Chapter One: Dust, Wood, and Secrets
The clang of hammer against nail echoed through Ontario's bustling market square, sharp and rhythmic like a heartbeat. Eleanor De-laurent—Ellie to the few who dared—wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her gloved hand. Strands of deep red hair, too stubborn to stay pinned, curled free from the messy knot she'd tied high atop her head. The afternoon sun caught the copper tones and made them blaze like fire. She was hard to miss—and impossible to forget.
Her steel-gray eyes, clear and keen, narrowed in concentration as she examined the half-finished cart she was repairing for Old Man Harrow, a notoriously grumpy merchant whose goats had already tried to nibble the edge of her tool belt.
The old man watched her, arms crossed, expression wavering somewhere between awe and grumble.
"Never seen a woman split a beam like that," he muttered under his breath.
Ellie didn't pause. She grinned, flashing a dimple in one cheek as she bit the next nail between her teeth and aligned it with practiced ease.
"Then you haven't met the right kind of woman," she replied, driving the nail in with a single, satisfying blow. The hammer sung in her hand like it belonged there.
She moved with the easy grace of someone who knew her strength and wasn't afraid of it. Her boots struck firm against the cobblestones, the hems of her worn trousers smudged with sawdust and resin. Her hands, though calloused and nicked from work, were precise—capable. Beautiful in a way that spoke of utility and defiance. Ellie was the kind of woman who didn't need to be noticed to be respected—but she was noticed all the same.
"Watch your fingers there, Harrow," she said, nodding toward the edge of the cart. "You break one, I charge double. Medical carpentry's not part of my rate."
From across the square, a burst of children's laughter rang out.
"Ellieeee!" a gaggle of grubby-faced kids came sprinting up the path, led by a squealing toddler dragging a stick like a sword. "Tell the goat story again!"
"Again?" Ellie groaned, mock-dramatic, wiping her hands on her apron. "I've told that story three times this week."
"It's funny!" they chorused.
She knelt, leveling herself with the smallest of them.
"Alright, alright—but only if you promise not to ask me to build you a treehouse with a swimming pool in it like last time."
Their eyes sparkled with mischief and unspoken dreams.
"She's everyone's aunty, this one," a vendor called from behind her bread stall.
"More like a menace," Old Man Harrow grumbled, though even he couldn't help a twitch of a smile.
Ellie pointed her hammer at the children. "You lot better be helping your mamas and not chasing chickens again."
A boy with a missing front tooth beamed. "We were helping! We were chasing chickens that escaped! That's different."
"Uh-huh," Ellie muttered, tousling his hair. "Tell the chickens that."
She rose to her feet just as Mrs. Lorne, the elderly florist, came hobbling by with a crate of potted tulips.
"Ellie, sweet girl, you still on for my shelves tomorrow?"
"Bright and early, promise," Ellie called.
"And bring that smile!" the old woman added with a wink. "It sells more than the roses."
A butcher from two stalls down called out next. "Need a husband yet, Ellie? Got two nephews freshly back from the war, both with full sets of teeth!"
Ellie rolled her eyes, laughing. "Unless they can sand oak with their teeth, I'm not interested."
Laughter followed her wherever she walked. She was grit and wit, fire and heart—all wrapped up in a rough linen shirt and a leather apron that had seen more years than some of the market boys flirting with her.
She was, without a doubt, the heart of this market square. Not just for her skills, but for her presence—sturdy, unwavering, and full of a joy that she kept carefully hidden behind teasing smirks and sawdust.
At the edge of the market, children waved at her. Shopkeepers nodded respectfully.
A young man from the blacksmith's stall offered her a slice of apple pie. She declined with a laugh.
"No time for sweetness," she said. "Unless it pays."
The crowd chuckled. She was known here—not just as a rare female carpenter, but as the spine of her family. The woman who could charm a butcher, outbid a lumber dealer, and fix a broken wheel faster than most men could blink.
By late afternoon, her work belt clinked with tools, and her shoulders ached. But it was the kind of ache that came with pride. She turned the corner toward home, humming under her breath.
