In the next few days Calla marveled at the change had transformed the world around her. She was vaguely aware that the change was, in fact, in herself; that the sky had never not been vast and bright, those snowdrops had been ready to burst for days, her friends had always been good company, and that she, Calla, had simply had a thick fog lifted from her eyes. And she knew, or felt, that the mood was not going to last under its own steam, and that the old gloom was still lurking on the edges of her heart, waiting for the first thing to go wrong in order to reinvade. But, she told herself, at least she was conscious of it now, and that ought to make it easier to fight it off. In the meantime, she meant to enjoy every minute of the effortless happiness that was momentarily hers.

She made her way towards work so busy marveling at the sweetness of life that she was completely unaware that she was humming softly and there was a definite spring in her step, and blind to the smiles on the faces of the early risers she passed by. She sat down at her loom and went cheerfully to work, now and then bursting into snatches of song, and giving Chanda a pleasant nod when she, an hour or so later, glided into the room with the freezing pomp of an iceberg.

When Nadial came in with lunch, Calla remembered about the thread she wanted to get for Shiriel and asked if she could forgo lunch and run into the market and have a look at what this southern trader had to offer. That was fine, Nadial, told her, provided she came back afterwards to finish out the day—though, Nadial confessed, she was well ahead of schedule. (The new, happier Calla, it seemed, was not necessarily a more charitable Calla, because she gave a little squirm of glee when Nadial gave a Chanda a rather pointed look at this.) And if she did buy anything, she should submit a request for reimbursement of the amount she spent.

Calla made her way through the crowds thronging the market until she caught sight of the merchant she was looking for. He had set up a rather large stall and displayed his wares quite artistically, so unsurprisingly there were groups of women buzzing about. Most of them, Calla noted, seemed to be just browsing rather wistfully. She edged her way between two knots of women to have a look and raised her eyebrows, impressed. She had a look at some of the bolts of cloth that were on display. Grudgingly she admitted to herself that they were as good as anything she had ever woven. And the colors—that, she supposed was the benefit of being trader from the south. The dyes must have come from the Haradrim, they were so vivid, so exotic. Calla shuddered to think of what a yard of any of these would cost; aside from the quality, she suspected that someone had charged a good deal to face the risks of trading in such a hostile land.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" It wasn't the merchant himself but one of his two assistants, a sickly looking youngish man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Calla tore herself away from the piece of cloth she was inspecting and smiled at him.

"Yes, I'm looking for silk thread to embroider a wedding gown, and had heard you might have something…"

The young man was very helpful. Calla nearly did a double take when he showed her a large spool of ivory-colored silk thread and another of actual gold. A vision of Shiriel's face if she could see these swam before Calla's eyes. With a pang of regret she told him to put away the gold thread. She would probably be reimbursed if she bought it, but as far as she knew gold thread wasn't called for in the plans for the wedding gown and much as she wished she could, Calla couldn't think of a way to justify such an expense. The ivory silk, though, was exactly what she was looking for. When it was clear that she actually meant to buy it, the merchant came over to haggle with her.

Calla could drive a mean bargain, but the merchant was no novice at it himself, and when at last they agreed on a price, Calla was very glad that the money wasn't really coming out of her own pocket. She pulled her purse from her heavy belt, counted out the money, and waited while the assistant who had helped her packaged up the thread, watching him idly.

Then she attended a little more closely. There was something distinctly odd about this young man. Something about him had been bother her slightly the entire time and now, looking keenly at him, she decided that there was something—something wrong with the unhealthy pallor of his face in the shadow of his hat. What was it? It wasn't anything to do with illness, it was something else. Calla couldn't quite put her finger on it. Only—what was that little, darkish smudge along his jaw, near his neck. Oh! So that was it. Suddenly, in her mind, the colors of the man's face inverted. What had been bothering her, she realized, was that the color of his face was just very slightly too monochromatic. But of course, if his skin was naturally rather dark and he'd made himself up to hide it…

"Would you mind asking him," Calla nodded at the merchant, "to write out a receipt for me?"

