She held it out toward Elijah. “Tell me about your gardens.”
“Well...” He began a head-spinning explanation of the various public and private gardens in London, what flora might be found in each, as well as their potential alternative uses.
She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. She’d seen gardens, of course—Cressmouth wasn’t covered in snowallyear round—but she didn’t know a Strichno-thingummy from a Carapi-whatsit.
In the space of a half-dozen biscuits, it became charmingly clear that Elijah was right: He knew as much about plants as Olive did about horses.
Here was another intriguing contradiction.
She had thought him a fribble who looked like a farmhand, when in fact both were costumes disguising a studious, enthusiastic botanist.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m boring you.”
“You’re not boring me.”
He was making her realize there was a lot more to him than she had believed. Facets she might like to get to know. It felt like the earth was tilting.
“I’m missing an important appointment. I was meant to present a detailed plan for next year’s research to a well-respected chemist. Now there’s little time.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not used to not working. I have all my notebooks, but without any plants to observe...”
“Well,” she said slowly. “That’s notentirelytrue.”
“I saw the evergreens,” he assured her. “And I’ve jotted detailed notes on thephleum pratense—that is, the Timothy grass—your horses are consuming beneath the snow. I wouldn’t call it agarden—”
“—but I know where one is.” She leapt to her feet. “Come with me.”
He jerked back, startled. “Where?”
“Outside.” She pointed at the extravagant borrowed greatcoat hanging from its hook and slipped her arms into her own fur-lined pelisse.
She had meant to walk the mile up the road to the castle, but they exited her front door just in time to catch one of the local sleighs.
“Come on.” She motioned him to join her on the rear bench of the wide, open-air sleigh.
Elijah approached with caution, his eyes not on her or the bright red sleigh, but the glossy black gelding standing proud at the front.
“He looks like one of your horses,” Elijah said suspiciously.
“He was.” She flung out her palm. “Meet Prancer.”
Rather than nicker in greeting at the sound of his name, Prancer’s eyes tracked Elijah as though sensing his reticence.
“He’s not going to fly off like Rudolph, is he?” Elijah whispered as he joined her on the padded seat.
“Maybe,” she said cheerfully. She lifted her voice to Mr. Anderson, the driver. “How fast does this beast go?”
“You should know,” answered Mr. Anderson. “He came from your farm.”
Elijah turned to Olive with wide eyes. “Is it too late to throw myself from the sleigh in a dramatic, yet heroic effort to save my own life?”
“Too early,” she whispered back. “We haven’t started moving yet.”
He nodded gravely. “Let me know when it’s time.”
She hid a smile. Blast him. She liked him far more than she wished to.
He wasn’t trying to impress her, which was in itself impressive. By admitting his fears and perceived flaws, he was giving her power over him. On purpose. She could mock him if she liked. Make him feel bad for being who he was. He was putting the choice in her hands.
Trusting her with his true self.
