like a sharp bright piece broken from a star

The deal was all but done. The unimpressive little shop with crystals and pointless little herbal concoctions had gone into something called bankruptcy. The man selling the shop -- a real estate broker -- had explained that meant the business had no money and so, to pay off some of the people owed, the shop had to be sold.

For cheap. Cheaper, at least, than any other shopfronts on the market, which were few.

Hild had thought handing over money would be enough. She had already gone to the bank and learned what a loan was, had applied, had done the math and been sure she could make the payments, provided the business did well.

But then there were things called escrow and deeds and taxes. There were rules for how to run a business, rules set by the city for what she could sell and how the building must be kept and how she must pay and treat her employees. They all came together in a vague pattern that Hild thought she could understand, but it was a painfully slow process to stop and look up the meaning of every phrase or concept she did not understand.

She could have gone to Luke. She had already asked questions of him, learned from watching and doing. But she hadn't realized the sheer number of laws that dictated his actions. All of his actions simply made sense.

She could have gone to Luke. She could have gone to Derek. But she wanted to go to Spencer. They saw each other often; at the very least, Hild could expect to see him whenever she had a shift at the bookstore. But they had not sat down and had a proper talk, with coffee, just by themselves, in some time.

So she placed her folder full of papers, two coffees (Spencer's favorite blend, made as he liked it), and a plate filled with pastry on the table of the coffee shop, and waited for Spencer to arrive.

Back home, the court moved. Breguswith had explained it to Hild once, when she was a child and adamantly against such constant travel. She wanted to stay in a place long enough to learn its habits, to discover its secret places, to feel it with her whole skin. But as her mother pointed out, a king could not remain in one area for so long, not if he wished to keep his thegns in line with his powerful presence and keep his court from eating those thegns out of house and home. And so they had drifted from castle to castle, following the shifting seasons, keeping time with the different vills. Bebbanburg, Yeavering, Tinamutha, once, Brough, Sancton, Goodmanham, York.

But time did not need a changing landscape to move on. Hild found herself on the cusp of fall, without York, for the first time in more than a decade. Darrow did not have York's sweet apples or pears, nor its wars. It did have something called a pumpkin spice latte, however, which was almost as delicious as the overexcited barista had told Hild it would be. She had ordered two if only to calm the woman, but she had reasoned that anything that garnered such praise, mostly earnest, had to be passing good.

Balancing a tray of coffees and a few scones in one hand, Hild texted a few of her friends with the other, inviting them each to join her in the park, if they had the time. The first to arrive could have the spare latte. So she said. Hild had every intention of ensuring that each of her friends could share in the pumpkin spiced goodness.