"Not at all, miss." The assistant went over and spoke to the merchant and Calla, looking for it now, was almost certain. Hidden in the shadow of the hat's brim it was hard to tell that his dark eyes were dark brown, rather than dark grey, and the cheekbones were just a little different, and something about the nose. On the whole though, she realized, someone had done an excellent job disguising him. He came over with her receipt and as he handed it to her, Calla leaned forward and murmured quietly,

"You've got a little smudge just near your neck." He glanced at her in surprise—and his eyes were definitely brown (and, just now, a little panicky)—and then a quick, grateful smile. As Calla walked away, she saw him duck behind the curtain into the closed-off area where the stores were kept.

As she walked—quickly, she wanted to keep ahead of schedule—back towards work she wondered if what she had done had been very wise. After all, she knew nothing about this man except that he was one of the Haradrim, and a merchant. Ostensibly a merchant. After all, he could be a spy. But spying on what? The war was over. True, Gondor and Harad had never got along well, but merchants, where there was a profit to be made, had a knack for ignoring borders. Probably he really was just a merchant hoping to import a few southern luxury items and bring a few northern curios back to Harad to sell at some unimaginable markup. And besides, he had seemed friendly and been very helpful. If she'd made a scene right there in the market and revealed him for what he was, the crowd would probably have lynched him on the spot. The war might have been over, but the wounds had only just begun to heal. Calla had suffered as much as most people at the hands of Sauron and his allies, and the Haradrim had been his allies. She wondered at herself for not hating him more. Surely she wouldn't feel so lenient towards an orc? No. But that was different. Orcs were just evil, they were killing machines. They were just made of evil. Men were different. Even Men who became bad—very bad—weren't born bad. And few of them were all bad. Calla shook her head, convinced, at least, that she had been right not to publicly expose him. Rubbing vinegar on raw flesh was almost certainly not the right way to go. All the same, she wondered if she ought to find a guard and mention it. It might not be a bad idea to have him watched.

Calla got back to the workroom to find a note waiting for her on the bench at her loom. She opened it curiously, glanced down at the signature and her heart leapt into her throat, then dropped into her stomach, then returned to her chest where it fluttered unsteadily.

Calla,

I came by to beg your pardon for losing track of mortal time, only to be painfully reminded of the fickleness of Men. This very morning your note promised me that I would know where you would be, but when I came, never once doubting that I would find you at your loom, you were not there. As empty as your bench are the words of Men! Elves and Ents alone know steadiness—as you will learn when I give you your lesson—so I will hold to my purpose. I have promised to tell you something about the Ents and my word, once given, is never broken. I will come again and hope that next time you will have thought the better of your race's erratic ways and stuck to your loom.

Magnanimously yours,

Legolas

Calla laughed hunted about for a scrap of paper, and wrote back:

Most generous Legloas,

It was business that called me away from my loom today, and not some idle whim! Knowing, as I have come to do, how carelessly the Elves treat time I had not dared to hope that you would heed my note so quickly, otherwise I would, of course, have flung duty aside and stuck to my loom diligently lest I cause you any slight inconvenience. (Calla wrote this, hoping it sounded sufficiently playful and not as though she would actually have done just that.) I send you no apology; you, clearly, hold me guilty so in the interest of balance I hereby exonerate myself of all crime. I will hope to see you soon.

Unrepentantly yours,

Calla

Calla ventured out of the workroom and down the corridor where she snagged a passing errand boy and paid him to make sure that the note would reach Legolas of Mirkwood. Then she went back to the workroom, left her receipt and request for reimbursement on Nadial's table, and settled in to work for the rest of the day. She stayed a little long to make up for having come back after lunch. Chanda, however, stayed longer. Calla was a bit surprised—Chanda was not in the habit of putting in very long days—but supposed that Nadial's implicit disapproval from earlier had gone home.

Shiriel was there when she got back home, and Calla's spirits rose even higher. Today, she felt, could not have gone better. Not only had she made a good deal for an exquisite spool of thread, not only had she had a note from Legolas that sounded familiar and teasing, but now, to top things off, she was coming home to a bright fire and the smell of dinner and the company of a good friend.

