The matchmaker's stiff finger remained suspended in the air, pointing from Tamshen to Stellor, then back again. The scholar, still shivering, took a slow, deliberate breath, his gaze sweeping over the scene: the indignant Matchmaker, the perpetually 'dying' Great-Aunt Hespa propped up in her armchair, Linni stifling giggles behind a teacup, and Tamshen, whose expression remained as unreadable as a freshly scrubbed slate. Stellor, in his sooty, patched robes, moved. Not with a lovers’ rush, but with the precise, almost academic posture of someone approaching a difficult theorem. He took two steps towards Tamshen, then a third, until he was directly before her. He straightened his shoulders, bowed his head in a courtly, almost archaic gesture, and delicately, with surprising grace, lifted Tamshen’s hand. His smudged thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles, and then, his lips—chapped and cold, but undeniably gentle—pressed a chaste kiss to her skin. It was a gesture of such earnest, unexpected respect that the entire room fell silent. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath. The official's finger slowly, almost comically, lowered. Her mouth, which had been poised to launch another tirade, hung slightly open. Linni choked on her tea, dissolving into a fit of silent, shoulder-shaking laughter. Great-Aunt Hespa, for once, was speechless, her mouth rounded in dramatic shock. Tamshen herself felt a peculiar warmth bloom in her chest, utterly alien and entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. It wasn’t passion, not in the way Krovul had demanded, but it was… devastatingly effective. It was the absolute antithesis of everything the woman stood for – an elegant, quiet defiance that left no room for argument. Stellor released her hand, offering a faint, almost imperceptible nod. He straightened, his face still soot-streaked, but his eyes, behind the askew spectacles, held a flicker of something Tamshen couldn't quite decipher. A quiet satisfaction, perhaps. Krovul, her face a thundercloud of thwarted authority, finally snapped her jaw shut. “Very well,” she rasped, her voice thick with venom. “A formal declaration, then. But do not think this is the end of it, Mirov. I will return in two weeks. Two weeks for a ‘Genuine Union Audit’ of your— *household*. And if I find any… discrepancies…” She let the threat hang in the air, thick and chilling, before turning on her heel and sweeping out of the cottage. The door, freed from her presence, swung shut with a sigh. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by Linni’s renewed, if still muffled, laughter. Great-Aunt Hespa let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her chest. “My heart! Such impudence! I feel it seizing!” She paused, then peered at Tamshen. “But… a fine kiss, wasn’t it, child? Very… proper.” Tamshen ignored them both, her gaze fixed on Stellor. He stood awkwardly by the door, still covered in soot, looking utterly exhausted. “Welcome,” she said, her voice flat. “To your warm hearth.” He offered another small, formal bow. “My gratitude, Madam Mirov.” “It’s Tamshen,” she corrected, feeling a familiar tension coil in her stomach. “And you are Stellor. We need to establish that now, before the audit.” He nodded. “Of course. Tamshen.” The name sounded foreign on his tongue. Linni, having recovered, wiped her eyes. “Well, that was certainly more exciting than Borin Skarn’s clammy handshake. You clean up well, Stellor. Or rather, you clean up… dramatically.” Stellor managed a tired, lopsided smile. “The chimney in my last lodgings was… structurally unsound.” “Clearly,” Linni giggled. “Right,” Tamshen interjected, cutting off the potential for further awkward pleasantries. “Linni, see to Great-Aunt Hespa. Stellor, there’s a washbasin by the pump. After that, we need to talk.” The cottage, freed from the visitor's oppressive presence, seemed to exhale. