Page 2

I tug at the collar of my cloak and glance at the ovens, wondering if she's stoked them too high. But the warmth doesn't stay on my skin. It goes deeper. It spreads through my stomach and up my spine and down my arms until it feels like I'm burning from the inside out.

"Goodness, it's warm in here," I say, and my voice comes out strange.

Then a cramp twists through my belly so sharply that I double over.

I grab the edge of the counter. My basket tips, and a bundle of dried herbs spills across the floor. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears, and I can't seem to get my breathing to cooperate.

"Elara?" The baker's wife hurries around the counter. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I don't know." Another wave of heat rolls through me, and I clench my teeth until it passes. "I'm fine. I'm just... hot."

"You're not fine. Sit down before you fall down."

She steers me into the chair by the window, and I let her because my legs don't seem to want to argue. Everything feels wrong. My skin is too tight. My clothes are too heavy. There's a restless, itchy feeling under my skin, like I need to move or run or crawl out of my own body, and I don't know which.

Even the bakery smells wrong. When I walked in, the bread and cinnamon smelled like heaven. Now they're so thick and sweet that I want to gag.

"Are you ill?" She presses the back of her hand to my forehead. "You're burning up."

"I don't think I'm sick." I try to think past the fog. "I was fine when I walked in. Then it was like someone lit a fire in my stomach. And I'm cramping, and everything smells too strong, and I feel..." I shake my head. "I don't know. Jumpy? Like I can't sit still."

Gods, I hate how small my voice sounds. I'm not the kind of woman who falls apart over a stomachache. But this isn't a stomachache, and it's happening so fast I can't get ahead of it.

The baker's wife goes very still.

Then her eyebrows climb. Then her mouth falls open. And then, to my absolute horror, she starts to smile.

"Oh, Elara," she breathes. "Oh, sweetheart. That's your heat."

I stare at her. "My what?"

"Your first mating heat!" She clasps her hands together like I've just announced I'm with child. "Gods above, after all this time!"

"No." I shake my head so hard the room tilts. "No, that's not possible. That's for girls. I'm far too old for that."

"It's late, but it's not unheard of. Some girls don't get theirs until they're well past the age for it." She waves a hand. "The warmth, the cramps, the restlessness, the smells. That's a heat, plain as day. Everything you're feeling is perfectly normal."

Normal.

Perfectly normal.

I'd stopped waiting for it years ago. Somewhere along the line, I'd decided that whatever was supposed to happen to other women just wasn't going to happen to me, and I'd been relieved. People whispered that something was wrong with me. Let them. A woman without a heat is a woman nobody can push down the aisle.

And now it's here. In the middle of the bakery. Right before solstice.

Dread pools in my stomach, cold and heavy, and it's almost a relief against the heat.

Because I know what happens next. Every girl in this village knows. When an unmarried woman goes into her first heat, she's expected to choose a husband right away. Immediately. For her own protection, the elders say, so the instincts don't draw the wrong kind of attention.

And if she won't choose, the elders choose for her.

I know exactly whom they'll pick.

Lunging forward, I grab the baker's wife's hand. "Please don't tell anyone."

She blinks. "What?"

"Please. I can manage this myself. I'll go home and lock myself in my cottage until it passes. Nobody even has to see me. Just don't tell anyone. Not the elders. Not your husband. Nobody."