"That's a waste of perfectly adequate wine."
He spun, hooves scraping against the stone floor.
Winnie Sanderson stood at the cellar entrance, her tall, severe frame silhouetted against the afternoon light streaming down the stairs. Her grey hair was pulled back in its characteristic tight bun, and she surveyed the destruction with the cool detachment of someone who had witnessed far worse tantrums in her considerable lifetime.
"I didn't hear you knock," he said.
"Because I didn't." She descended the stairs with surprising grace for a woman her age, her long burgundy skirt brushing each step. "Your door was open. Your field hands said you'd been down here for hours. They're worried, though they're far too afraid of you to say so directly."
"I'm fine."
"Clearly." She gestured at the spreading pool of wine and broken glass. "This is exactly what 'fine' looks like."
He turned away, gripping the edge of the wine rack until his knuckles went white. "Did you need something, Winnie? I'm not exactly in the mood for company."
"I can see that." She didn't move, didn't retreat. Simply stood there, radiating the kind of patient disapproval that made him feel like a wayward child. "When's the last time you ate?"
"I don't?—"
"Sleep?"
"What does it matter?"
"It matters because you're acting like a fool, and I've known you long enough to say so to your face." She stepped closer, her bootscrunching on broken glass. "Tell me what happened with the Bloom girl."
His jaw tightened. "Nothing happened."
"Try again."
"We were practicing the dance. In the grove." He stared at the wall, at the wine still dripping down the stone. "Things… escalated. And then I stopped because the magic… I didn't want her to do something she'd regret. I thought I was being honorable."
"And?"
"And then she canceled our next lesson. Said something came up. Hasn't answered a single call since." He finally turned, and whatever Winnie saw in his face made her expression soften fractionally. "I don't understand. I did everything right. I stopped. I gave her space. I told her I'd wait."
"You did."
"So what did I do wrong?"
Winnie was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a small silver flask. "Sit down."
"I don't want to?—"
"I wasn't asking."
There was something in her voice that he couldn't refuse. He found himself sinking onto an overturned crate, suddenly exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Winnie handed him the flask. "Drink."
He took a sip without thinking and nearly choked. Whatever was in there, it wasn't wine. Something herbal and sharp and almost painfully warm slid down his throat.
"What the hell is that?"
"Family recipe. Clears the head." She settled herself on another crate across from him, carefully arranging her skirts. "Now. I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to listen without interrupting. Can you manage that?"
He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her he was fine, that he didn't need help, and that he could handle his own problems. But the truth was, he'd been handling his own problems for decades, and all it had gotten him was this—sitting in a wine cellar, destroying his own inventory, while the one person he actually wanted walked further away with every passing hour.
"Fine," he said.
