Kurt liked to wait at the door on days his father would be returning from his trips to the market. Burt’s age was advancing more rapidly as of late, and Kurt worried about possible infirmity, especially on long trips. This time, it had been a full three days’ ride to a town on the outskirts of Carmel, and who knew where Burt would decide to head next.

The house smelled of bread and spices from Carole’s baking. The house was warm, all wood and stone and memories. The sun shone in through thick glass windows, lighting up a dizzying cloud of dust floating incessantly through the air. Kurt wished he could dance like that dust—swirling, shining, free.

It wasn’t that Kurt had a bad life. His father’s wares kept them in general comfort, and with Carole selling her salves and potions to the locals for their ails, they hardly ever wanted for anything. Kurt had never had to work; he had never picked up shifts at the tavern, or been apprenticed out to a blacksmith or tailor. Not that he would’ve minded the tailor very much—in fact, if his father decided, as he surely would, that Finn was the better choice to train as a merchant, Kurt hoped that he could find a tailor to take him on. Sewing clothing was a far cry from unpleasant, and Kurt was skilled with a needle in any case.

The problem lay in finding someone to take him on. Kurt was well-known in their little town. He was not well-liked. He was too unusual, with his high voice and pale skin and delicate, elfin features. As soon as people saw him, they assumed he thought himself too good, which wasn’t entirely untrue. He spent his time reading and singing, completely disregarding the lack of accompanying instrument, or sewing new, pretty clothes with bolts of cloth bought with his father’s money. He had a strange aversion to ale and roughhousing with the other young men his age. He didn’t like to get his hands dirty. He was, in the whispers of rumor and gossip, too delicate.

Sometimes, in his deepest dreams, Kurt imagined himself playing his music for the noble lords of some far-away kingdom. In court he could be as delicate and pale as he liked—it was often a desired trait among courtiers. But he had never even been beyond the borders of his town, and the Prince hadn’t held court since his brother died. He’d have to go to another kingdom, or he’d have to try to make nice with lesser lords like Lord Smythe, who was rumored to be cruel to performers, to the amusement of his regiment.

No, the best he could hope for was for his father to find some tailor willing to take him on from somewhere far enough away to have never heard of him.

It was one of the reasons Kurt waited with such apprehension on days his father returned. He’d be readily available to help his father into the house, unload the cart if needed, tend to the horse, and he’d be there to hear any news. That was the part he wanted the most—word of a world outside of a place where he was hated.

When he saw his father’s familiar dun mare leading the cart, Kurt jumped up and called out a warning to Carole before opening the door and bounding away.

“Dad!” Kurt cried, waving and stopping by their ramshackle two-stall stables.

“Hey, kiddo,” Burt said, jumping down heavily from his perch. He moved forward to guide the horse by her harness, but Kurt beat him to it, leading her to the larger of the stables and unhitching the cart in front of it. “Finn around?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Kurt smirked. “Last I knew he was visiting Miss Berry over at the tavern.”

“Is she that loud little barmaid that likes to sing to the patrons?”

Kurt scowled bitterly. “The very same.”

“Now, Kurt,” Burt laughed, clapping his son firmly on the shoulder as he quickly brushed down the horse, “I know you want to do the whole…music thing, but—”

“Well, I’m sorry if I envy her the freedom to perform should she wish,” Kurt snapped. “I’m the most talented singer in the village but no one will listen because they’re so afraid of something different that they might as well be up in arms against it.”

Burt crossed his arms and faced his son with a frank look.

“I don’t think you understand how life works here. Most places can’t afford to have someone who sticks out too much. The workmen, they have to work together to keep themselves alive while they pay most of their work away to their Lords. They can’t have someone messing around, creating chaos, because if there are disagreements or the work can’t get done quickly enough, that’s that much less that goes to feeding their families.

“Now,” he continued, “I can afford to allow you to be yourself because I’m not a workman, am I? We make do pretty well here—we always have more than enough. So if you want to perform and be different, if you want to sew your clothes and read your books and keep your head up in the clouds, that’s okay by me. But you can’t expect everyone else to be as welcoming when they’ve been taught all their lives that people like you are a danger to their livelihood.”

Kurt bit his lip.

“I suppose that makes sense,” he admitted, turning his nose up slightly.

“And that doesn’t help either,” Burt said, guiding the horse to her stall and pointing at Kurt’s haughty expression. “Even farmers and blacksmiths have their pride. When you look down your nose at them, treat them like you’re above them, they’re going to resent it.”

Burt locked up the stable and turned back to Kurt. He put both his thick, warm hands on his son’s shoulders, noting how wide they’d gotten. Not a year prior Kurt had been a slip of a thing, but he was truly growing into a man despite the fact that his voice never deepened and his skin never tanned or thickened.

“Now don’t go changing who you are,” he said. “But just remember—not everyone is meant to be where they start out. You’re too big for this place, Kurt. And I’m going to be looking out for somewhere for you when I go to next market.”

“Where are you going next?” Kurt asked, turning with Burt and heading back to the house to greet Carole, who had been waiting on the steps while father and son spoke.

“I’m heading out tomorrow for Westerville,” Burt replied, smiling at his wife as they drew closer. “There’s a clothier out that way that might be looking for an apprentice if you’re interested. Or, if you’re really stubborn about it, I can try to speak to one of the bards about taking you on.”

Kurt stopped dead.

“A bard?” he asked, shocked. “You’d really allow me the life of a bard?”

Burt paused and turned back.

“Kurt, if that’s what you want, then that’s that. You let me know tonight or before I leave tomorrow what you want me to do and we’ll figure it out.”

Burt smiled and finally moved to embrace his wife. Kurt turned and started to head away, aiming to give his parents their privacy, but Carole’s voice stopped him.

“Kurt, wait a minute,” she said. “Would you mind heading down to the tavern? Finn has more important things to attend to than eyeing that Berry girl all night.”

“And take this,” Burt said, untying a pouch from his belt and tossing it to Kurt. He caught it with a quick hand, noting the clink of coins within. “Get some of that wine you like so much, Kurt.”

“The elderberry wine from York?” Kurt asked excitedly. “Really?”

“Sure thing,” Burt nodded. “We’ve much to discuss tonight, we might as well enjoy it.”

“Thanks, dad!” Kurt smiled, turning and skipping a little on his way out.