"Freya doesn't do sympathy. She does solutions."
As they ate, the kitchen warmed from the stove, and the windows caught the late-morning sun. She watched him eat the way he did everything, focused, efficient, appreciating the food without making a show of it. He had a second helping without being asked. She poured him a third coffee.
He told her about the Ashvane's progress. The hull partition was finished. Silas's bracket had come back from the forge, good work, heavy, the iron recast clean. The rigging mount was the last major repair. Two more days, maybe less if the weather held.
Two more days. The number sat between them on the table like a third plate.
"I'll come by the dock this afternoon," she said. "Check the hull plank treatment. See if the grounding cloth did its job."
"You don't need to make an excuse to come by."
"I'm not making an excuse. I'm telling you I have a legitimate reason to be there and also that I want to see you. Both things can be true."
The light caught the gray in his storm-colored eyes, the stubble along his jaw that she'd felt against her neck and her thighs. He set down his coffee.
"Both things can be true," he said. Like he was trying the idea on. Testing whether it fit.
She cleared the plates as he found his jacket and stood in her kitchen looking like a man who was leaving and didn't want to.
"Thank you," he said. "For breakfast. For the salt lecture. For..." He gestured vaguely at the bedroom door.
"You're welcome for all three."
He crossed to the door. Stopped with his hand on the latch. He turned around.
"The legends are wrong about you," he said. "For the record."
He opened the door and walked out into the morning. She stood at her window with her coffee, watching him disappear down the birch path, and the whole thing felt so ordinary thatshe almost didn't notice her hands were warm, dry, and carrying no charge at all.
22
RAFE
Silas's bracket had fit perfectly. Rowan bolted it into place just after ten, the new iron sitting flush against the bow rail mount, the wood around it still smelling of fresh sealant. He stepped back, checked the alignment, pressed the rail with both hands. It didn't move. The bow was solid again, the rail straight, the hardware tight.
"That's your last structural repair," Rowan said. He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it over his shoulder. "Rigging mount goes in tomorrow morning. After that, you're looking at a day of final checks and you're river-ready."
Two days. Maybe less. The ship that had been his excuse to stay was almost done giving him one.
"Appreciate the work," Rafe said. "All of it."
"You'd have done most of it yourself if I'd let you." Rowan leaned against the rail he'd just finished and looked out at the lake. "What's your plan after?"
"Run the backlog north. I've got three contracts sitting on hold and a renegotiated Vanewright delivery that's already two weeks late."
"And the other thing?"
Rafe reflexively tightened his jaw.
"I live in this town," Rowan said. "I fixed your ship. I'm not blind." He crossed his arms. Not confrontational. Patient. "Malrick Sloane is renting a room at the Hargrove place. He's been buying drinks for freight runners at the dock tavern. He approached Isla at the river yesterday. And you spent last night at her cottage."
"Word travels."
"It's a small town. Things move." Rowan straightened off the rail. "If you've got something that needs handling beyond your ship, you should talk to Emmett."
"Emmett Hollowell?"
"He sits the Council now. Took Varric's seat when the old man couldn't hold it anymore." Rowan picked up his tool belt from the deck. "Emmett doesn't move fast. He doesn't make noise. But when he decides something needs dealing with, it gets dealt with."
