“Elena’s the only woman not here.”
The words overstayed their welcome, a sharp note against the din that filled the tavern.
“Of course not,” Ryn said, her voice low but biting as she passed out ale. “Does Elena need to hide out with the rest of us? She has her guards and her speeches and her gallows. What does she care?”
The Broken Needle was quieter than usual; gone was the drunken laughter, the raucous chatter. Left were the dull clink of cups, the shifting of feet, and the undercurrent of hunger.
The women of Threadneedle had gathered.
Merina sat near the fire, hands folded tight in her lap, her mending forgotten. Around her, the butcher’s widow, the midwife, the baker crowded in—faces that had aged too much over the winter. The fire threw long, dancing shadows against the walls, but the warmth of it barely touched the room.
Oona stood near the bar, waiting for the low hum of voices to settle. A skeptical voice came from the back.
“Why now?” The butcher’s widow said. “They already got what they wanted. Martha’s gone. The executions are over. What’s left to fight?”
Her words sent a ripple through the group; some nodded and others shifted uncomfortably.
The midwife spoke next, twisting her shawl between her fingers. “What are you asking us to do, Oona? We’re not soldiers. We’re not Candlemakers.”
“We need the Crown,” Oona said.
The words sliced the air like a guillotine and a heavy silence rolled off.
Ryn laughed, dryly, but the sound was humorless. “You want to kill us all.”
Merina’s head snapped toward her. “I guess some of us have reason not to wish the Crown here.”
“You mean Garrick does,” Ryn shot back.
The tension between the two was brittle now, close to breaking.
“The market’s gone,” the baker said, her voice thin. “We’re starving. Words or good intentions alone ain’t going to feed us.”
“You think the Crown will?” Ryn’s voice cut through. “Elena isn’t the one hoarding the food, Oona. The nobles don’t give a damn what happens to us.”
Oona held her ground. “Regardless, they’ll open the pass,” she said evenly. “At least that will bring the traders through. The Castle’s got Crown’s gold enough to supply an army.”
A few murmurs rippled through the room. Some hesitated, but one woman came forward. Then another. Merina watched, not budging. Then she lifted her cup. “To the Crown, then.”
Ryn exhaled, raising her own mug. “No, to each other.”
As the women drank, the moment held—too tense, too fragile. Then, from somewhere, someone said, “Must be nice to drink so freely.”
The words were quiet, but they cut. All eyes turned to Merina, the speaker. She was staring at the shelves stocked with fresh bottles of ale, the ones that weren’t there a few nights ago.
Ryn set down her cup a little too carefully.
“You’ve been up at the castle,” Merina continued. “Looks like the Broken Needle’s been resupplied.”
The butcher’s widow shouted out, “Where’d you get it?”
Another voice joined in, “Yeah.”
“We’ve got some untapped stores,” Ryn said quickly and smoothly. “In fact, I need to go back there now… to replace some that you all have taken so freely.”
Merina didn’t blink. “Untapped. Right.”
Ryn turned away, but the damage was done.
The chatter started again. Merina let the moment stretch before standing, straightening her skirts. “You’ll need help, then,” she said lightly, following Ryn toward the storeroom.
Oona looked between them, but she didn’t stop them. Not yet. The storeroom door creaked faintly as it shut behind them. The scent of earth and spilled ale saturated the room. Lantern light scattered through the cramped space, casting broken light over the crates and barrels.
Ryn leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. Merina didn’t speak at first. She was only looking at her. And that was worse.
“You have something with me?” Ryn finally muttered, forming her hands into fists, as if ready to throw a punch.
Merina advanced menacingly, ready to throw her weight into the fight. “Garrick knows about Ward.”
Ryn pulled back, straightening against the wall.
“He’s not saying nothing, but I know that look he had in his eye,” Merina continued, voice steady but low. “And I don’t know what he’s going to do with it.”
Silence. Then, “You think this is my fault?” Ryn’s voice was quiet but laced with something edgy.
“I think,” Merina said slowly, “that you don’t think past your own damn nose.”
Ryn squinted at her, sideways.
“You really think we can steal from the castle and no one’s gonna notice?” Merina leaned in, almost touching her. “You’re acting like the Crown’s the only danger, but people are hungry, Ryn. You don’t think they’ll come looking when they figure out you’ve been stealing? Elena will have all our heads.”
Ryn’s nails dug into her palms. “I wasn’t stealing—”
“Whatever. You were being reckless,” Merina snapped. “And you dragged Ward into it. And now us.”
Ryn pushed back. “Oh, Nobody drags Ward into anything. He made his choice.”
Merina’s stare didn’t waver. “And you’re fine with that choice, putting us at risk?”
Something flashed in Ryn’s expression. “We’re all at risk anyway,” she said. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” Merina agreed. “But you did it.”
The words settled it.
Merina broke first. “You know, maybe you’re right about Ward,” she muttered. “But if this all goes wrong, we’ll all be dead.”
She turned toward the door. Her hand hovered on the latch. When she opened it, the light from the tavern spilled into the room, blinding her. She squinted as her eyes adjusted, scanning the room. But the energy was gone, replaced by quiet tension.
The butcher’s widow sat stiffly, hands gripping the edge of the table, while the midwife spoke to the baker with a low, urgent voice, looking at the door.
Oona stood near the fire, watching and waiting. This time, the room wasn’t murmuring with doubt; it was waiting for direction. Ryn slid back to the bar. She picked up her half-finished drink but didn’t sip it. Merina stood by the hearth.
Finally, the midwife broke the silence. “So, what now?”
Oona didn’t hesitate. “We need more than just words.”
No one argued.