Free Dearest by Alethea Kontis

arm. In Elisa’s apron was a crude mat of thick stalks, woven together to form a square roughly as long as Friday’s forearm.
    In order to make this mat, Elisa would have had to manipulate the raw nettle stalks barehanded. Friday could only imagine the pain such a creation required. “You poor thing.”
    “There must be another way,” said Christian. “I’m not sure any of us has the strength to watch her go through that again.”
    “There is another way to use nettle, but it has to be broken down and the fibers removed from the inside. Like flax.” Friday had learned to weave flax from the Sisters of the Earth Goddess. Sister Carol often told the story of an old mother with hands like leather who preferred nettle cloth to all else, but no one else was brave enough to manage the stubborn, prickly weed. After growing up in the Woodcutter household, Friday figured she was brave enough to manage anything. She put her hand to the wound at her side. Even destiny.
    The young man whose eyes she had been avoiding hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor in the center of the room. The exhaustion that the tower’s magic had kept at bay for so long swept over her with a force that made her stomach churn. Her eyelids felt like anvils and she tasted bile in her throat.
    “I will help you.” She swallowed quickly so as not to disgrace herself further in front of her new friends. “If you can weave wind, you can weave this. I promise. But I must come back tomorrow. Forgive me, I—”
    Friday lost her words and her footing at the same time, falling back against the Elder Wood door for support. Tristan lunged forward to rescue her again, but Elisa stood her ground between Friday and her brother. Friday was grateful for it. Another shock from him would certainly deplete what little energy she had, and she’d need every last bit to make it back down all those stairs.
    Elisa held an arm up to her brothers, palm flat out. Once she had made eye contact with each of them, she turned and put her arm around Friday, propping her up and bearing some of her weight.
    They understand that you are under my care now,
said Elisa.
I will help you back to your room.
    Friday was too exhausted to express her gratitude, too exhausted to stop Tristan from approaching them further. But when he came to the door, he merely opened it for them.
    “Thank you,” he told her once more. She blinked at him, hoping he would interpret that as an acceptance. He stood there as Elisa helped her out onto the landing and only bowed his head politely when they passed.
    “Oh, and Elisa,” he added.
    Elisa paused on the top step, tilting her head back to acknowledge him.
    “Be sure to let us know if she starts laying golden eggs.”
     
    Friday awoke to the quiet of her bedchamber. The sunlight peeking through the cracks in the curtains was so bright, Friday was surprised it hadn’t roused her sooner. Then she remembered the events of the magic-drenched night before and decided that a certain amount of exhaustion should have been expected.
    She sat up slowly. Her head felt foggy, but her mind was clear. She lifted a hand to the wound on her chest; she could feel a raised line of skin and the bumps from her stitches, but there was no pain. There was no blood either. Rampion—nay,
Elisa
—had managed to drag Friday’s half-conscious body out of her soiled clothes and into a nightgown.
    Friday knew what a feat that was. She had performed the same task with Saturday and Peter, on the rare occasions that they visited the local pub after a long day’s work and overindulged. Friday smirked at the thought of wild rumors of her inebriation spread among the parents. Her, of all people. Friday Woodcutter. The girl who did no wrong. The Princess of Children. Who would believe it?
    Dear Goddess.
“The children!”
    The chamber door opened at her exclamation, and Conrad and Elisa came rushing through.
    “Everything is fine,” Conrad said calmly. “The children are hard