A sudden, violent pounding rattled the entry planking, shaking the single pane of glass in its frame. Tamshen jolted awake, her heart a frantic wren in her chest. The room lay in near-darkness, save for the faint glow of dying ash in the fire pit. The snow outside muffled all sound but this insistent, aggressive assault on their flimsy barrier. “Mirov! Open this door! Matchmaker’s Guild, on official business!” The shrill bray belonged to Inspector Krovul. Tamshen’s gaze snapped across the room, past the small, lopsided table that served as her cutting surface, to the opposite wall. Stellor lay on his makeshift pallet of old grain sacks and coarse wool, a dark, motionless lump. He wasn’t in the cot next to hers. They had agreed, with excruciating politeness, that the single cot was too small for two full-grown adults, especially given their lack of genuine wedded intimacy. Instead, Stellor had claimed a corner by the chimney stones, and Tamshen had kept her cot against the far wall, leaving a generous stretch of frigid air between them. Now, the inspector's summons bounced off the plaster, threatening their carefully constructed charade. Tamshen scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the icy floorboards with a dull thud. “She’s here,” she hissed, her voice dry. “Get in the cot, Stellor, now!” Stellor, who had been stirring groggily at the first pound, shot upright, his usual exhaustion momentarily replaced by a jolt of pure panic. His eyes, dark in the gloom, flickered from the door to Tamshen, then to the narrow cot. He understood immediately. Without a word, he kicked clear of his wrap, a silhouette against the fading red embers, and launched himself across the room. The cot, a rickety contraption of scavenged wood, groaned mournfully as he practically hurled himself onto it. Tamshen was already there, throwing back the prickly coverlet. “Scoot over!” she urged, her voice tight with suppressed hysteria. Stellor, surprisingly agile despite his gangly frame, squeezed himself against the wall, making just enough room. Tamshen threw herself in beside him, tugging the wool over their chins. They lay stiffly, side-by-side, the air between them thick with the scent of old wool and Stellor’s faint aroma of soot and ink. Her hip pressed awkwardly against his, his elbow jutted into her ribs. The cot protested with a series of alarming creaks, threatening to collapse under their combined, tense weight. The pounding intensified. “Mirov! Don’t think you can ignore the Guild!” Tamshen took a deep, shaky breath and forced her voice to an even tone. “Coming, Registrar! Just… securing the latch.” She swung her legs out of the cot, wincing as her foot caught Stellor’s shin, then moved to the door. Her knuckles fumbled with the cold iron bolt. What could the woman legally inspect? The moment the door swung inward, a draft of snow swept into the room, flanking the heavy silhouette of the village matchmaker. Behind her stood two bored Guild clerks with yellow lanterns. Her beady squint swept across the floor, assessing corners and shadows for any violation. Her gaze lingered on the single, protesting cot. “A surprise audit of affection,” the woman announced, lips thin. “Some whispers reached my ears about… unconventional sleeping arrangements.” She squinted directly at the mound on the mattress. “Well, well. It seems my sources were mistaken. The loving couple, nestled together.” A sneer twisted her mouth. “Or perhaps, not so loving.” She stepped across the room, hobnailed boots thudding on pine planks. Tamshen remained by the door, trying to project an air of sleepy indignation. Inside, she was a coiled spring. The matchmaker reached the bed and peered down over Tamshen’s mussed hair and Stellor’s ear. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, a picture of profound discomfort. “A bit… spaced out, aren’t we, dear husband?” the visitor prodded, drawing a notched wooden rod from her cloak. It had marks etched into it, like a tailor’s rule. “The Guild has developed new protocols for assessing marital closeness. We must ensure the warmth of your bond. Or lack thereof.” She leaned over the cot, the stick held aloft, and began to lower it towards their heads. “Let’s see the distance between your temples, shall we? Standard Olenian Union requires no more than… four spans. Anything more indicates… a chilling estrangement.” She brought the end of the stick down, hovering it between their two heads. Tamshen’s breath caught. They had no pillows; just lumps of straw wrapped in cloth. And they were lying as close as physically possible without outright crushing each other. But Krovul’s intent was clear: to humiliate them, to find any excuse to declare their union void. Tamshen braced herself for the inevitable, already formulating a complex bureaucratic counter-argument in her mind, a labyrinth of paper and clauses. But Stellor, usually so quiet, so passively exhausted, moved. His hand shot out from beneath the wool. Before the official could flinch, his palm clamped around the marked cedar rule. With a sharp, sudden crack, he snapped it in half. The crack echoed off the rafters. The inspector stumbled back a half-step. Stellor, his gaze now unnervingly alert, sat up slightly. “Registrar,” he said, his pitch even and devoid of its usual stammer. He flipped the splinters toward the stove grate, where they sparked against the coal. “You stand in breach of Imperial Statute 7B, Paragraph 9, Sub-clause Gamma, regarding ‘Unwarranted Entry to Domestic Quarters and Deployment of Non-Standardized Gauges Not Certified by the Ministry of Concord.’ The only lawful implement for assessing union proximity remains the Calibrated Pulse Register, which you lack. Your actions constitute a frivolous harassment, punishable by a minimum fine of fifty silver mark and a potential suspension from Guild duties.” The woman stiffened, her sallow skin blotching red. The Guild attendants behind her shifted uncomfortably. Stellor continued, his voice gaining a precise, almost surgical edge. “Furthermore, the proximity directive was repealed in the Year of the Great Harvest, superseded by the ‘Allowance for Asymmetrical Posture’ provision. You are operating on outdated, indeed, entirely fabricated, guidelines.” Silence filled the room. The matchmaker’s chin trembled with outrage. She, the formidable Matchmaker of Vloren, had just been publicly, unequivocally, and bureaucratically humiliated by a disgraced scholar. Her authority, her very knowledge of Imperial law, had been torn to shreds. Without another word, she spun on her heel. “This isn’t over, Mirov!” she snarled, her voice tight with venom. “Not by a long shot.” She stalked towards the door, her attendants scrambling to follow. Just as she stepped over the threshold, her hand darted out to a small shelf by the door, where their family’s precious winter coal ration book lay. With a triumphant, malicious flick of her wrist, she snatched it up and disappeared into the snowy night, leaving the door gaping open. Tamshen dropped the heavy bar back into its socket, though the damage was done. A gust of icy wind had swept through, chilling the house to its bones. The soot-caked fuel in the iron grate dimmed under the draft. Stellor, now slumped against the wall of the cot, looked utterly drained, but his eyes still held a spark of defiant victory. Linni, usually a heavy sleeper, stirred in her own small cot in the corner. A faint, wet cough bubbled from her chest, a sound that cut through the silence like a knife. Tamshen stared at the empty wall shelf. The coal voucher. Without it, they would freeze. And Linni was already showing the signs of the cold’s cruel embrace.

The Audit of Affection