On the morning of the departure, Rose washed her face with melted snow and combed the knots from her hair with fingers stiff as willow twigs. She wore the same blue-gray dress from the interview, now pressed as flat as the stove iron could manage, and the patched cloak with its dull wooden toggles. In her hand she carried the bag she'd used since childhood—oilcloth, mended at the seams, big enough for a second dress, a strip of bacon, and the coin Mama pressed into her palm at dawn.
At the door, Papa stood waiting. His face was rough with a week's beard, his hands smudged with creosote from the morning's fire. He said nothing, only hugged her with a ferocity that left her ribs creaking. Meg and Daniel trailed after, Meg with her hair uncombed and Daniel already sniffling, though he tried to hide it by staring at the floor.
Rose had promised herself she wouldn't cry, and she kept it—at least until Mama gathered her close and whispered, "Write when you can. And mind the other girls." Then her eyes burned and her breath hitched, but she forced a smile and stepped into the cold.
The sky was the color of dirty wool. The walk to the Guild was easier this time, the snow packed hard, her limbs already numb to the chill. She walked quickly, not wanting to give herself time for doubt or regret. The bag banged her hip with every stride.
Outside the Guild, a cluster of girls huddled in the porch's shadow, stamping feet and blowing into mittened hands. There were six of them, all shapes and heights, but sharing a sameness that Rose felt in her bones. Their boots were tall and shined, their hair gleaming in braids or loops, their laughter sharp as bells. Even in wool and flannel, they carried themselves with a softness that Rose envied.
She paused at the steps, feeling the familiar twist in her gut. She knew how this went. The girls would size her up, assign her a rank, decide if she was to be pitied, ignored, or picked apart. She squared her shoulders, climbed the stairs, and nodded at the group.
One of them—a redhead with a face full of freckles—looked her up and down, lips puckered in a faint sneer. "She's the other one," the girl said, not quite quiet enough to be secret.
A giggle passed through the clump. Another girl, fair and round-faced, whispered, "I heard she's from the edge of the valley. Practically lives with the pigs."
Rose said nothing, but met their stares one by one. Most looked away. The redhead held on the longest, then shrugged and returned to her circle. Rose stood a few paces from them, watching her breath fog and drift.
The Guild's door banged open, and the Guild master strode out, already red-cheeked and bellowing. "Inside, all of you. Stand straight, don't slouch." The girls filed in, Rose last. She caught the scent of old wood, coal smoke, and something floral—the perfume of the richer houses.
Inside, the waiting room was different than before. A long table dominated the center, piled with packets, ledgers, and a tray of plain rolls for the journey. At the far end, near the fire, stood a man in uniform, his posture so sharp it could cut. Rose saw the crest on his coat—two black ravens over a white tower—but she couldn't place the family. It must be the Northward House's steward, or maybe a captain.
She slid into line with the others, avoiding the eyes of the Guild master, who shuffled through a stack of names. "When I call you, come forward, present yourself. No talking unless addressed." His gaze flicked over Rose and lingered, maybe in warning or curiosity.
The other girls shifted, smoothing skirts and checking hair. Rose tucked her hands inside her cloak, letting her nails dig into her palms. Every sound in the room—the scrape of a chair, the crackle of the fire—seemed too loud.
The interviews began. Each girl was summoned, made to recite name, age, skills. Some did it with confidence, others in mumbled terror. The redhead—"Elin"—spoke with a curtsy, her accent smooth as butter. The round-faced girl—"Marna"—could embroider and do sums. One after the other, the girls performed, watched by the Guild master and the steward at the hearth.
Rose's turn came last. She stepped forward, said her name, and answered the questions with as little as possible. She felt the eyes of the others digging into her back, hungry for a slip or a stumble.
The steward fixed her with a look. He was young, younger than she'd expected, with a nose like a blade and hair cut close to the scalp. "You any good with horses?" he asked.
Rose hesitated. "Not much. Just cows."
He nodded, made a mark in the ledger, and waved her back. It was over. No one had laughed at her face, or made a joke about her hands, but she could feel the judgment settling like snow.
They were told to wait while the Guild master finalized the papers. The girls bunched together by the fire, casting glances and whispers. Rose stood at the window, watching the street empty of people.
It was then she saw the knight.
He sat in the corner, apart from the steward and the Guild staff, a man made of lines and angles and something both wild and deliberate. His hair was a shock of gold, cut just above the collar, but every strand rebelled against gravity. He wore a travel cloak, blue as the sky in June, the cuffs and hem embroidered with a pattern she'd never seen. His boots were worn but well-kept, the leather polished to a deep shine.
Rose tried to place his face, but it was impossible. She would have remembered eyes like that—pale, nearly white, set deep and bright under a slant of brow that suggested either violence or laughter, but never both at once.
She looked away, heat rising to her ears, and found her own reflection in the window—her hair black as a storm cloud, her face sharp and stubborn. She felt childish, a farmer's girl in a room of porcelain dolls and strangers with wolfish eyes.
The papers took an hour. The girls ate rolls, sipping tea from chipped cups. Rose kept her distance, but every so often she'd glance to the knight in the corner, only to find him already watching her. Not in mockery or hunger, just observing, as if she were a puzzle he meant to solve.
When the documents were finished, the Guild master announced, "The coach leaves at noon. Luggage to the yard. Say your farewells if you must."
The others giggled and clattered their way outside, but Rose lingered, drawn to the knight's gaze. For a moment, she wanted to ask who he was, what business he had with girls from nowhere. But something in his expression—an amusement, a dare—stopped her cold.
She turned from him, fists tight around her bag, and walked out into the noon-bright yard. The other girls were already at the coach, loading their trunks and chattering about the journey. Rose watched them, feeling the distance grow with every word they spoke. She stood on the steps, let the wind batter her, and wondered what the next season of her life would taste like.
There was a hush, then a clatter of hooves. The coach was ready.
The knight appeared at her side. Up close, he was taller than she'd thought, his coat smelling faintly of pine and soap. He looked down at her, a half-smile on his lips, and said nothing at all.
Rose did not flinch or step back. She stared him down, matching his quiet, and nodded once. He nodded back, a flicker of respect in his eyes, then strode past to the front of the line.
The girls climbed into the coach. Rose took the last seat, pressed against the cold window. The knight mounted a black horse at the head of the column, gold hair gleaming under the weak sun. As the coach lurched forward, Rose looked once, then twice, until the town disappeared behind her and there was only the road and the thin promise of what lay ahead.
She set her jaw, opened her hands, and let her future hurtle on. At least her family had enough money to survive the winter. Since for some reason the people from the estate have her a sign up bonus that she gave the family. For someone as poor as them it would feed them for the worst of winter and she knew if she send some of her earning they would without a problem survive until spring. She was looking forward to see her baby raisin sibling grow up. She looked forward to see her mother cheeks full again.
She would work hard not only for herself but also for her siblings that needed her. Otherwise they would starve.