Balthazar was asleep on his cushion by the hearth. Every so often his head snapped up, ears flattening, and he issued a low, offended hiss at the wall on his side of the hearth, where Lucie could just make out a thin, shimmering thread of lumyrite that traveled close to the surface. Whatever he sensed there, he took it as a personal affront, but since the magic never actually did anything to him, and that washisside of the hearth, he never pursued the matter beyond the hiss before settling back into sleep.
The afternoon light shifted slowly across the stone floor, drawing long amber lines from one side of the kitchen to the other.
Footsteps sounded from the front room, heavier than Georgiana’s, unhurried and sure, and from the corner of her eye, Lucie caught a figure filling the doorway between the shop and the kitchen.
“There she is.”
Henry Stratton stepped into the kitchen with the easy confidence that seemed as natural to him as breathing. He was smiling—he was nearly always smiling—and the smile was warm and uncomplicated and directed entirely at Lucie.
“Henry,” she said, stepping down from her stool and brushing her hands on her apron. “I did not realize you were here.”
“Just arrived. Georgiana is showing a customer the sugared-almonddisplay, so I thought I would come and see how the genius of the operation is faring.” He leaned against the doorframe and looked around the kitchen with his usual approving air. “And look at all those orders prepared,” he said when his eyes fell on the beautifully packaged boxes the kitchen pixies had lined up. “You are doing so well here, Lucie, and the place has not even launched yet.”
“Thank you,” she said. “We have been rather busy today.”
“I can see that.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“I would love some.” He moved further into the kitchen—Balthazar hissed and Henry laughed; their familiar exchange—and settled himself against the edge of the counter near the window. His usual spot, close enough to talk but never in the path of her work. “Tell me everything. What is new? What am I looking at here?” He nodded at the tray of licorice dreams.
So she told him. About the rich licorice flavor she’d infused into dark chocolate ganache before sprinkling moon-pixie dust over the resulting truffles, and about which honey light she planned to add once they were set. About the commissions that had begun arriving from the first-wave patrons, and the cooling cabinets that had finally been repaired. “Lady Rivenna’s grandson has been working on the building’s magical faults,” she said, as she set the kettle on. “Lord Rowanwood. He has made considerable progress.”
Henry laughed. “How peculiar that must be—a fae lord doing repairs. That seems very unlike them.”
“It is his manifested ability,” Lucie said, reaching for the tea blend Henry preferred. “He can fix anything that contains lumyrite. It is what his magic does.”
“Ah. Well, I suppose that makes sense, then.” He accepted this with a nod and moved on. “And what else? Anything exciting on the horizon?”
Lucie hesitated. She set the tea tin down on the counter. “Lady Rivenna has asked me to do a demonstration at the launch. A performed showpiece. Something the guests can watch me create.”
“Oh, that is wonderful!” Henry straightened, his face brightening. “What a brilliant opportunity. That will be magnificent for you. For The Honeycomb. Everyone will be talking about it.”
“Yes,” Lucie said, nodding. “I hope so.”
There was a pause. The kettle gave a low, ticking hum as the water began to heat, the iron settling against the stove with a faint creak, and from the direction of the window came a sharp screech.
Lucie turned. A gossip bird sat on the outer ledge, sleek and glossy, the light catching its iridescent purple-blue feathers. It ruffled itself importantly and screeched again. “Mrs Lamton’s hair! Fell off in the fountain!”
“Well,” Lucie muttered, crossing to the window, “that sounds rather like nonsense, but even if it is true, I suspect Mrs Lamton would not appreciate the entirety of Bloomhaven knowing it.” She flapped her hand at the creature until it launched itself from the ledge with an indignant squawk and disappeared.
Dratted things. She and Charlotte had harbored fancies of hunting them down once, years ago, convinced there must be a master somewhere. Someone who sent them out and gathered them back. They had even ventured beyond the edge of Bloomhaven into the fields and the fringe of the forest, hoping to follow a flock to some gathering point they imagined must exist. But the birds were too scattered and too fast, and the two of them had lost their nerve when the light began to change and the path home grew less certain. The mission had been abandoned, the mystery left unsolved, and the wretched creatures remained a perpetual nuisance.
She turned back to Henry. The showpiece. The tight, unsaid thing still sitting at the base of her throat. “The thing is,” she said carefully, “I am rather nervous about it.”
“Oh?”
“What if I fail? In front of all those people. The launch, the patrons, the fae families. If the showpiece does not work, or if I make a mistake, or if the magic simply does not—” She stopped. Took a breath. “There is so much riding on this. It is a great deal of pressure.”
Henry reached over and squeezed her shoulder. His hand lingered there a moment longer than was strictly proper. Well, strictly speaking, it ought not to have been there at all, but Henry had always been free with such gestures. Easy and familiar in a way that suggested he simply did not think about it, or perhaps thought about it and decided the warmth of the intention excused the liberty.
“Lucie,” he said, regarding her with a steady, reassuring expression. “You will not fail.”
“But what if I do?”
“You will not.” He said it with an absolute certainty she wished she possessed. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You are far too good for that. Do not fret over it.”
“But—”
