Chapter 18 - Choice
The songs had faded by late Shabbat morning. The courtyard still smelled of bread and sweet wine, but the laughter that filled it hours before was gone, drifting away with the movement of life. A few servants glided around the table, stacking plates and sweeping crumbs into their hands. The house was gentle, a calm that comes after joy—when no one knows what to say.
Linora sat beneath the awning, appreciating the fine linen of her gifted dress. Her hair was now loosely braided, stray wisps falling into her eyes as she watched the shadows of birds shift across the stone floor. The ache within her had softened, not gone—only buried deep enough to let her think clearly again. She had made her choice, though it was no vow she could ever speak aloud.
What had passed between her and Loshim would stay hidden—a flame pressed beneath the earth, starved of air but never cold. For his sake, for her father's, for Samuel's peace, it would remain there, untouched and unnamed. Oren loved her with all his heart, and his wisdom—sharpened by more than three centuries—was beyond question. If he had chosen Samuel, then Linora would learn to love him, trusting that God's plan for her life was wiser than her own.
From the far side of the courtyard came the sound of a driving mallet—aggressive, deliberate. She didn't need to look to know who it was. Loshim was mending a section of the outer gate, sleeves rolled, movements quick and measured. Every blow rang sharper than it needed to, the sound of someone beating silence into obedience.
Their eyes met once when he straightened to fetch a nail. Once.
It was enough.
He turned back to his work without a word. She forced herself to look away, studying the half-cleared table with false fascination. Lirit approached to offer a cup of water, then hesitated, sensing the stillness between them—the quiet that carries memory. Linora thanked her softly, hoping it would disguise the tremor in her voice.
Moments later, Samuel appeared in the doorway. He walked without his cane, testing his balance, his face flushed with pride and vigor. "What a beautiful sight," he said, smiling and taking her hand with the wonder of a man who had been given more than he deserved.
"A dream come true," Linora replied, hoping the words would coat her heart.
"Let's take a walk. I've been dying to show you the orchard. The apricots may have started to bloom." Samuel was beaming. She nodded, careful. "You must show me at once."
He grinned, pleased by the answer, and turned toward the gate where Loshim worked. "Still fixing things, brother? On Shabbat?"
Loshim didn't look up. He kept at his task and let the mallet do the talking.
Samuel laughed, not unkindly, but loud enough that it stung. He turned back to Linora. "You'll see, he can't sit still. If the world were whole, he'd still be out mending it."
The joke eased the tension for a beat, but when Samuel's laughter died, silence crept back in—the uneasy kind that feels louder than words.
Linora looked back and saw Oren briefly in the threshold speaking low to Nahala. His voice carried words she couldn't catch, but the tone was proud, satisfied—the sound of a man whose burdens were finally in order.
Linora sipped her water and walked peacefully into the orchard that glistened in soft light. Apricot blossoms dusted the ground like pale snow, their scent healthy and sweet. Samuel led her along the rows, his limp faint but noticeable when the path sloped. Linora slowed to match his pace, pretending to study the trees.
"They're beautiful," she said.
"They'll be ripe soon," he replied with a half-smile, glancing up at the branches. "If we stay here long enough to taste them."
She frowned lightly. "You've got plans, do you? What's next on our journey? Don't tell me you've already built a house for us."
He shrugged. "I've got money, and I can borrow. Let's find one together." His eyes flicked to her face, then softened. "I could live in a stable if you were by my side."
It was meant as a compliment, but the words fell heavier than intended. She wanted to believe him.
"You make it sound like life is easy to figure out," she said, trying to keep her tone light.
"Not easy," he said, plucking a blossom from a branch and rolling it between his fingers. "Calculated."
The stillness that followed wasn't cold, but careful. She looked down at his hand, at the crushed flower. Desperate to change the subject, Linora blurted, "Let's ride horses! Your legs are strong now—and you can't let Loshim have all the stories."
His brows lifted, half amused, half defensive. "Why? I mean, I can handle a horse, but why would you want to?"
