Kazrian was already moving toward the lemon, frowning, and Lucie was moving too, and they reached for it at the same instant, his hand closing over the back of her fingers.
They both snatched back.
“I beg your pardon?—”
“No, you?—”
“Please—”
“It is only a lemon,” Lucie said, rather desperately, before seizing it and straightening.
Kazrian rose more slowly, and he was not looking at the lemon now, or at her hand. He was looking at the shelf, his head tilted at that particular angle, the way he tilted it when something did not add up and he was already pulling it apart in his mind. “That shelf rejected anything blue,” he said slowly. “Not yellow. I corrected it. There is no reason it should?—”
“Kazrian!” Lady Rivenna’s voice came down the staircase. “Kazrian, why can I not get into the storeroom? Youassuredme this door was fixed!”
Kazrian closed his eyes briefly. “The storeroom door was open last night,” he said, to no one in particular. “I confirmed it multiple times.” He drew a breath. “Excuse me. I had better—” He gestured vaguely toward the stairs, and went, taking the steps two at a time.
The staircase did not produce its extra step. At least one thing was still behaving.
And then Lucie was alone in the kitchen with Henry.
“Well.” He was still smiling. “He certainly keeps busy, your Lord Rowanwood. Doors and shelves and lemons flying about.” A small laugh. “I confess I do not entirely see the genius of it. But I suppose that’s the fae for you. Andyouare certainly in fine spirits this morning.” He leaned on the worktable with his arms folded. “It is good to see you laughing.”
“We were only discussing the showpiece,” Lucie said, reaching for the saucepan of florentine mixture and wondering if she’d left it too long now. “Lord Rowanwood has offered to build the framework for the launch display.”
“Ah. How generous of him.” Henry let this sit for a moment, then brightened. “I came to ask you something. The Primrose Assembly is holding an evening concert next week, what with it being opening week of the Season. Nothing grand, nothingfae. Good music, a supper afterward, the sort of thing that would do you a great deal of good after all this.” He gave her his most persuasive smile. “Come with me.”
“Henry, you are very kind, but I truly cannot. Not with the launch?—”
“You always say that.”
“Because it is always true.”
“Lucie.” He said her name gently, with fond exasperation. “You work toohard. You are here early every morning and leave far too late. I wonder sometimes whether Lady Rowanwood comprehends that she is asking far too much of you. A showpiece, a launch, a whole shop on your two shoulders—and you a young woman barely capable of handling it all.”
“She does not ask too much.” The firmness in her own voice surprised her. “I want to do this, Henry. All of it.”
“I know you do.” A pause settled between them. Then Henry straightened, his tone shifting into something lighter, more assured. “Well. I am only saying that I look forward to the day when you need not run yourself into the ground like this. You know I shall have more than enough to provide for us. You would not have to worry about any of it.”
He meant it kindly. She knew that. He was offering to take care of her, to lift the weight from her shoulders. And yet she had not even agreed to a concert, let alone a courtship, and already he was speaking of ‘us’ and ‘provide’ as though the whole thing were simply a matter of time and practicality.
“That is very kind of you,” she managed.
“It’s only sense.” His smile, easy as ever, stretched into something teasing. “So. Friday. The Primrose Assembly. Is there truly no way I can persuade you?”
“There truly isn’t. Not this week.” She softened it with a smile. “I’m sorry, Henry. Another time.”
“Another time.” He sighed theatrically and shook his head, then started toward the front of the shop. But he paused in the doorway. “I’ll get a yes out of you yet, Lucie Fields,” he called back with a smile. “You’ll see. It is only a matter of time.”
Then he was gone, and Georgiana’s greeting drifted back through the doorway, and Lucie was alone with the smell of caramel and the gold light through the jar.
She should have said yes. It was a concert, not a proposal. Henry was kind and attentive, and he kept asking, and she kept finding reasons to refuse, and at some point she would have to stop putting him off and decide. The guilt sat heavily in her stomach. He was offering her exactly the kind of future she ought to want.
She looked up at the ceiling, toward the muffled sound of two voices above. Lady Rivenna’s, sharp and carrying; Kazrian’s, lower, patient, likelyattempting to explain something that could not be explained. The storeroom door that once again refused to open. The shelf that now threw yellow. She found she was smiling faintly, foolishly, at the ceiling, and made herself stop.
Her gaze came down and snagged on the shelf—the one that had behaved all morning, and then, almost the very moment Kazrian declared it fixed, flung a lemon across the room.
She looked at the lemon in her hand. She looked at the shelf.
