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“I-It’s your book, Mr.Fernsby. I’m sure whatever you think is best will be right.” She stood and picked up her chair, meaning to return it to the corner.
“I’m just asking your thoughts.” He sounded inquisitive. “Surely you wouldn’t kiss a man in a stranger’s shed if he hadn’t... what, held your hand first? Perhaps a declaration is needed? Or am I getting ahead of myself and the kiss should come at the end of the story?”
Her ears were burning. “Everyone is different.” She set the chair down with more force than intended, then made the grievous mistake of turning back.
Mr.Fernsby was watching her, his papers forgotten, his right eyebrow raised, his upper lip quirked like a mischievous school boy’s.
She felt like she was in her underwear all over again.
“Mrs.Larkin.” Two of the usual three lines appeared between his brows. “Have you never been kissed?”
Fire. She was on fire.
“If you’ll excuse me.” The roughness of her voice only embarrassed her more. She made a beeline for the door.
He stood, papers shuffling. “I’m sorry, it was impertinent of me to ask.”
She hesitated at the door.
“I’m just comfortable with you.” Regret lightened the words and carried them like candle smoke. “Don’t answer. Just... forgive me.”
Letting out a slow, calculated breath, she glanced back, hardly daring to meet his eyes. Her heartbeat was erratic, but she didn’twantto leave. “I fear my reaction has already answered it for you.”
She expected a jest at her expense, but Mr.Fernsby sat down, set his manuscript aside, and asked, “What’s it like to have magic?”
The change in subject was both surprising and appreciated. She released the door handle, cupped her elbows, and took a few paces into the room. “I... well, I don’t particularly remembernothaving it, except as a little girl imagining being a wizard.”
He smiled. “What did you imagine?”
“Psychometry, actually. I wanted to read minds. Know what people really thought of me.”
“That would be a terrible spell to have.”
“I agree with you. Now, that is.” She shrugged. Took another step toward him. “It certainly has been useful. I would hate to be without it. It’s akin to a fifth limb.”
“Or a sixth sense,” he offered.
She nodded. “A more apt metaphor. I suppose that’s why you’re the writer.”
“Or trying to be.” He passed a glare at his manuscript. “And you’ve never been interested in setting up some sort of horoscope shop? They’re very popular.”
“My great-grandmother had one.” Another step. “She was eccentric.”
“You don’t have to be eccentric to run your own business.”
“No,” she agreed, “but when you turn yourself into a novelty, you attract a certain kind of person. They see only the novelty, and once they’ve had their fill, they leave. She had thousands of friends, but none of them were true connections. From what I’ve been told, at least. She passed away when I was young.”
He rubbed his chin. Stubble covered it; he hadn’t shaved today. There was something distinctly masculine about the unkemptness, and Hulda briefly wondered how rough it would feel under her fingers. “She sounds like quite a character.”
“She was very real.”
“Have you ever wondered,” he followed up without missing a beat, “if we’re all characters in another’s book? If all of our actions, whims, thoughts, and desires are being controlled by some omniscient author?”
A strange notion. “By God?”
“If He’s writing it, I suppose it would classify as nonfiction.”
Hulda laughed. “I would hope so, because fiction would mean none of us were real.”