"Show me," she said, stepping toward him, "I think you'd look stunning on Eshka."
For a moment he stared, caught between pride and affection. Then his smile returned—thinner now but real. "Oddly specific. Very well, but don't say I didn't warn you. Horses don't tend to like me, but I get them in the end."
"Horses hate certainty," Linora quipped with a grin. "They'll test it every time."
The sun was high by the time they reached the pasture. The world shimmered in pale gold, cicadas rasping from the hedgerow. Linora led the mare by its reins—the same one Loshim had used during her lesson. Somewhere deep in her soul, she knew it was disordered, but she wanted to rewrite the memory with Samuel, to make it clean again.
"Here," she said gently. "Start with your hand on her neck. Let her feel you."
Samuel rolled his eyes and tightened his jaw, then tried to mimic the motion. The horse shifted, tail flicking. "She's restless," he muttered.
"She's uncertain," Linora corrected. "You have to be calm first. Soft hands, remember?" The words left her lips before she realized whose voice they echoed.
He placed a foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up, wincing slightly as his legs adjusted. The horse stamped. "Easy," he said, giving the reins a firm tug.
The animal snorted, ears twitching back. Linora reached for its shoulder. "Gentle," she whispered, "she doesn't like sudden—"
"I've got it," he snapped, louder than the moment called for.
The horse jerked sideways. Samuel's balance faltered and he started to slip, gripping the reins too tight. "Stubborn beast!" He yanked again, harder this time.
The mare reared slightly, eyes flashing white. Linora stepped in, voice low and steady. "Shh—shh, easy now," she murmured, one hand firm on its muzzle, the other on the reins. The horse stilled, sides heaving. Samuel slid to the ground, face flushed with anger and embarrassment.
He forced a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Guess I'll stick to the ground. Safer there."
Linora managed a smile, though her heart ached for him—and for herself. "Maybe tomorrow," she said softly.
He nodded, avoiding her gaze. "The horse needs better shoes." Linora couldn't tell if he was sincere. Then he turned, muttering something about the heat, and made his way back toward the forge with a limp a little more pronounced.
She stood there for a long moment, the mare's breath warming her shoulder. Slowly, she stroked its neck, feeling the tension fade beneath her touch. "You're not a stubborn beast," she whispered. "You were gentle all along."
The horse lowered its head, grazing again as though nothing had happened. Overhead, clouds drifted across the sun, dimming the light—not darkening the day, but softening it, the way uncertainty sometimes softens the heart.
The pasture had quieted again. Linora lifted the horse's head, brushing its neck in slow, steady strokes. The smell of sun-warmed hide and trampled grass hung thick around her. She could still see the prints where Samuel's boots had turned toward the house—deep, hurried, uneven.
From the path behind her came the sound of soft footsteps and the whisper of fabric. Nahala moved effortlessly, the way a wave approaches a shore.
"I saw him pass through the courtyard," she said gently. "He didn't look pleased."
Linora kept her gaze on the horse's mane. "He isn't hurt," she said. "Only... frustrated."
Nahala hummed, neither agreeing nor pressing. "And you? Are you hurt?"
Linora hesitated, running her palm along the horse's shoulder. "No. I suppose I should have known better than to push."
Nahala came closer, stopping beside her. The older woman's tone stayed light, her eyes steady. "The first day of a betrothal tests everyone's footing. You're learning each other's silences as much as your words."
Linora managed a faint smile. "It's not silence I'm worried about."
A pause shared between them, like each was trying to ascertain the mind of the other. Finally, Nahala spoke again. "It's a strange thing, faith. People think it means persistence—doing what we're told and waiting for God to speak. But most times, He already has. We feel it before we know it."
Linora hesitated. "Feel it?"
"The inclinations of the heart," Nahala said, brushing the dirt from her palms. "They're not accidents. God breathes through them too—even the ones that unsettle us. Especially those."
Linora looked down at her hands, her pulse tightening. "I've been trying to quiet mine."
