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“A few.” He tilted his head, amused curiosity flickering across his features as he peered at her across the table. “None with horns quite so large, though.”

Wren bristled and said curtly, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silence crept back in. He focused on his porridge, eating with the determined speed of someone hoping to end the conversation by finishing faster. But Wren had questions of her own and she wouldn’t be leaving without asking them.

“You said you needed coin—” She eyed him over a spoonful of porridge. “Yet somehow managed to afford everything to fix Marda’s house.”

He drained his tea in one gulp.

“I suppose I had more saved than I realized.”

“Hidden coin, then?” Her tone was light, but her eyes stayed focused. “You must be extremely resourceful. Or quite irresponsible.”

“Maybe both,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. He ground his teeth; the spoon scraped faintly against his bowl.

She didn’t press him further, but the way his shoulders hunched, the careful avoidance in his voice—it pricked like a needle beneath Wren’s skin.

Marda raised her brows. “Mercy, it’s like sitting between two thunderclouds.” She pushed the honey pot toward them. “Eat before the weather turns worse.”

Wren blinked, then snorted a laugh she tried to smother behind her cup. Orzen spooned up the last bit of porridge, but before he could stand to clear his bowl, Marda plopped a generous second helping into it with a pleased hum.

“You must be starving. You ate so fast.”

Wren covered her laughter with a cough. Orzen’s narrow look across the table only made it worse. She turned away, pressing her lips together in hope that it would cover her smirk, as he dutifully worked through his second bowl. By the time they were finished, Wren was fuller than she’d been in days.

Wren stood to remove her plate, but Marda’s gentle throat-clearing stopped her. “You’ve both been so helpful already,” she said, smiling with that innocent look that always came before a favor. “Could you spare a little extra help? I’ve some errands I put off. Since you’re here…”

“Of course,” Wren said. “I’d be happy to help.”

“I need both of you,” Marda continued. “Pell’s been holding wood for my stove—too heavy for these old bones to carry back. And Brunna’s been finished with my bell for the front door for days now.”

Her cloudy gaze drifted toward Orzen. “I can’t see well, but I’ve got eyes good enough to know you’ve got muscles for the wood. Seems like you’ve gotten yourself in trouble with Brunna, and she’s not one to trifle with. Best if Wren goes with you.”

He paled a little. “Pell, and Brunna…of course. You think either of them will forgive me for…?” He gestured vaguely at himself.

Wren snorted. “Forgive? Not likely. Pell might draw blood if you spill anything again. But I’m sure you can persuade him. As for Brunna…well, she’s protective of me. She’ll be harder to crack.”

“You’ll speak to her, won’t you?” Marda patted her hand. “Tell her how kind he’s been?”

Leaning back, Wren studied him across the table, letting the silence linger long enough for him to shift uncomfortably in his seat. It gave her a ridiculous sense of accomplishment to watch him squirm. Finally, she sighed dramatically, as though Marda herself had dragged the agreement out of her.

“I suppose,” she said lightly.

He didn’t smile—only looked away, a faint line settling between his brows. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Marda’s grin turned soft. “Good. Then it’s settled. The world keeps turning, but it spins easier when we lend it a hand.” With a look that managed to be fond and commanding at once, Marda said, “Go on then. And don’t let Pell kill him. I quite like him.”

Wren glanced sideways at him—stiff and solemn as a statue.

“No promises.”

He laughed. “If I’m beaten by a halfling, I reckon I deserve it.”

They stepped out into sunlight that smelled of dust and fresh paint. The light caught on the sharp edge of his jaw, deepening the tense lines around his eyes, and she wondered again what he was holding back.

She didn’t know where he’d come from, or even why he was in Thistlehold, but she doubted he was telling the whole truth. Marda had said they were cut from the same cloth—both kind and hardworking—but that wasn’t the whole of it.

Maybe their likeness wasn’t born of virtue, but of hardship; two broken people, recognizing the storm in each other’s shadow.