Page 25 of A Spell of Heart & Havoc

On second thought, I strolled around the table and slid into the seat right next to her instead.

“So am I, princess. My job is keeping you close,” I said, tugging my wooden chair a smidge nearer. Her nostrils flared. Satisfaction coiled silkily in my stomach, and I met her fierce eyes straight on.

“But since I’m here, I might as well pitch in. If that would be useful?” I called the last to Choia.

“Yes, dear, I’m sure Dove would appreciate the help!” the gnome threw over a shoulder from her spot at the stove. Dove, meanwhile, just clutched her knife tighter and stabbed the nearest potato.

I drew one of my own knives from my belt—a short utility blade that I often used when prepping my own food for supper—and plucked one of the larger potatoes from Dove’s pile. She snarled delicately, pushing some of them over toward me, and resumed her peeling.

We worked together in silence for a while. Dove acting as if I wasn’t there, right next to her. One potato, then two, three. I sank into the familiar rhythm. My ma had taught me how to peel like this when I was young, about nine or ten. Never potatoes—why toss the nutrients?—but things like turnips and rutabaga. And when Balfie came along later, apples; he hated the taste of apple skin, so I always took it upon myself to peel and cut his up for him, sprinkle a bit of cinnamon on top. The memory of his small, bright grin floated up, and I savored it for a moment, letting myself see him as he was before, happily chomping on an apple slice as we sat outside together in the fresh morning air of our valley. Then I pushed the memory down and away.

The longer we peeled in silence at the table, the more tension bled out of Dove—posture relaxing, breath slowing, until it truly seemed as if she’d forgotten I was even there.

I couldn’t help myself. With a flick of the wrist, the next piece of potato skin I carved off flew through the air to my left… landing directly on Dove’s arm.

She tensed again, and I could feel the hot spotlight of her attention blazing on me once more. “Oops,” I said, covering my delight with a benign glance. She shook the peel off and scooched her chair away a bit. After another glare, she resumed her brisk, efficient work, speeding up as if wanting to finish as soon as possible. Quiet fell at the table once more.

Thwap.

Dove turned slowly to me, eyes wide and nose flaring dangerously, with a long, fat peel hanging off her perfectly coifed hair. It dangled down across her forehead and nose, the dirt-smeared edge just resting on one cheek.

I pinched my lips together to keep from bursting out laughing, but I swore she could see it in my face anyway. Faster than a blink, Dove snatched a handful of peels and plopped them smack on top of my head, palm squishing them in a bit for good measure. Pieces fell down around us, scattering on the chair and floor. Choia, humming away happily to herself at the stove, noticed nothing.

Her hand still pressing on my head, Dove huffed a laugh, pleased with her messy revenge. I had to give it to her—I had not seen that coming. Little miss prim-and-proper apparently could lower herself to play dirty when it meant getting even.

I met Dove’s eyes, and the laugh died in her throat. We were close, much closer than before, and I felt the warmth of her arm near my brow. For a moment, she looked as frozen as I felt. Gaze turning from mischievous to confused to unsettled in the space of a few heartbeats.

Her arm dropped into her lap, and I slowly found myself reaching up to pull the long peel off her curls. As I did, the edge of my palm brushed lightly against Dove’s cheek. She shuddered lightly, once, so quick, I almost thought I imagined it.

But I didn’t imagine how satiny smooth her skin felt in that briefest of touches. How her breath hitched, making mine stutter in response. How her eyelashes fluttered closed.

Closed, for just a moment—before Dove jolted up, shooting me a fiery glare once again. Pushing her chair back and scattering potato bits, she sped around the table and left. Not bothering to say farewell to Choia, and, apparently, leaving me to finish up the vegetables.

What had that just been?

Shoving down the urge to chase after her and forcing my breath to even out, I took stock of the situation. I just needed to eat something. I hadn’t actually gotten a meal at the priory earlier, as I’d told Dove; the whole visit had been spent with Balfie in the infirmary, of course. Lunch first, then, and give us both a break from each other. Then I’d track my annoying charge down later.

