There are a few more instances, little nothings, small piles of happenstances which mean absolutely zero by themselves - but when they are lined up, sorted out, and examined - show a pattern which is worrisome at best, frightening and deeply disturbing at worst.
There's the girl at the apple cart who always saves the roundest, plumpest apples for him. She even uses the word "plump" when she entices Gunther over to her cart, shining the apple to a high sheen with the edge of her apron.
Apples are not plump. Babies might be plump, an eggplant might be plump, or even a fatty turkey could be described as plump - but surely not an apple.
But it doesn't stop there.
The girl - Jane suspects she might be edging towards woman based on her dulling hair and tanned cheeks - also uses words like "moist" and "tart" and "creamy" when hawking her wares.
Since when are apples creamy? And who would want to eat one anyway?
It's just… gross.
Of course Gunther is completely oblivious to her attempted charms, and Jane wonders how the girl would feel to know Gunther doesn't even like apples. He rarely eats them; most of the time, they end up in his pockets, to be forgotten about or fed to Black.
She could ignore it if it happened once or twice, but they pass by the girl's cart three, maybe four times weekly. Each time there's an apple and a thinly-veiled promise of something ...more... and after a while Jane finds the mere thought of apples sends her gut into a bout of soured indigestion.
Then there's her cousin.
Newly widowed though she's only a few years older than Jane herself. She comes to the castle to pay her respects to the king and settle her late husband's affairs and - Jane does not believe she is being unfair when she thinks this - to find herself a new husband.
Childless, she is still slim and pretty, and by all accounts her marriage was an easy one; her husband was old at the beginning of their short union, infirm by the end. But no children means no endowment - except for the return her paltry dowry - and she stinks of coming destitution just as much as Gunther smells of his eventual inheritance.
Jane has a hard time reconciling the woman her cousin has become with the girl from her past. They were never close - they were far apart enough in age to prevent them from being playmates - and Jane's interests have never been in sync with those of other girls. She remembers her cousin as awkward, an ugly duckling with dun brown hair and crooked smile - a girl whose mother schemed and plotted and despaired over finding a suitable match while Jane's own mother sat silent, tight-lipped in sisterly support.
This woman is nothing like the girl she remembers. She is tall and proud, and has a laugh that tinkles like bells. She gives sultry looks under heavy lids and her once crooked smile is now close-mouthed, pouty, and knowing. Her cousin can sing, and dance, and has never worn anything so rough as a boot on her slippered feet - but for some reason she attends nearly every one of Jane's practices, sparring sessions, and training exercises.
She claims it is because she is proud of her younger relation and wishes to show her support, but Jane knows better.
Not once do her eyes fix on Jane herself.
No.
Her cousin, in all her soft, swan-like feminine glory, only has eyes for Gunther - and the weight of her side-long, assessing gaze makes Jane ill.
For his part, Gunther never seems to be bothered or lets himself become distracted by her cousin's attentions. He maintains focus during their sparring sessions, chides Jane for her poor attention during practice, teases her for terrible aim with the bow. To her cousin he is polite and courteous, and treats the woman as though she is his cousin as well. Like family.
But her cousin is not his family - and Jane knows it -
- and the smiles, the winks, the touches, the breathy little laughs at his terrible jokes - they make Jane angry and afraid and confused and anxious and she is not sure why.
Jane is glad - breathes easy for the first time in weeks - when her cousin snags herself a second noble spouse and no longer lingers in the yard.
And then there is the merchant's daughter.
Not Gunther's sister, obviously; like herself he is an only child - a state of affairs for which Jane regularly gives fervent thanks. Based on the ridiculous behaviors of the women they encounter almost daily, she is not at all sure that she, or the rest of the kingdom, could handle there being two - or heaven forbid - three young Breeches.
The very idea gives her the shivers.
No doubt such a confluence would be like the very planets and stars aligning, a signal of the end of the world. The ground itself would quake in horror beneath the feet of multiple Breech boys, who would be sure to leave an irritating, arrogant swath of destruction in their wake.
Sighing, broken hearts and moony, weeping eyes all over the kingdom, and perhaps beyond.
No, the merchant's daughter, is far, far more dangerous.
