Page 8 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

ISOLDE

Morning light filters through the guest room's lace curtains, painting golden squares across the wooden floor. I stretch carefully, testing yesterday's injury. Liora's salve worked better than I hoped—the puncture wounds have sealed completely, leaving only the faintest tenderness when I flex my ankle.

A new day. A chance to prove I belong here on my own terms, not as someone who needs rescuing.

I dress in my work clothes—sturdy brown trousers and a cream-colored blouse with embroidered vines along the cuffs. The familiar ritual of braiding my hair and checking my supplies settles my nerves. Today I establish my apiary. Today I take control of my own narrative.

The orchard stretches behind Maddie's cottage like a patchwork quilt, apple trees heavy with late-season fruit creating neat rows that disappear into morning mist. Dew clings to the grass, soaking through my boots as I make my way toward the spot I selected yesterday—a sheltered area near the property's edge with good sun exposure and protection from prevailing winds.

The sound of wheels crunching over gravel draws my gaze to the main path. A sturdy wagon approaches, pulled by a placid gray mare and driven by a man whose sun-weathered face speaks of decades spent working outdoors. Sawdust clings to his brown hair and practical clothes, and his hands grip the reins with the confident ease of someone comfortable with tools and honest work.

"You must be Isolde." He brings the wagon to a halt near the orchard's entrance, his voice carrying the warm directness of someone who wastes little time on formalities. "I'm Garron Pike. Maddie hired me to help set up your bee operation."

I approach his wagon, noting the careful organization of his tools—everything clean, well-maintained, and arranged for efficiency. Wooden planks and hardware fill the bed alongside a carpenter's chest that bears the marks of constant use.

"That's thoughtful of her, though I should mention this setup is temporary. I'll only be here a few weeks to establish trade routes."

Garron swings down from the driver's seat, his boots hitting the ground with solid authority.

"Few weeks, eh? That's a shame. Word around town is your lavender honey's something special. Folks are already talking about getting their hands on more."

His comment surprises me. Yesterday's encounter with the wolf and the awkward scene at the bakery made me assume the town viewed me as an outsider—someone passing through rather than someone they'd want to keep. But, perhaps thanks to Maddie and The Golden Crust, I'm not as much an outsider as I thought.

"The lavender variety does well in this climate. Your wildflower growth suggests the soil composition would support sustainable production."

"Maddie mentioned you know your business." Garron hefts a toolbox from his wagon with arms that speak of years lifting heavy materials. "Where are we setting up?"

I lead him toward the spot I selected, pointing out the advantages of the location—morning sun, afternoon shade, protection from harsh weather. He nods approvingly, already measuring distances with his eye.

"My hives are still in my wagon near the back here."

We walk back toward my covered wagon, where the soft hum of contained bees creates a gentle soundtrack. Garron peers at the wooden boxes with respectful curiosity rather than fear.

"Never worked with bees before, but I've heard they're particular about their homes."

"They appreciate quality construction and proper ventilation. Nothing fancy—function over form."

I explain my vision as we unload the hive boxes, describing the simple platform system I need and the positioning requirements. Garron listens with the focused attention of someone who takes pride in understanding exactly what his client needs.

"Sounds straightforward enough. We'll have you up and running before noon."

The morning air fills with the steady rhythm of construction—Garron's saw cutting clean lines through lumber, the solid thunk of his hammer driving nails with precision. I work alongside him, preparing the hive boxes and checking the health of my colonies.

The platform stands solid and level, Garron's craftsmanship evident in every clean joint and precisely placed support beam. Now comes the delicate part—moving sixty pounds of agitated bees from my wagon to their new home.

I approach the first hive with practiced movements, checking the entrance for any signs of distress. The low hum from within suggests the colony remains calm despite yesterday's travel.

"Right then." Garron positions himself at one end of the wooden box, flexing his fingers before gripping the handles. "On three?"

"Actually, let me take the heavier end. The queen's chamber sits toward the back, and if we jostle⁠—"

Garron's face reddens as he strains against the weight, his boots sliding slightly on the damp grass. The hive tilts at a dangerous angle, and the humming inside shifts to something sharper, more agitated.

"Bloody hell, that's heavier than it looks."

A shadow falls across the platform. Draven emerges from the tree line with that silent approach of his, golden-brown eyes taking in the situation with a single glance. Without a word, he steps forward and lifts the hive from Garron's struggling grip, settling it onto the platform with the same ease most people would handle an empty basket.

"Just checking the perimeter after yesterday's incident." His voice carries no judgment, just simple explanation. "Found fresh tracks along the eastern border."