Lucie looked back at him over her shoulder. “Again?”
“Yes, the enchantment on the drive belt. Speeds up without warning and then drops off again. Nearly took the end off a spindle this afternoon.” He shook his head. “I’ll look at it again tomorrow.”
The thought arrived before Lucie could stop it:Kazrian could fix it.
Her gaze snapped back in the direction of the stew.
Of course he could fix it, but she certainly would not be asking him. Lord Kazrian Rowanwood did not belong in this part of Bloomhaven. He did not belong in a human workshop on Elmrow Lane, fixing a lathe enchantment like some sort of itinerant tinker. The very thought was absurd. He was aRowanwood. His family’s name was woven into the fabric of fae society. He was here as a favor to his grandmother, not to make house calls in the craftsmen’s quarter.
She turned and leaned against the wooden preparation surface beside the range. Charlotte, meanwhile, had launched into a story about a customer who had come into the stationer’s that day and insisted that a particular shade of ink was cursed because every letter she wrote with it went unanswered, and Theo had spent a considerable amount of time assuring her that the ink was, in fact, simply blue, before the woman admitted she could not remember if she had actually sent any of the letters.
Their father’s laugh filled the kitchen, a big, warm, full-bellied sound that had no reservations about taking up space. And their mother, who had turned to face the table while Charlotte was telling the story, smiled at him in that soft, private way she reserved only for him.
Charlotte caught Lucie’s eye and made an expression that said,I know. Revolting, isn’t it? How in love they still are.
Lucie smiled. Because she agreed, and it was also the sweetest thing she knew.
This was it. This was the template. The thing she had grown up inside, the quiet, steady warmth of two people who had built a life together out of hard work and mutual respect and the kind of love that did not need to announce itself because it was simplythere, in every glance and every small, unconscious gesture. It was more than most people ever had. It was solid and good and safe, and Henry Stratton was offering her something exactly like it.
She should listen to Charlotte. She should stop putting Henry off. She should let him call on her properly, let the courtship begin in earnest, let herself be folded gently into the kind of life her parents had modeled and her sister had chosen and that everyone who loved her believed she deserved.
Well. She would certainly wait until Kazrian had finished with the repairs and gone from Bloomhaven again. That much was obvious. If she had thought today’s encounter at The Honeycomb had been mortifying, it would be nothing compared to the spectacle of allowing Henry to court her openly while Kazrian worked in her kitchen every day. She could not begin to imagine the expression on his face if he?—
Yes. After the repairs. After he was gone. Then she would think about Henry.
Charlotte stayed another quarter of an hour before taking her leave of their parents. Lucie walked with her to the door and the two of them embraced. Charlotte held on for a beat longer than usual, then drew back and looked at her.
“You are all right, aren’t you?” she said. “You seem quieter this evening.”
“Of course I am all right,” Lucie said, smiling at her. “My mind is merely …” She gestured vaguely. “Full of all the things I have going on at The Honeycomb.”
Themanythings.
Oh good stars, that mortifyingHenry-manymoment surfaced in her mind again, causing heat to bloom in her cheeks. “But I am fine, I assure you,” she added quickly, ushering Charlotte onto the doorstep and hoping she hadn’t noticed any visible color change in Lucie’s complexion.
“All right then.” Charlotte stepped out into the evening. “Good night, sister dear.”
“Good night.”
Lucie stood in the doorway and watched her sister walk down the lane, shawl pulled tight against the cooling air.
The evening was settling over Elmrow Lane with the gentle, unhurried quality it always had at this hour. Across the way, Mr Moorfield was bringing in a chair he had left on his front step. A few houses down, a lamp flickered on behind a curtain. Lucie breathed in the cool air and let it fill her lungs, and for a moment the tightness in her chest eased.
Then she stepped back inside and shut the door. As she turned away, her gaze caught on the little clock mounted on the wall to her right. Her father had made it when she was small, one of his spare-hours projects. He had even managed to work a charm into it, simple magic that made it sing birdsong on the hour instead of chiming. But the charm had long since stopped functioning properly, and now the clock produced only a strangled chirp. Lucie never noticed it anymore. It was simply part of the house.
But she noticed it now.
And the thought that followed immediately was:He would fix it.
Lucie let out a groan, pressed her forehead briefly against the door, and shook her head.
Civil acquaintances, she reminded herself.The past is in the past.
She turned away from the door and walked back to the kitchen.
Chapter Six
Iris and Jasvian’sdog Pinklet was, Kazrian decided, the single most optimistic creature he had ever encountered.