But the smile died as soon as she saw them—Samuel, Martha, and Esther—standing outside their modest townhouse like a jury waiting to deliver a sentence. Samuel paced, hands in his pockets. Martha leaned on the gate, arms crossed, biting her lip. Esther sat on the porch step, her long braid coiled like a question mark over her shoulder.
Ellie froze.
"What's going on?" she asked, her voice wary. "Why do you all look like someone died?"
Martha, ever the poised one, straightened. At twenty five, she was the picture of elegance—tall and willowy, with dark curls pinned in perfect symmetry and eyes that always seemed to be reading a deeper truth.
"Tell her," she said softly.
Samuel swallowed, then looked at Esther for backup. Esther—sweet, impulsive, twenty two years old Esther—stood with a sigh, her sunshine-blonde hair glowing against her brown skin, her floral dress too cheerful for the tension in the air.
"You might want to sit down," she warned. "Or don't. Actually—maybe don't. You'll want to throw something."
Ellie dropped her tool bag with a clank. "Somebody talk."
Samuel shifted. "I, uh… I made a mistake."
"No kidding," Ellie said, arms folded, jaw tight. "What kind of mistake are we talking about? Gambling? Stealing?"
"I got someone pregnant," Samuel blurted, the words tumbling out like a confession shot through a loaded gun.
It crashed over the small porch like a wave, heavy and cold. Even the cicadas seemed to stop their chatter.
Ellie blinked, once. Her gloved hands froze mid-unbuckling of her tool belt. The smile she'd walked home with—bright, carefree, light—vanished, crumbling into tight-lipped stillness.
Her mouth parted slightly. "You… did what?"
Samuel winced. He was tall like her, with the same sharp cheekbones and stubborn jaw, but right now he looked like a little boy in trouble. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I didn't mean for it to happen!" he rushed, tripping over the words. "We—we were in love. Or—I thought we were. It just… it wasn't supposed to—"
"Who?" Ellie's voice sliced through him, low and dangerous now. The fire behind her eyes ignited. "Who is this girl?"
He glanced sideways at Martha and Esther—both of whom looked like they wanted to vanish into the porch railings. Esther bit her lip, then leaned forward with a tiny wince.
"This is the part where you really sit down."
Ellie ignored her. Her heart had begun to drum in her ears. The porch felt hotter now, the air heavier.
"Samuel," she said again, steel in her voice.
He met her gaze.
"Valentina Green."
The name hit like a punch to the chest.
Ellie staggered back half a step as though physically struck, gripping the edge of the doorframe like it might keep her tethered to the ground.
"No, not same Green family I know, right?" she whispered. Her voice was ragged. "No. Tell me you're not that stupid."
But she could see it in his eyes. The guilt. The shame. The truth.
Valentina Green.
Her pulse thundered. Her vision blurred at the edges. She could barely breathe.
Valentina. The youngest daughter of that family.
"You've got to be kidding me," Ellie said, breathless. "That family? That girl?"
"She's not like the rest of them," Samuel said quickly. "She's kind, Ellie. Sweet. She didn't mean for this either."
"Oh, no, of course not," Ellie snapped, her voice rising. "No one ever means for anything, do they? It just happens, right? Like spilled milk or war."
Esther reached out, placing a tentative hand on her sister's shoulder. "Ellie, please. Don't explode."
Ellie stared at her brother, words choking her. "Do you even understand what you've done?" she said, voice barely above a whisper now. "You've entangled us with the very people who would burn us to the ground and smile while doing it."
"I love her," Samuel said, shoulders squaring. "I'm going to marry her."
The porch went still again.
Ellie let out a dry, incredulous laugh that carried more pain than humor. "Of course you are."
She turned away for a second, pacing the length of the porch, trying to catch her breath, trying to think.
"Does her family know?" Ellie asked suddenly, stopping in her tracks.
"They will. We were going to tell them together. Soon."
"Oh, they're going to love that," she muttered. "Marcus Green, finding out his precious little sister got knocked up by a De-laurent." She turned her head sharply toward him. "Have you really thought this through? Have you thought about what kind of war you just started?"
"I don't care," Samuel said, jaw clenched. "We love each other. That has to count for something."
Ellie stared at him. He looked so much like their father just then—young and foolish, but full of conviction. It made her heart twist.
"Dumb boy!" she cursed.