“I would,” he answered. “Beginning with watering my Dirededron.”
Alora scoffed, following him through. “Is that all?”
“Would you like there to be more?” A match lit between them, rising, to the lantern hung beside his head. He watched her as the light grew, the shadows changing shapes across his features, highlighting the edge of his jaw. She thought at once of Mr. Pottenbaum and his, admittedly well-placed, admirations.
Bash made her uncomfortable, she couldn’t deny. And he was uncomfortably handsome, which was worse.
“Of course not.”
“I didn’t think so.”
When he turned away, she forcibly swallowed, mouth dry. She took in the room. Small, with a stove and several burners, a sink and rows of pots. From the cupboard, he pulled out three vials and a well-worn book.
“It’s so dark in here.” There wasn’t a window, the only light from the dim lantern he’d not removed from its hook.
“You dislike the dark?”
“Depends what else is in it with me,” said Alora, standing on her toes to better see the shelves. She found some sort of stick there, smooth and thick, and lifted it.
Bash filled a pot with water before setting it atop the stove. “I can make you something to sharpen your memory, though it won’t help with the old ones. Anything from the moment you drink and on, so long as you take a little every day.”
“So things won’t just—” Alora made a motion of water running from her temple.
“Is that what you feel is happening?” He observed her with a frown.
“Sometimes,” said Alora, bothered that he was bothered. Her worry deepened. “Why? Have you heard something like it?”
“Maybe,” he said, the expression slow to ease from his face. But then his eyes widened, and he lunged toward her. “Fuck.Where did you find that?”
Alora froze as the stick was wrenched from her hands. “On the shelf?” She couldn’t help but laugh at his obvious distress, which only seemed to fuel it further.
“This baton is one of the most dangerous items in this shop. You’re lucky. Keep your hands to yourself from now on, or I’ll force you to wait out with the mule, who bites.”
Alora’s brow dipped. “That little weapon? Why?”
He didn’t answer but rather eased the baton into the belt of his trousers, which she observed closer than necessary.
“What did you say you do in Enver?”
“I haven’t said.” Or had she? “I’m a designer. A decorator. Of buildings, not cakes.”
“Not cakes,” he echoed, and Alora thought he might have smiled. “And you’ve suffered from a focus ailment for how long?”
“I should tell you it’s being perpetrated by one thing, I think. So you needn’t attempt to diagnose me with any ailments. I’m hopeful it will be resolved once it’s over.”
“Once what is over?”
“My project.”
His hands stilled over his brew. “This project brings you distress?”
“No, not really. It brings me hope.”
A sound suspiciously similar to a scoff left him. “Thatisdistressing.”
She shrugged behind his back. “Maybe. But isn’t anything worth having a bit of a torment at some point?”
Alora caught his glance this time, the crease is his brow more thoughtful than disturbed over her question. “And what is it? This thing that is worth all your tormented hope.”
