“What about my workshop?”
She stalled, toying with a long strand of her hair. It looked as if she were about to answer, then she changed her mind. “Oh, nothing. But you’re welcome to bring me the plans here. There’s no need for you to go all the way down—”
“My workshop. Twenty minutes.”
Chapter 8
Liana
“Twenty minutes,” I mimicked with a snarl. I paced the floor of the workshop, stopping mid-stride to survey the room. Nerves churned in my stomach. Maybe he wouldn’t mention the changes.
Ms. Wilder had dropped off a breakfast tray, removed the lid on the steaming pile of eggs and toast, and then hurried from the room as if there were an animal on her heels. Her deliberate flight made me wary of my upcoming encounter with Bowen.
He was going to be mad. I probably shouldn’t have thrown out all of his tools. I picked at the toast and brushed the crumbs from my fingers. No—they all had to go. Besides, there was nothing in the contract that said I couldn’t make the place my own. I may only be at the manor a short while, but that was no reason to work in filth.
I mean, sure, he lost his temper a bit when he caught me tearing down the curtains in my room, but I’d like to think it had more to do with me falling off the table than his love for the gloomy drapery.
Cringing, I rubbed the back of my neck. If only I could stop showing him all of my weak spots. First the panic attack in the carriage, and now the curtain debacle. At least he finally planned to show me the commission he’d hired me for. I’d be able to prove myself in that respect—though why I was so determined to have him see me in a good light was beyond me. The man was rude and ill-natured. Not to mention, a brute. He had some nerve tossing me like a sack of potatoes onto the mattress. I huffed a breath and silenced the devil on my shoulder whispering about the dangers of broken glass on bare feet.
“He could have been gentle about it,” I grumbled.
“Gentle about what?”
The rough timbre of his voice made me spin toward the door. Bowen stood in the entrance. His arms were braced across his chest like wooden beams, and a scowl hardened his mouth. He held a scroll in his hand, and there was a pen tucked behind his ear, giving his menacing stance an almost studious undercurrent.
Great, now he’s caught me talking to myself.
“Nothing. I was just—”
“What have you done?” He strode into the room, uninterested in my rambling answer. Raking a hand through his hair, he blinked at the empty walls. “Where are all my things? My tools? My—”
“Your tools were rusted. Unusable at best, dangerous at worst. I organized everything else and moved most of the clutter into the adjoining space. Oh, and I dusted. Nearly sneezed myself into a coma,” I said, muttering the last part under my breath.
“You strung lanterns?” His gaze followed the string of hanging lanterns stretching from one end of the room to the other. A few others hung from chains affixed to the ceiling. He weaved through them, ducking to keep from banging his head against the metal bases.
“Um, yes.”
His brow arched. “Let me guess—it was too dark in here.”
I straightened my spine and gave him a sarcastic smile. “Proper lighting is essential.”
“So I’m learning.” He placed the scroll onto the workbench and unfurled the ends. Reaching for a pedestal candle to keep the scroll taut, he paused, his attention caught on the stack of leather-bound drawings. The scroll whirled back together as he rounded the table toward the drawings.
“Where did you find these?” he rasped, gathering them up against his chest as if I hadn’t already pored over each one for hours.
“I found them buried inside the drawers of the worktable. They’re yours, right? I think they’re wonderful.”
He flexed his fingers, and a little of the fight drained out of him. “They’re just sketches. They’re not worth anything.”
“Well, I like them. Do you have more?”
His features clouded over. “I haven’t drawn in a long time.” He didn’t elaborate and returned to where he’d left the scroll. “I believe this is the last piece I sketched.”
I bent over the drawing and moved a candle closer. The crossbow was depicted in vivid detail, a mixture of metal and wood complete with dimensions. At the end of the grooved track where the bolt resided was a cylindrical tube enclosing a blue flame. I recognized the magic modification immediately. Ice bolts. The blue flame trapped in the cylinder produced a continual reaction that fired freezing arrows.
“This is incredible. I haven’t come across a bow like this before. You said you’ve seen one? Where?”
“A few years ago. I was on one of my last treasure hunts and came across this weapon in a tomb. I recovered it and brought it back along with the artifacts I was hired to find. I planned to add it to my collection, but it was stolen from me.” His voice lowered. “Along with everything else.”
