“Fetch the marriage bed-sheet, mistress. Now.” Tamshen’s mind, usually a labyrinth of interconnected statutes and obscure regulations, felt like a single, blank sheet of parchment. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. She had no bed-sheet. She had no marriage bed. Her entire intricate defense, built on leveraging legal loopholes and public outcry, had been exhausted, leaving her utterly exposed. The draft through the unlatched frame bit at her ankles, carrying the reek of doused pine. Linni leaned against the doorpost, one hand pressed to her ribs, staring fixedly at the officer's muddy boots. Linni, who had laughed through the absurdity, who had always believed in Tamshen’s silent machinations. This was the end. The manufactory, the gallows for Stellor, the crumbling of everything she had fought to protect. There was no workaround, no subtle manipulation left. A floorboard groaned beneath the rear partition. Stellor edged out from the root cellar, hitching his belt. Cobwebs clung to his collar, and dark smudges ran down the wool of his sleeves. He shuffled past the overturned meal chest and planted his tall, round-shouldered frame directly before the imperial uniform. “Sergeant,” Stellor said, dry and scratchy as an ungreased cart axle. “My wife has no need to fetch anything. Our union requires no proof beyond its undeniable existence.” He turned halfway, adjusting the ink-stained cuffs of his tunic. “Tamshen,” he muttered, his voice falling to an awkward rumble. “Forgive me. I know you pull the hem of your third apron-string when tallying ledger columns. I know you chew the corner of a cedar reed before disputing an invoice.” He stepped closer, clumsy fingers grazing her collar before resting lightly against the curve of her jaw. “I know you dry three orange ribbons for your chicory kettle, refuse wild comb until the cup stops steaming, and count Linni’s winter boots three times every dusk. And I know,” he added, his thumb brushing a stray thread from her cheek, “that the wood-shed floor ruins my hip.” Across the drift, Old Man Borin shifted his wooden clogs in the slush. The imperial soldier stood rigid, gloved thumbs hooked in his scabbard frog. Stellor dipped his chin and pressed his lips firmly to hers. His whiskers scraped her skin, smelling faintly of cellar turnip and dried ink. Tamshen stiffened, then caught the coarse sleeve of his tunic to keep from slipping on the wet floorboards, planting herself against his chest. Down the path, Great-Aunt Hespa fanned her bonnet with a vigorous snap. When Stellor parted from her, his spectacles sat crooked on his nose. “The ledger remains accurate,” he whispered, his throat clearing. Before the inspector could speak, Linni, clutching a roll of parchment, pushed her way to the front. Her voice, though shaky, was triumphant. “And as for my conscription, you can forget it!” She unfurled the document with a flourish, displaying the thick, red seal of the Grand Athenaeum of Olenia. “A legally binding apprenticeship contract, signed and stamped! Watchmaking. Begins next season. I am exempt from the labor corps.” The officer took the parchment, squinting at the black wax ribbon. His thumb rasped over the notary's crimp, his eyebrows twitching. He rerolled the parchment and shoved it back toward Linni's fingers. “The Athenaeum’s hand is binding. The child is beyond my jurisdiction.” He then turned to Stellor, his voice flat. “And the display… while unconventional, is sufficiently convincing for a domestic bond. I withdraw the summons for the bed-sheet.” A ripple of relief, almost audible, went through the crowd. “However,” the officer continued, turning toward Stellor. “The matter of your outstanding Ministry fine of one hundred gold marks remains. It is overdue by four years, eight months, and eleven days. Pay it now, scholar, or you will be taken to the Capital prison for immediate processing.”

The Genuine Union