My eyes went wide. “I didn’t mean…”
She winked.
Humor? She’d once again proven my point.
My body deflated with a long sigh.
“If Icould havearranged an encounter with a charming elven lady, you would have most certainly topped the list.”
“You find me charming, do you?”
Delightfully so. “Possibly. Though perhaps our standards out here on the frontier are different.”
“Your provincial verisimilitude is not without its charm, either.” Her piercing green eyes lingered on mine, simmering with a hint of mischievous energy.
She removed the piece from the miter box and picked up a chisel. “You mentioned a brother a few times who seems to have opinions on all things elf.”
“Be careful cutting those out. It’s much easier than a dovetail, but still requires care.”
“Um-humm. Your brother?”
“Opinions… yes, I suppose you could say that. And he is, in fact, an elf.”
Her gaze fixed on me.
“I refuse to use the term adoptive brother. From the moment he joined our family, he was never anything less than a full brother to me.”
She cocked her head. “I did not think your home city of Thorncove had a significant elven population.”
“It doesn’t. He survived a shipwreck. His family did not. My mother and father assisted with the rescue, and after that…”
She glanced at her woodwork but made no cuts. “I suppose that clarifies quite a bit about our first encounter.” She brushed aside a few shavings. “I amvery sorry, Mister Thistlewood.”
I extended a hand across the workbench, palm up.
She took it and squeezed. Not the delicate touch of a handshake for show, but a firm grasp as if helping someone up off a dock.
I closed my eyes as I savored her touch many long seconds.
Withdrawing my hand before it became awkward, I forced a smile. “So, why don’t you finish chiseling out all the notches and perhaps we can dig in to this marvelous picnic you have brought, Lady Arazniros.”
“A sensible suggestion, Mister Thistlewood.”
A quarter of an hour later, I brushed away shavings and sawdust, as Sephimara laid out the gingham tablecloth and spread a fabulous buffet, including cut-glass plates and silverware.
I spooned a couple olives onto my plate, glanced at her, and stopped. “I… you’ll forgive me if there is some protocol I don’t know. I can barely place silverware in the right order.”
“Protocol?”
“You know. Am I supposed to serve you first, then myself. I’ve never been on a date with—I mean, not that this is a date, date.”
A bemused smile crossed her face. “It is quite all right. We may both have misconceptions. I was informed that manners in provincial cities were more traditional and strict. As if many people cling to exaggerated… or perhaps entirely imagined imperial customs.”
“And… is this the case?” I sliced myself a piece of bread and cut a second for her.
“Mister Thistlewood, I see your skill in woodworking applies to bread slicing as well.”
“Thank you.” I spread a bit of hummus on mine, topping it with sliced tomatoes. “So?Arethings more formal here than in Drach-Principalis?”
