Late one morning, Vesta’s vardo rolls up to one of Volaire’s gates, only to veer aside before reaching it. The driver guides it beneath the shade of a stand of trees, allowing the dappled light to flicker across the brightly painted wood.

Vesta hops down lightly, bells chiming as she hits the ground with practiced ease. She peeks into the vardo’s open door to murmur a few words to someone inside before turning back to the wagon. With efficient motions, she unhooks her grey horse, leading him a short distance away and securing the reins so he can rest.

When that’s done, Vesta straightens and plants her hands on her hips. Her gaze sweeps the area slowly: the gate, the road, the trees. She looks neither hurried nor hesitant, just watchful, taking the measure of the place before deciding her next move.

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