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the faint, comforting aroma of baked bread. Later, Tamshen watched Stellor from the corner of her eye as he ate, methodically, quietly. He had scrubbed most of the soot away, revealing a pale, lean face and eyes that seemed perpetually shadowed by fatigue. He wore the single spare tunic Tamshen had found for him—it was two sizes too big, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. On the table between them sat a small, half-peeled tuber. It was the only unbruised portion of the entire day’s ration. Tamshen had cut it precisely down the middle. Stellor lifted his fork, hesitated, then pushed his half fractionally closer to her. “Please,” he said, his voice soft. “You’ve had a long day.” Tamshen pushed her half fractionally closer to him. “Nonsense. You’ve had a significantly longer one, considering the chimney incident.” “But you dealt with Madame Krovul,” he countered. “That requires far more fortitude than a simple structural collapse.” “Which you then salvaged with a… truly impressive display of bureaucratic etiquette,” she insisted, nudging the starch. “It was nothing,” he murmured, nudging it back. “Just the application of appropriate social algorithms.” Linni, who was knitting by the fire, dropped a stitch. “Are you two seriously having an aggressively polite standoff over half a root vegetable?” She retrieved her dropped stitch with a huff. “It’s ration day, Linni,” Tamshen stated. “Every morsel counts.” “Especially the unblemished ones,” Stellor added, pushing his portion back to Tamshen. “You should have it.” “Absolutely not,” Tamshen declared, her voice firm, pushing it back. “You’re the guest. And you’re clearly undernourished.” Stellor sighed, a soft, weary sound. He took both halves and placed them squarely in the middle of the table, then lifted his fork and began to eat his portion with quiet resignation. Tamshen did the same. The silence that followed was less charged, more domestic. “So,” Tamshen began, after a moment, “the official story. Why were you truly exiled from the Capital’s Grand Academy of Arithmancy?” Stellor chewed slowly. “I… discovered a minor inefficiency.” Linni snorted. “An ‘inefficiency’? Is that what they call it when you prove the entire Empire’s rationing system is a farce?” Stellor winced. “It wasn’t a farce. Just… mathematically unsound. I merely demonstrated, with irrefutable numerical proof, that the current allocation matrix, particularly regarding winter grain distribution in the outer provinces, would inevitably lead to a twenty-seven percent shortfall in vital sustenance within three years. And I published my findings in the *Imperial Journal of Applied Logarithms*.” Linni dropped her knitting again. Then she started laughing, a bright, unrestrained sound that filled the cottage. “You *what*? Oh, Stellor, you’re brilliant! You’re absolutely hilarious!” Stellor flushed a faint red, looking down at his plate. “The Ministry of Grain Security did not find it humorous.” “I imagine not,” Tamshen said, a strange mix of exasperation and grudging admiration in her voice. “So they exiled you.” “To the farthest province, with strict instructions to only apply my… talents to practical, localized problems. Such as, apparently, cleaning chimneys.” Linni, still chuckling, gathered her knitting. A glint appeared in her eye. “You know, I always wanted to learn proper watchmaking. I bet a mind like yours has contacts in the Capital, even if they’re disgraced ones. People who appreciate true precision.” Tamshen shot Linni a warning glance, but Linni merely hummed, already lost in thought. “Well,” Tamshen said, returning her attention to Stellor, “you’ll need to settle in. There’s a small space by the hearth. You can unpack what little you have.” Stellor nodded, pushing away his now-empty plate. He reached for the battered leather satchel he’d carried in. It was a sorry thing, scuffed and worn, tied shut with a length of rope. As he untied the knot, the satchel sagged, and a stack of papers, crisp and official-looking, slid out, scattering across the rough-hewn floorboards. Tamshen froze. They weren’t personal letters or academic notes. They were state documents, embossed with the double-headed eagle of the Olenian Empire, thick with bureaucratic seals. Subpoenas. And not just one or two, but a whole sheaf of them, all bearing the same grim heading: “Ministry of Truth — Summons for Interrogation.” Each one listed Stellor Hant as the accused, and each one demanded his immediate presence in the Capital. Tamshen felt a cold, hard knot form in her stomach. The Matchmaker’s Guild was suddenly the least of their problems. Her paper husband wasn't merely disgraced; he was actively being hunted.

The Potato Standoff