Shiriel had to know everything. She snatched Legolas' note away from Calla and read it three times before she handed it back and demanded to know what all this was about his receiving a note from her that morning. So Calla told her all about her fit of insanity the night before and the note she had written to him and why she hadn't been there when he came by today. This led to a description of the silk thread she'd bought and Shiriel gasped at the price when Calla told her.

"There was a young man…"Calla broke off, hesitated, and decided not to tell her about the Haradrim merchant. Not that she thought Shiriel would be too critical of her decision, but she would invariably tell Cadfael about it, and Cadfael, Calla thought, would not understand.

"Yes…?" Shiriel prompted her.

"Rohirric. Huge and just so clearly lost, but wading through the crowd like a giant bear." This was safe. Calla and Shiriel had similar opinions of the men of Rohan. They were handsome, yes, and valiant, absolutely, but rustic? Calla wondered how often they bathed. She was a city slicker and she knew it but she could only imagine how much time you had to spend with horses to carry their smell everywhere. Shiriel giggled and then turned her mind back to the truly important matter: Legolas. They reread his note again.

"He says he was painfully reminded, and I think that's surely a hopeful sign, since it must mean that he was very sorry not to find you there, which would also mean that he was very much looking forward to seeing you, don't you think?" Calla grinned and bit her lip, but protested.

"But can I take that seriously? He exaggerates everything in this." She waved the note about.

"Calla, you need to learn to read with the eyes of a romantic. A romantic would look and this note and say that of course he wrote it in an exaggerated, playful tone, and so clearly you can't take everything it says at face value, but that he might have slipped in one or two little bits that are completely true hidden among the exaggeration."

"And the true bits are the ones that I can take as flattery, while everything that sounds like criticism is mere silliness, is that it?"

"Well…" Shiriel grinned.

"Speaking of romance, are you ready?"

"To marry Cadfael? Of course I'm ready! I've been ready for years! I'd have married him in the middle of a battlefield if that was the only way to do it."

"No cold feet then?"

"Not at all, I don't even want to think about what it would be like to go through my life without him, it's like wherever he is, that's where home is, so without him I'd just be this drifting thing. I'm definitely sure that I'm ready to marry him."

"Good. I'm glad."

O

When Calla arrived at work the next day Chanda was already there, working away. Calla sighed inwardly. It was good, of course, that Chanda was trying to get ahead in her work, but Calla had got used to having the room to herself in the mornings. She wondered if this was just a phase, or whether she should bid goodbye to her mornings of solitude. She went over to her bench, took off her cloak, and picked up the purse that was sitting next to her loom. She weighed it in her palm, opened it and looked in. It was the reimbursement for her expense the day before. Calla took her little account book out of her belt and entered the amount in the credit side. She made a quick inspection of her loom and of the work she'd done so far, gave a satisfied nod, settled herself on her bench, and got to work.

The morning passed slowly. She suspected that Legolas would come at lunch and she could not stop herself from glancing outside at the sky. Surely the sun was moving more slowly today than it ever had before? Was it moving at all? How could time crawl so slowly. She tried to banish her impatience but the words of his note (which was tucked safely in her belt) kept running through her head and she found she was working with a grin spread across her face.

At about noon she was close to bursting with eagerness, and yet when she heard footsteps approaching in the corridor she felt herself turning red and began to pay furious concentration to her weaving. The footsteps came nearer and then Nadial stepped into the room, carrying things for lunch. Calla's stomach swooped confusingly in relief and disappointment. Nadial put the lunch things on the table and both young women looked up and thanked her. She nodded in acknowledgement and turned to Calla.

"Calla, I hope you got your reimbursement all right this morning?"

"Yes, thank you, I did."

"I must say I was a bit surprised at the amount. I've had a look at the thread that you bought and though you were right, it is superb—just what we want to embroider the hem—I'm afraid that you've been cheated. Was the merchant who sold it particularly difficult to reason with?" Call blushed, confused.

"No, I didn't think so. He wasn't a pushover by any means, but I—I had thought that the final price was quite reasonable." She could feel Chanda gloating. "You really think I agreed to pay too much?"

"Yes, by a considerable amount."

"I'm so sorry." Calla bit her lip, annoyed with herself. "Is there anything I can do? Shall I return it and see if he'll refund the money?"

