Page 22 of Duke of Sapphire

She pressed the leg back into the joint.

It held for a moment. Then it did not.

Ian was watching her now with those dark eyes that were very much Nathan Drummond’s, based on the family portrait she had glimpsed in the front hall.

Charlotte got back to her feet and looked around the room. She spotted a bureau against the far wall. She crossed to it and opened the top drawer.

Candle stubs. A broken top. Three mismatched buttons. And, at the back, a ball of brown yarn that had seen better days but was perfectly serviceable.

She took it and came back.

Ian had not moved. He was still watching her, the silence unchanged, but the quality of it had shifted slightly. She sat down, settled the soldier in her lap, and wound the yarn around the leg joint with careful, unhurried turns. She tied it off. She held it up.

The leg stayed.

She set it down in front of her and began to hum. The tune she conjured was nothing in particular, just a low, wandering sound, the kind that happened when her hands were occupied and her mind was working pleasantly. She did not look at Ian.

She picked up the next soldier. This one had lost its head entirely, which she thought showed considerable commitment. She found the head after a brief search—it was under Ian’s knee, which he had apparently been sitting on without noticing—and he moved without comment to let her retrieve it. She pressed the head back into the socket and held it there.

“There was a pirate,” she said, “who lost his leg to a kraken.”

She was not looking at Ian. She was looking at the soldier in her hands. She kept her voice pleasant, the way she used to read aloud in the library at Ashford estate when the only person listening was herself.

“He could have called it the end of his sailing days. Some men would have. Instead he thought—well, I have survived a kraken. Which means I know more about krakens than almost anyone alive.” She set the headless soldier down and began wrapping yarn around the neck. “So he became the person ships went to when they were heading into kraken-infested waters. Not because he was the bravest. Because he had already been in the water with one and come out the other side.”

She tied off the yarn and held the soldier up. The head listed to the left, but it held.

Ian said nothing.

Charlotte set the soldier beside the first one and looked at the remaining cluster on the floor.

Then Ian picked up a soldier with a snapped sword arm and held it out to her.

She took it without pausing. She turned it over, examined the break, and began to look for the arm.

“Did he get a new leg?” Ian said.

Charlotte found the arm near her knee. “He did. Carved it himself, out of driftwood. He said it was better than the old one because he could stick things in it.”

“What kind of things?”

“Fishhooks, mostly. Also a small knife.” She unraveled a bit of the brown yarn and began working. “It was considered a useful tool.”

Ian picked up another broken soldier and turned it over in his hands. “What was the kraken like?”

“Large. Incredibly old. Considerably more interested in ships than in conversation.” She took the soldier Ian was holding and examined it. The arm was present, but the musket had snapped clean off. “The pirate said its eyes were the size of carriage wheels, which may have been an exaggeration, but sailors are known for exaggeration.”

“Me da says sailors exaggerate everythin',” Ian said. “He says they’re worse than fishermen.”

“Your father sounds like a sensible man.”

“Aye.” A pause. “He is.”

Charlotte kept her hands moving. She did not look at Ian directly. Instead, she picked up a soldier who was likely supposed to be a member of the calvary for he was mounted astride a small wooden horse. This gave her an idea.

“Do you have a horse?” she asked, after a moment. “I noticed the stables are quite large here.”

That landed differently. Ian straightened, marginally. “A pony. His name is Tam. He’s grey with a white nose.” A beat. “He’s better than a horse. Horses are too tall. Tam lets me brush him without the need for standin' on a stool.”