Annabelle had become a regular phantom of the forge. Each afternoon she could slip away, she returned to that sweltering den of iron, yet Miguel remained as cold and unyielding as the steel he hammered. His silence was a wall she couldn't climb, and her only way to linger in his presence was to keep buying.
"Are you planning on starting a private army, young miss?" Sara asked, her voice dry with concern as she helped Annabelle haul a heavy iron shield and a wickedly pointed spear into the manor.
"It's a long story, Sara," Annabelle sighed, her shoulders slumped with the weight of her failures.
When she reached her sanctuary, she looked around in dismay. The room that once held porcelain dolls and silk ribbons was now a fortress of jagged edges. Knives gleamed from her vanity; axes leaned against her mahogany wardrobe; shields were stacked like dinner plates in the corner. She didn't even know the names of half the steel she had acquired.
"I won't give up on you, Miguel," she whispered to the empty room, her reflection looking back with a mix of defiance and desperation. Every other man in the village broke their neck to catch her eye, yet the one man who occupied her every thought treated her like a nuisance.
The next morning, she gathered her courage and returned to the forge, only to find the entrance blocked by Peter. The boy leaned against the doorframe, a knowing, weary look in his eyes.
"Are you not tired yet, Miss?" he asked, crossing his arms.
Annabelle blinked, trying to maintain her regal composure. "Tired of what, Peter?"
"We all know the game, Miss. You've been coming here to see Miguel, not to fill your bedchamber with rusty scrap metal."
"Nonsense," Annabelle countered, her chin tilting upward. "I am a collector. I am building a... a historical armory."
"Mmmhh," Peter hummed, his gaze narrowing with suspicion. "If you say so. I suppose that's lucky for you, then, since Miguel isn't in today. Shall I show you the new shipment of plows? Or perhaps another shield for your collection?"
The world seemed to go still. "Where is he?" she blurted out, her mask of indifference shattering instantly.
"He hasn't shown up for work," Peter said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's unusual. Miguel would work through a fever or a broken bone. Now, about those plows—"
"Wait," Annabelle gripped his arm, her eyes wide. "Do you know where he lives? Where his home is?"
Peter pulled back, looking hesitant. "I do, Miss Anna. But I can't be telling high-born ladies where a man sleeps. It isn't right."
Annabelle didn't hesitate. She reached into her silken pouch and pulled out five copper coins, the metal dull but valuable in the hands of a working boy. "This stays between us," she whispered, pressing the coins into his palm. "A secret."
Peter stared at the coins, his internal struggle visible on his face before his fingers clamped shut over the treasure. "Fine. But don't you tell him I was the one to sell him out." He leaned in and murmured the directions—a small, weather-beaten shack tucked away on the very edge of the woods, where the village ended and the shadows began.
"Thank you, Peter," she said, turning to leave.
"Anna," Peter called out, his voice suddenly sounding far older and more somber than a boy his age should. She stopped in her tracks. "It is said in the village that Miguel's heart already belongs to another. That's why his eyes never wander to the girls at the market. Don't go putting your heart on the line if you aren't prepared to see it broken."
Annabelle felt a cold shiver trace her spine. A man in a child's body, Peter watched her with a pity that stung more than Miguel's silence. "I'll keep that in mind," she replied, though her heart was already racing toward those woods.
As she waved a final goodbye and stepped into the carriage, her mind was a whirlwind. Who was the woman who held the blacksmith's heart? And what would she find waiting for her at the end of that forest path?