The offspring of a foreign trader, she of the same age as Jane, and every thing she is not. The way of the world is different where she comes from; she has brothers but she is her father's heir, and is travelling with him to ensure she is prepared to take over his business.
She is taller than Jane, but not by much, her hair is long and black and worn free from restraint. It falls almost to her waist and never, ever tangles. It frames the dark, flawless skin of her gently rounded face like a cascade of liquid night. It's beautiful, contrasting perfectly with the silks she wears - brightly colored fabrics which hang loosely, modestly, but still allow for range of movement. Jane has to resist touching them, and is astounded to discover - she's not actually staring at the poor girl, but how could she miss it? - that her dress is actually split, and the merchant's daughter is parading around in pants.
The differences do not stop there, and they are so dissimilar Jane cannot help but compare herself. Where Jane is thin and wiry, the merchant's daughter is soft and muscular and strong. Unlike Jane she has no need to rely on swiftness alone, though she is fast when speed is needed. She's good with a sword because in her land everyone is responsible for protecting their holdings, not just the men.
The merchant's daughter is also well-trained with a bow and dagger, and is just as acrobatic as Jester; though this is a secret she tells only to Jane. Tumbling and contortions are considered a woman's skill - a means to balance the scales against stronger muscles and longer reach - and not for men to know.
It is petty - Jane is by no means proud of it - but she resolves to ask Jester to teach her his acrobatics.
And the merchant's daughter is kind.
Oh, dear lord, she is kind.
So much so Jane feels inadequate, small, and stunted.
The merchant's daughter is quick to smile and pay compliment, to say thanks or give charity, to laugh freely or make clever jokes that are never mean. She joins them on their days in town, takes Jane's arm as though they are sisters, and asks Jane to explain things she does not understand.
She charms Dragon immediately - paints his and Jane's toes dark with intricate designs - but declines his offer to take her flying. They spend an entire day pouring over Jane's book of dragon runes, marvelling at all Jane has discovered, and promises to keep a sharp eye out for similar writings.
She even insists Jane teach her how to use a broadsword.
Her own weapon is curved and wicked-looking - the shape of its name hisses with the same subtle threat of danger as when it is drawn - but she finds the difference in their fighting styles fascinating. She declares she wants to learn everything, and sets about doing just that. They spar daily with sticks and staves, swords and daggers - and she laughs with good humor at her own clumsy footwork.
She is an excellent teacher and gracious student and - God help her - Jane likes the merchant's daughter and considers her a friend.
That is not the end of it - because of course it is not - she is intelligent and curious, and she alights on new ideas and gathers them as though they are bits of colored string for her nest.
The girl is educated and thanks to her travels, speaks more languages than Gunther himself. It makes Jane uneasy to hear them chattering excitedly away in some strange dialect - but Gunther seems happy for the opportunity to practice. Jane loses count how many times he looks up from their conversations to practically beam at her as if to say, "Jane, isn't it wonderful to have found someone who is just like me?"
It is not.
Or maybe it is.
Jane doesn't know, but if she is to lose to someone - though Jane has no idea why she feels her friend is an opponent of some sort - it would be the merchant's daughter, because she is beautiful and good-natured, intelligent and strong, and Jane loves her in the same honest way she loves Pepper.
When the merchant's daughter leaves, off again to places distant and unknown, she pulls Gunther aside. She gives him an elaborately carved box that opens to reveal a game board Gunther is familiar with; painted triangles and small pieces of white and black. He is delighted at her thoughtfulness and doesn't resist when she tugs him down to whisper something in his ear.
Jane cannot hear what she says, but it makes him choke and blush, right down to his roots. She steps back, smiling, and Gunther gives Jane a guilty look before fixing his stare at his feet in embarrassed confusion.
That feeling starts to settle in her stomach, her ever-present anxiety ratchets up another notch, but she pushes it aside while they exchange their own goodbyes. Jane gives her a broadsword, stamped with dragon runes. The girl sobs at such a beautifully practical gift, and promises to practice every day.
To Jane she gives a set of silks like her own. "Green and blue to accentuate your marvelously exotic, wondrous hair," she says, presenting them with a kiss and a wish for much happiness.
Jane can never wear them in public, but she tries them on in the privacy of her tower and cries - weeps, really - but isn't sure if her tears are from sadness or relief.