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“Well, that’s what it is.” I open my eyes to find him rubbing that shoulder.
“Guess so.”
“I’ve never cared for it myself,” I tell him.
“No?”
I shake my head. My father famously drained the island dry a multitude of times—until at last they banned him from the bar. And after that, he learned to pick the locks and take what he desired. “Never wanted to be one of those sorts.”
“One of what sorts?” he says quietly.
I chew at my lip, trying to think of how to say it without mentioning my father. “I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything enough to lie and skirt the rules to get it. Not sure that I want to want something so desperately. Seems exhausting. A bit dangerous.”
I watch as his features seem to soften, and he nods.
“How did we get on this?” I sigh, looking at the dark gray stone that’s got us stuck here.
“I asked what you do for entertainment.”
“Most of us don’t court the bottle like Mac. For me, I knit on Saturdays with a few friends—on Saturday evenings. We celebrate occasions at the café or the Burger Joint. That’s once or twice a month. And then there’s things that come and go with seasons. Fishing and the factory—processing crab. Helping sort the mail when that comes. Every one of us wears many different caps, as I said. When I do get a bit of time,” I offer, looking at my feet again, “I like to throw a bowl or two.”
“Throw a bowl?”
I look up at him. “Clay-throwing. Pottery. Ceramic working. Throw a bowl, so…form it on the wheel. And then I fire it in the kiln and sometimes sell it.”
“Here?”
I blink. “I apparate to London to throw clay and put it at the market.”
I enjoy watching his face bend in surprise that morphs into amusement. “So we’ve got a smartass, and a wizard.”
“I’m not any sort of arse.” My lips twitch. “That’s your place.”
He grins broadly. “Touché.”
“Merely honest.”
“Hey—” He holds his hands up. “That was one night. One…crummy night.”
“Bravo, Sailor.”
“You stick around, you’ll see that night’s not representative of Declan Carnegie.”
“Perhaps not, but I believe I’ve only met the Carnegie.” When I feel my mouth trend upward at the corners, it feels as if someone’s yanked the floor from under my feet. I tuck my mouth back down and try to frown, although I believe it comes out smirk-ish.
“There’s that name again.” He shakes his head as he walks backward toward the stream. “Not sure I know the Carnegie. I’m just Declan. Nice guy.” He holds up the middle three of his fingers, as if he’s making a pledge of sorts.
I scoff. “That’s what you say.”
He nods. “I do.”
Then he’s turned around, and I’m left looking at his back as he moves to the stream, where he kneels down and splashes his face.
My heart pitter-patters, as if something inside’s cracked and now is leaking.
* * *
Declan
