Silence settled once more. Still the wrong kind.
Kazrian returned his attention to the hob and the layered sequence of diagnostic enchantments he was still running. Behind him, he heard Lucie sifting something. Flour? Confectioner’s sugar? It was a fine, whispered sound.
“Did you try that charm again for the chocolate bees?”
“No,” she answered. “I have not had time.” She sounded faintly annoyed that he’d asked. Very well, then. He would file that firmly under topics not to be raised again until she raised them herself.
More silence. The hearth crackled softly. Two brownies were hauling a sack of sugar between them across the far side of the kitchen.
Kazrian rose and moved to the wall again. The lattice still hummed evenly beneath his hand. Good. That was good. But he could not be certain yet if he trusted it.
A clatter sounded behind him, and then a small sound of pure exasperation. He turned to see Lucie crouching beside a small metal bowl and a dusting of golden powder across the floor. She picked up the bowl, then swept at the mess with the side of her hand, too quickly, too hard, as though the gold had insulted her personally.
She stood, set the bowl down with a decisive thud, pressed both palms to the worktable, and stared straight ahead.
Kazrian opened his mouth.
“What you saw this morning,” she said before he could speak, her attention still directed forward and nowhere near him. “It was nothing. Henry is … affectionate. He is a demonstrative person by nature.” She brushed her hands against her apron and picked up the rolling pin. “That is all it was.”
Kazrian’s hand went still against the wall. He considered his response carefully before speaking. “His affection,” he said at last, “should not make you uncomfortable.”
Lucie’s head came up, her hands freezing halfway through pushing the rolling pin across the marzipan. “It does not make me uncomfortable.”
Kazrian held her gaze and said nothing. He did not need to. They both knew what he had seen that morning. The way she had put the length of the kitchen between herself and Henry, the way she had gripped that bag of flour as though it were the only solid thing in the room.
Lucie looked away first. She turned back to the rolling pin and the sheetof marzipan, pressing it thinner with short, brisk strokes that had rather more force behind them than the delicate work likely required.
“You do not know Henry,” she said. “You have been here a matter of weeks. He has been a fixture in my life for considerably longer, and I assure you, he is perfectly?—”
“I saw your face, Lucie.” The words left him before he could weigh them, and he heard the edge in his own voice. He had not meant to say it that way. He had not meant to say it at all, in fact.
She froze again. “My face.”
Well, the words were out now. He may as well finish the thought. “When he touched your arm. You did not look as though you welcomed it.”
The laugh that came out of her was high and sharp. “I welcomed it perfectly well, thank you. You saw what you wished to see, and now you are making something from nothing.”
Making something from nothing.
Nowthatlanded like a punch to his chest, whether she had meant it to or not. Had he not spent years making something from nothing where she was concerned? Reading signals that were not there. Interpreting warmth that was only courtesy. Perhaps he was doing it again, reading something into Henry’s actions and Lucie’s reactions that did not actually exist. He was convinced he was not wrong this time, and yet … he had been convinced three years ago, and he had been spectacularly wrong then.
He exhaled. “Very well.” He moved to the front of the oven and held his hand carefully an inch or two above the hob to test it. No heat. He touched it lightly. Definitely not heat. “I believe this is nearly fixed.”
“Nearly?”
“I need to test it further before I am certain the repair will hold.”
“You have been testing it all day.”
“These things require care. And you know how this building is. I do not trust it yet, so please be careful not to touch the hob until I have?—”
“You are forever testing things a hundred times over.” Lucie’s voice was sharp, her rolling pin driving across the marzipan with considerable force. “If it is fixed, it is fixed.”
Kazrian’s brows rose. “In the case of The Honeycomb, I would have to strongly disagree with you.”
“Fine then. Add it to the list of things we disagree on. Like Henry.”
It was his turn for an exasperated sigh. “Lucie?—”
