making us something to eat as we didn’t get that far at the pub.”
“I’m for all of that.”
• • •
SHE COULDN’T SLEEP. LONG AFTER THE HOUSE WAS QUIET, Branna wandered through it, checking doors and windows and charms. He was out there, lurking. She felt him like a shadow over a sunbeam. As she walked back upstairs, she trailed a hand over Kathel’s head.
“We should sleep,” she told him. “Both of us. There’s more work to be done tomorrow.”
In the bedroom she built up the fire, for warmth, for the comfort of its light. She could walk through those flames in her mind, she considered, but knew whatever visions came might not bring warmth and comfort.
She’d had enough of the chill for now.
Instead, once Kathel settled, she took out her violin. He watched her as she rosined her bow, thumping his tail as if in time. That alone made her smile as she walked to the windows.
There she could see out, toward the hills, toward the woods, into the sky where the moon floated in and out of clouds, and stars flickered like distant candles.
And he could see in, she thought, see her standing behind the glass, behind the charms. Out of his reach.
And that turned her smile potent.
Look all you want, she thought, for you’ll never have what I am.
She set the violin on her shoulder, closed her eyes a moment while the music rose up in her.
And she played, the notes lifting out of her heart, her spirit, her blood, her passions. Slow, lilting, lovely, power sang through the strings, shimmered its defiance against the glass, against the dark.
Framed in the window, the firelight dancing behind her, she played what both lured and repelled him while her hound watched, while her friends slept, while the moon floated.
In his bed, alone in the dark, Fin heard her song, felt what lifted out of her heart pierce his own.
And ached for her.
6
S HE TOOK THE MORNING FOR DOMESTIC TASKS , TIDYING and polishing her house to what Connor often called her fearful standards. She considered herself a creature of order and sense, and one happiest when her surroundings echoed not only that order, but her own tastes.
She liked knowing things remained where she wanted them, a practical matter to her mind that saved time. To be at her best, she required color and texture and the pretty things that brightened the heart and appealed to the eye.
Pretty things and order required time and effort, and she enjoyed the housewifely duties, the simple and ordinary routine of them. She appreciated the faint scent of orange peel once the furniture was polished with the solution she made for herself and the tang of grapefruit left behind once she’d scrubbed her bath.
Fluffed pillows offered welcome as a soft, pretty throw arranged just so offered comfort and eye appeal.
Once done she refreshed candles, watered plants, filled her old copper bucket with more peat for the fire.
Meara and Iona had set the kitchen to rights before they’d gone off to the stables, but . . . not quite right enough to suit her.
So while laundry chugged away in the machines, she fussed, making a mental list of what she wanted at the market, a secondary list of potential new products for her shop. Humming while she planned, she finished the last of the housework with mopping the kitchen floor.
And felt him.
Though her heart jumped she made herself turn slowly to where Fin stood in the doorway that led to her shop.
“A cheerful tune for scrubbing up.”
“I like scrubbing up.”
“A fact that’s always been a mystery to me. As is how you manage to look so fetching doing it. Am I wrong? Did we agree to work this morning?”
“You’re not wrong, just early.” Deliberately she went back to her mopping. “Go put the kettle on in the workshop. I’m nearly done.”
She’d had her morning, Branna reminded herself, her time alone to do as she pleased. Now it was time for duty. She’d work with Fin as it needed to be done. She accepted that,
“I’m for all of that.”
• • •
SHE COULDN’T SLEEP. LONG AFTER THE HOUSE WAS QUIET, Branna wandered through it, checking doors and windows and charms. He was out there, lurking. She felt him like a shadow over a sunbeam. As she walked back upstairs, she trailed a hand over Kathel’s head.
“We should sleep,” she told him. “Both of us. There’s more work to be done tomorrow.”
In the bedroom she built up the fire, for warmth, for the comfort of its light. She could walk through those flames in her mind, she considered, but knew whatever visions came might not bring warmth and comfort.
She’d had enough of the chill for now.
Instead, once Kathel settled, she took out her violin. He watched her as she rosined her bow, thumping his tail as if in time. That alone made her smile as she walked to the windows.
There she could see out, toward the hills, toward the woods, into the sky where the moon floated in and out of clouds, and stars flickered like distant candles.
And he could see in, she thought, see her standing behind the glass, behind the charms. Out of his reach.
And that turned her smile potent.
Look all you want, she thought, for you’ll never have what I am.
She set the violin on her shoulder, closed her eyes a moment while the music rose up in her.
And she played, the notes lifting out of her heart, her spirit, her blood, her passions. Slow, lilting, lovely, power sang through the strings, shimmered its defiance against the glass, against the dark.
Framed in the window, the firelight dancing behind her, she played what both lured and repelled him while her hound watched, while her friends slept, while the moon floated.
In his bed, alone in the dark, Fin heard her song, felt what lifted out of her heart pierce his own.
And ached for her.
6
S HE TOOK THE MORNING FOR DOMESTIC TASKS , TIDYING and polishing her house to what Connor often called her fearful standards. She considered herself a creature of order and sense, and one happiest when her surroundings echoed not only that order, but her own tastes.
She liked knowing things remained where she wanted them, a practical matter to her mind that saved time. To be at her best, she required color and texture and the pretty things that brightened the heart and appealed to the eye.
Pretty things and order required time and effort, and she enjoyed the housewifely duties, the simple and ordinary routine of them. She appreciated the faint scent of orange peel once the furniture was polished with the solution she made for herself and the tang of grapefruit left behind once she’d scrubbed her bath.
Fluffed pillows offered welcome as a soft, pretty throw arranged just so offered comfort and eye appeal.
Once done she refreshed candles, watered plants, filled her old copper bucket with more peat for the fire.
Meara and Iona had set the kitchen to rights before they’d gone off to the stables, but . . . not quite right enough to suit her.
So while laundry chugged away in the machines, she fussed, making a mental list of what she wanted at the market, a secondary list of potential new products for her shop. Humming while she planned, she finished the last of the housework with mopping the kitchen floor.
And felt him.
Though her heart jumped she made herself turn slowly to where Fin stood in the doorway that led to her shop.
“A cheerful tune for scrubbing up.”
“I like scrubbing up.”
“A fact that’s always been a mystery to me. As is how you manage to look so fetching doing it. Am I wrong? Did we agree to work this morning?”
“You’re not wrong, just early.” Deliberately she went back to her mopping. “Go put the kettle on in the workshop. I’m nearly done.”
She’d had her morning, Branna reminded herself, her time alone to do as she pleased. Now it was time for duty. She’d work with Fin as it needed to be done. She accepted that,
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