"Mm," Nahala hummed, finding Linora's eyes. "And how's that working?"
Her shoulders sagged, unable to answer.
Nahala smiled softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I agree with Oren's hopes for you. But even so—the Lord's will isn't always what a father plans."
Linora swallowed. "Maybe he should get to know Loshim better," she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. "I hope he'd see what I see."
"Of course," Nahala said, turning toward the courtyard. "Why do you think I put them in the same quarters? We're not out of rooms yet."
Linora blinked, half startled, half amused. "What do you know, exactly?"
Nahala's eyes twinkled with quiet mischief. "I know a great many things, dear. But mostly, I pay attention."
Linora studied her face for clues. Falling short, she said, "So you aren't going to tell me. Trust God, trust myself, trust that God's will is my own—it's all so complicated."
Nahala smiled, the lines at her eyes deepening. "Yes, it is complicated," she said. "But God rarely asks us to untangle everything in one day. Sometimes He asks that we be still long enough to listen."
She reached out, brushing a stray wisp of hair from Linora's cheek. "Shabbat is for that, you know. Rest for the hands, quiet for the heart. Let the silence speak a little before you do."
Linora nodded, her throat tight but her heart lighter for it. "Alright," she said softly. "Perhaps some listening is exactly what I need."
"Good," Nahala said, turning back toward the path. "Prayer can be as much observing as asking. Instead of answers, maybe ask for peace until the answers come."
Linora watched her go, the older woman's figure moving through the golden light until it faded under the shadow of the threshold. The mare snorted beside her, shaking its mane. She gave the animal a final pat and turned toward the house herself, the stillness of Shabbat settling around her like a shawl.
The room was hushed when Linora returned, the scent as she had grown accustomed—oil and myrrh, faintly sweet and heavy at the same time. She sat first on the edge of the bed, unpinning her hair and letting it fall across her shoulders. The stillness felt alive, inviting thought rather than sleep.
She closed her eyes, drawing her hands together in her lap. Her prayer began as gratitude—for safety, for morning light, for the rhythm of work and rest. Then it softened into petition, a quiet search for peace within the knot of her heart. The words came and went, sometimes steady, sometimes dissolving into silence.
When she finally rose, the last of the day's warmth touched the wall. She crossed to the small window and knelt beside it. The light outside had paled toward evening, and the courtyard shimmered in that half-hour between day and dusk when everything seems to hold its breath.
She tried to pray more, but as the minutes passed, the language thinned. Her lips moved, but her mind strayed to the rhythm of footsteps below, the faint murmur of servants setting lamps along the walk.
Through the narrow shutters, she caught a glimpse of movement—Loshim crossing the courtyard, a shadow against the amber light. He paused to speak with a stablehand by the well who was visibly agitated. The two ran off in a hurry. Even from above, she could see the weariness in his shoulders.
Somewhere deeper in the house, Samuel's laughter echoed—light, familiar, full of confidence. The sound rippled through the walls and faded again, leaving a silence too loud to bear.
Linora closed her eyes and pressed her palms together. "I will love what I've been given," she prayed, trying to will the words into truth.
The last of the sunlight slipped away, leaving only the steady pulse of candle flame on the far wall. For a while she simply watched it, the way a ship watches the horizon—waiting for something to appear.
Two soft taps sounded at the door—the sign that Shabbat had ended and the evening meal awaited. Linora made her way through the quiet hall and found an empty chair between Samuel and Nahala, across from Oren, whose grin widened each time his eyes met the new couple.
A maidservant leaned to convey something to Nahala, who nodded. "We will wait for Loshim," she whispered back.
Samuel took Linora's hand, careful and deliberate, opening his mouth—but before he could speak, the mood of the room shifted. A shout carried from the direction of the pastures, faint at first, then sharper.
Chairs scraped. Everyone stood. The stillness of Shabbat collapsed in an instant.
Another cry rang out, closer now—raw, panicked, unmistakable:
"Another one taken by the curse!"