Or so she told herself.
She also told herself she wasn’t using him. That Timothy must offer saucy winks to more than just her, and likely with good results—hewashandsome. And a date was adate. Good grief, she didn’t agree to marry the boy.
“You’re right on time,” said Alora, and smiled her perfected smile.
“Always. You look beautiful; are you ready?”
He sounded so damned sincere. Sonice.A part of her cringed away, withering.Oh no. Perhaps she was using him. His hair was the color of golden sand, thick with waves that continuously desired to flop over one umber-colored eye. She felt no wish to push it back in place—a fact she noted with dismay, as she frequently fought the urge to rifle her hands through Bash’s ink-dark hair like some unfettered breeze.
“Thank you, and I am ready. Did you choose a place then?” She traded her satchel for a small purse, snapping it closed over lipstick and her key.
He stepped back to allow her through. “I thought Delight and Truffle. Have you been before?”
“I’ve passed it by, I think. On Foxglove Lane?” She led them down the stairs.
“The same. It’s quiet but not overly, and the sauces are some of the best I’ve had in the country. The service is unmatched. Also, they use barrels of Wilderwood for their aged whiskey, and serve it in these small—”
Alora tried to listen, for she wasn’t often purposefully rude, but despite her best effort, her attention wandered. She’d the distinct impression Mr. Lofte went on many first dates without making time for many seconds, and Delight and Trufflewould recognize him on sight. Not to mention the golden cloak now returned to her closet, the need for her to rearrange her entire bedroom after waking to ten wall-length mirrors imagined to existence then shattered, William’s hands on her,Bash’shands on her, the Urchin’s voice behind the mask demanding, “Spread your legs”—
“—your cart returning this morning. Miss Merryweather parked it in its usual—” Timothy startled and glanced at his forearm where Alora gripped it like a falcon.
“My cart is returned?”
He frowned beneath the flop of his hair. “Should it not have been?”
At his obvious discomfort, Alora released him at once. “Yes. Yes, it should have been. I’m only pleasantly surprised; the person I’d asked to return it isn’t exactly…”
“Pleasantly surprised?” interjected Timothy between the break of her thoughts. He rubbed at his arm, and Alora knew in that instant, she’d not be asked out a second time, even if she wished it.
They arrived at Delight and Truffle without further incident if not relative silence. It wasn’t until the door was opened and the hostess seated them—after a familiar smile for Mr. Lofte—that Alora attempted to salvage what she could.
“Tell me more of this whiskey. I’ll admit I’m a complete novice in terms of its process, but I’d like to try some.”
Timothy, in a surprisingly forgiving turn, smiled hugely at her. “Would you, really? So it begins with—”
As she was prone to do, Alora took notice of the room. Square and dimly lit, it was quiet despite more than half the tables being occupied, and it smelled of wood, liquor, and roasted meat. At the back were barrels, stacked on their sides and stamped, a barman picking his way amongst them, and to the side was a fireplace with cushioned seating before it. A single person sat there, a glass in his hand and eyes trained on the flames.
When their server approached, uniform starched and impeccably white, Alora inclined her head at Timothy’s order for two house whiskeys, served neat. When he went away, Timothy returned his attention to her, and like that day in the stable, winked boldly.
It did not do to her what Bash’s had done.
“We will see what you make of it,” he said, as if knowing what her opinion would be.
Alora pasted a smile to her lips but said nothing else of it. Instead, she asked, “What do you do when you’re not occupied in the stables, Mister Lofte?”
“No,Mister Lofte,please. Makes me feel like we’re conducting a business meeting instead of getting to know one another.” When Alora only smiled her agreement, he continued, “I do this, mostly. Not dates! Well, not always. But I explore local pubs and distilleries, cataloguing which I like best and why. It’s good fun.”
Alora, preferring the taste of flowers and grapes over wheat and barley, said, “How invigorating. Perhaps you will start your own one day.”
“What a thought!” said Timothy, beaming like it was a good one. “But this is too competitive of a market for the likes of me. I’ve not got any special talent to speak of.”
The whiskeys arrived on a curved, wooden platter, the glasses heavy crystal. Timothy offered one to her first before taking the other for himself. He sniffed it deeply, sighing. Alora studied him, at how he fit. Her gaze drifted above him, to the carved beams beneath the ceiling, and below, to the legs of the table chiseled until they resembled living trees with leaves and roots and textured bark. She glanced at the fireplace, empty of admirers now.
“It isn’t always about the product, though that is important, and I’m sure you’d do a fine job. But the ambiance as well. Everything in this room works toward its purpose. I’m sure you could replicate it while still maintaining originality.” When Timothy only stared at her, bemused with a touch of humor, she asked, “What?”
“Did you grow up here?”
Alora felt her face warm. Through no fault of the whiskey, which she hadn’t yet touched. “No. Did you?”
