As the carriage wheels sank into the mud of the village market square, Annabelle felt the weight of a thousand eyes upon her. Her vibrant green silk and perfectly coiffed hair were an anomaly here. Vendors stopped hawking their wares, their gaze trailing the elegant woman who had accidentally stumbled into their world. Men approached, their eyes wide with crude fascination, but Sara was a formidable gatekeeper, her expression hardening into granite as she shooed them away, pulling Annabelle closer into her protective sphere.
"Stay near me, miss," Sara hissed, her grip firm on Annabelle's arm. "You're drawing too much attention."
They made their way through the stalls to the first blacksmith's shop, a grimy, soot-covered building on the main thoroughfare. Annabelle stopped short, her eyes scanning the faces of the workers inside. None of them had chestnut hair.
"The equipment here doesn't seem to last long," Annabelle said, an instant lie forming on her lips, her voice laced with the false authority of her class. "I think we should check other shops. The quality looks questionable."
"I've been buying the household irons here for the longest time, Miss Annabelle," Sara countered, her brow furrowed. "I can guarantee you the equipment here is of excellent quality. The master insists on it."
Annabelle couldn't reveal the truth. She couldn't tell Sara that the real purpose of this trip wasn't hinges or fireplace pokers, but the memory of a soot-stained face. She allowed Sara to complete her purchase, her anxiety mounting.
"We're done," Sara said, gathering the packaged irons. "Let's get back to the carriage."
"Wait!" Annabelle stopped, her hand flying to her head as if struck by inspiration. "I remember there was something else I wanted to buy. Something I saw last time."
Sara looked at her, utterly confused. "What? You didn't leave my side last time, child. And you don't even know the name of it?"
"I don't know the name," Annabelle rushed, "but it's something I saw when we last came here. A sort of... decorative metal piece."
She didn't wait for Sara to reply. She simply turned and led the way toward the edge of the market, toward the sound and the heat of the true forge she remembered. Every step nearing the smithy made her heart race faster, a wild, exhilarating rhythm.
They entered the shop, the interior dark and hot. An old man, his hands twisted and hard from decades of work, greeted them with a smile. "What can I get you today, ladies? We have the finest steel in the kingdom."
"I'm not sure what the miss wants," Sara said, looking at Annabelle in exasperation. "Where is the thing you wanted to buy?"
Annabelle wasn't listening. Her eyes swept across the room, searching past the anvils and the glowing coals. She nodded blindly at the old man, her attention elsewhere. "I'll just look around and see what I can get."
"Very well," the old man said, shrugging slightly. He called out to a young boy who was standing near the entrance, sweeping up filings. "Boy! Show the lady our wares."
The boy, barely a teenager, scampered over and began to lead Annabelle around the dusty, cluttered shop, enthusiastically explaining the different types of metals and what they were used for. He spoke of iron and steel, of swords and plows, but Annabelle heard none of it. She kept nodding politely, her eyes constantly darting behind barrels and under workbenches, desperate for a glimpse of chestnut hair and dark eyes.
Finally, the hope began to die. The light in the shop was fading with the afternoon sun. He's not here today, she told herself, the disappointment a heavy, cold weight.
"Fine," she sighed, her gaze landing on a wickedly sharp piece of raw metal resting on a shelf. "I'll have that one." She reached out for the sharp, unpolished metal, her fingers nearly grazing the deadly point.
Just then, a voice, deep and resonant, cut through the clamor of the shop. "Careful, miss. We don't want you being hurt."
Annabelle froze. She turned around slowly, her heart leaping into her throat.