Mer Wrought Crystal

Havermouth, Three Weeks Before

Talen parked his Ute out front of the farmhouse watching as Sigrid’s children scattered, slipping into the farmhouse and gardens, leaving her alone on the swinging chair. She set her book aside and rose to her bare feet, drifting across the grass to meet him as he retrieved the parcel from his front passenger seat, her hands fluttering out anxiously, and her expression rapt.

“Oh, be careful, Thaelen,” she told him. “It’s fragile.”

“What is it?” He asked as he passed it carefully to her.

She didn’t answer, turning with her prize and heading into the farmhouse, leaving the door open behind her. He took it as an invitation, one that was rarely extended to him, but she was evidently pleased with him for retrieving her parcel enough to let him into her abode.

He looked around with interest as they entered. It was very much as it had been since he had last been inside, the furniture unchanged in two hundred years, and lit by candles and the fire. It was clean,