Three Hearts, One Destiny

The courtyard smelled of crushed grass and sweet apples. Elena sat where the roots rose like small knuckles, her skirt spread around her sewing basket, and watched Rowan carry a sack of seed toward the tool shed. The moon was not fully up, but the old apple tree already made a dark arch over them, like a roof made for secrets.

Rowan’s shirt was rolled to his elbows. His hands were dusted pale at the knuckles, and when he wiped them on his trousers, a faint line of dirt stayed on his skin. Elena’s needle paused between her fingers. She had been careful with her hope, the way she was careful with fine thread—pull too hard and it snapped.

Rowan set the sack down and turned. “You’re making that face,” he said. His voice was low, amused, like he could hear her thoughts through the cloth.