware pot. The heavy kitchen knife went thunk, thunk, thunk against the pine board in a slow, steady rhythm.