I finished up with the potatoes and tidied the table before washing all the dirt off my hands. Petra joined us and mentioned that Dove was in her room, napping after her “very busy day.” I chatted with her and Choia as I gobbled up two full helpings of the three-bean casserole that they served me. Plus, of course, a few of Choia’s delicious, golden-brown rolls. Utter perfection, with perfectly salted, creamy butter that I slathered heavily on top.

I told the gnome chef that it was one of the best meals I’d had in years, and she waved me off with a guffaw. But a moment later, a cold tankard of ale plunked down in front of me, and she patted the top of my head affectionately before heading back to rolling out pie dough for tonight’s meal.

After polishing off the meal, I stretched my spine with a loud groan—eliciting titters from Petra—and brought my dishes over to the washbasin. Before I could even roll both sleeves up, she’d swooped in, shooing me out of the way as she began to wash my dishes with a coy smile. I forced myself to wink. Choia cackled.

“Well, if Dove’s resting in her room, I’m off to continue with the security improvements,” I said. “Petra, could you let me know when my charge wakes?” She ducked a nod.

Down the servants’ passage and back into the massive ballroom, I paused for a moment. Choia had mentioned that the lord and lady of the manor were having their afternoon tea in the library. Dove had sequestered herself in her magically sealed room, and most of the help was in the kitchens or in the library serving tea. This was the perfect chance for some more… exploring. I still hadn’t heard anything from Zephyra or the guild, so I supposed I should just keep surveying the manor. Cataloging any valuables, identifying weak points, and, of course, trying to figure out where in the goddess’s name all their newfound coin was coming from.

Strolling down the echoing length of the ballroom, I ignored what I’d deemed the “fancy parlor” for now. That was designed for guests, and although I saw through the archway that it had some tantalizingly expensive-looking items, it wouldn’t hold any answers. And for some reason, I was craving to get into the Wistrallo family’s dirty little secrets. Why should they have so much, when many in Kurriel had so little? And if they’d truly burned through all their coin a few years ago, as Zephyra had said, how had they managed to get their wealth back? I knew better than anyone that you couldn’t just wish riches into existence, no matter how hard you tried. If you weren’t lucky enough to be born into wealth, it took either intensely hard work or lies and deception to get there—usually both. And from what I’d heard and seen of Lord and Lady Wistrallo so far, I couldn’t imagine them working a hard day in their lives.

So what nasty plot had these rich assholes cooked up? Who were they taking advantage of, and how? I felt my lips curve into a malicious smile as I stalked silently through their art-laden front hall. I was going to find out. And I’d take it all from them. Put it to good use helping people instead of hoarding it in this huge, empty museum of a house. Helping myself first, of course.

I slipped through the halls, making my way to Lord Wistrallo’s study. Conveniently unlocked. That wasn’t necessarily a bad sign. As I’d learned during my time with the Takers Guild, many rich folks didn’t bother with physical locks and barriers. Magic was more expensive, harder to procure, and so they seemed to think it must be stronger and better.

The wrinkle with that way of thinking, for them, was that expensive often didn’t equal more secure. Particularly when everyone in the area was getting their charms from the same mages in Talon. Mages who were sometimes more than happy to sell the counter charms for the right price—or to be unhappily blackmailed into it.

Before I’d left, Zephyra had given me another useful tool from the guild’s armory. One from her personal vault. A smooth, solid cylinder about as long as her forefinger—a stone of unmaking. Deep shimmering gray and cool to the touch, it was designed to absorb and hold many charms at once. Potentially an infinite amount, I’d heard. But they must, as Zephrya had impressed on me, all be of the same type of charm. I didn’t ask what would happen if a rogue charm was added to the stone; I wasn’t stupid enough to question the guildmaster when she was in such a generous mood.

This one was filled with all the charms of unlocking that the guild had gathered from mages in and around Talon over the years. A magical skeleton key, of sorts. The nickname for them in the guild and around the lower parts of the city was gimmees—as in, they could give you what you want, easy as pie. Incredibly rare, they were a thief’s dream tool, requiring no noise, no clicking or breaking of locks, no whispered spells.