"No, I don't think so. After all, we do want it, but perhaps in the future you should clear things with me first."

"Of course. Again, I'm really sorry." Nadial nodded and left the room. Calla glanced quickly at Chanda and then away again. Chanda was not looking at her but her expression was nothing short of smug. Calla reddened, then felt supremely grateful that that hadn't happened in front of Legolas.

As if in answer to her thought, another set of footsteps, quicker and lighter, echoed up the corridor. Calla looked up at the archway smiling, only to be disappointed again, as an errand boy appeared and looked at them both.

"Which one of you is Calla?"

"I am," said Calla.

"I have a not for you." The boy took out a folded note and handed it to her. "I'm supposed to wait for a response from you," he said and he stood back a bit looking around the room, fidgeting a bit. Calla unfolded the note and read it.

Calla,

Your note yesterday expressed your admirable devotion to duty, so I know you will understand when I tell you that mine to the King prevents me from coming to see you today. I, though, take this opportunity to set an example of courtesy for you, and apologize sincerely for not meeting you as planned. Do not feel embarrassed by the impertinence of your note; the Eldar know how to be indulgent to the Edain. We will meet soon, I am determined.

Educationally yours,

Legolas

Calla swallowed her frustration, grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote:

Most patient teacher,

You will be pleased with your pupil's swift progress when you learn that I entirely forgive you the sin of not meeting me today without even mentioning my own generosity. If you do not come tomorrow, though, I will be forced to doubt the worth of the promise of an Elf.

Sanctimoniously yours,

Calla

She folded it back up, handed it to the boy, tipped him, and went to get her lunch while he ran off.

O

She went home to find Shiriel standing patiently over a pot of stew. The smell permeated the house and floated through the door as Calla walked in. Shiriel turned as she enterd.

"So? Did you see him today? What did you two talk about, and don't tell me that he actually gave you a natural history lesson or I will have to hit you over the head with this ladle—you do know that you're supposed to turn the conversation to more personal matters so that you can get closer to him don't you?"

"Breathe, Shiriel. We did not talk about natural history. We did not talk at all, because he couldn't come today. I did get another note from him though. Is the stew done? Serve it up and I'll show it to you while we have dinner."

Another long analysis of the Legolas' note ensued, in which Shiriel managed to show that absolutely every word of it spoke of his increasing devotion to Calla. Calla laughed at her and called her an idiot, but smiled and felt pleased. Even if Shiriel was wrong, it was nice to have a friend who believed that she stood a chance with this Elf lord. Then they went through every word of the note that Calla had written back, and as they washed up the dishes, Shiriel prepared to grill her on every one of his looks and gestures the last time that Calla had seen him. Calla felt that her protests that this was too much were going to do no good, but Shiriel's relentless questions were cut off by a knock at the door. The girls looked at each other, surprised, and Calla wiped her hands and went to answer it.

Two guards in full black-and-silver regalia stood there looking stern.

"Yes, can I help you with anything?"

"Are you Calla, the weaver?" one of them asked.

"Yes, is there something wrong."

"You're to come with us."

"Now? Why? What's wrong?"

"Yes, now. We're detaining you on suspicion of embezzling money from the King."

A/N: So, it's not as long as I might have hoped, but it's my fist ever cliffhanger. Any good?

Thanks to everyone who responded so encouragingly about "Heart's Garden" appearing in "The Worst of the Worst". All your kind words are very much appreciated. Also, thanks to the members of the lj community deleterius for their input. Two years ago, one of my stories (a really, truly awful Mary Sue) was reported there and someone sent me a link to it. It was a major blow to my ego seeing my story ripped apart, but it was also the beginning of my really applying myself to learn to write better. So the approval of deleterians (in my mind, at least) kinda validates all the effort that I've put into this.

Er, lesse, anything else? Oh—does anyone know what a Gondorian unit of currency is? I was sort of trying to avoid saying actual amounts of money this chapter because you really need the unit name in order to do that. If someone can tell me, I'll go back and edit this chapter so that things are a bit more concrete.

And in the meantime, thanks for reading and please review! I hope you liked this chapter.