This, she didn’t say in a whisper.
“Must you find something wrong with every event we attend?” Henry asked with a frown.
Clara stood up abruptly. “Of course not, Papa. I did enjoy the music and your agreeable company.” She moved toward him with one of her bright smiles that showed her dimples and kissed him on the cheek before flouncing away. She was smart enough to disarm him and flee before the impending lecture. Once in the hallway, she caught Isobel’s gaze and pulled a silly face. Isobel gave her a secretive smile in return.
Clara’s escape inspired her, though. How could she stay in the sitting room holding a mundane conversation with her brother and her husband-to-be when what she needed was answers?
“I’m going to make lavender cookies,” she declared as she stood.
Both men paused to look at her. It was Henry who responded. “Lavender cookies. You haven’t madethose since…”
Since father passed away—she would save him from saying it. “Yes, I have the delightful urge to do so this morning, though it’ll all depend on whether Cook will let me take over his space for a couple of hours.”
A strange look passed over her brother’s face before he cleared his throat and said, “That’s good. Very well.”
Lord Richard, on the other hand, looked as if she had just proclaimed she was off to kill the Queen. Baking cookies, it would seem, was also inappropriate for her to do. Luckily, she escaped before he managed to say anything adverse and was in the kitchen with an apron on before she knew it. Cook was the grumpiest man she’d ever met, but he had a soft spot for her. After his own baffled looks, he relinquished his domain fairly easily.
She used to make lavender cookies regularly, but she and Father were the only two who liked them. Henry was a buttered biscuit type of fellow, and Clara preferred even sweeter options. As Isobel fell into the process, she found it cathartic. It was healing in a way that it wouldn’t have been even a handful of months ago. Flattening the dough and forming the circles, she allowed her mind to wander to armored men who fell from the heavens.
If Dark Armor was still out there, what better way to get him to be affable than with homemade cookies?
Chapter 7
Isobel
With her basket full of peace offerings in hand, Isobel made it to the clearing with only an hour to spare before sunset.
There was, in fact, evidence of the crash, with broken branches and debris lying strewn about. When she finally spotted the wrecked craft, she stopped in the tree line, uncertain if she should go onward. Dark Armor may have saved her last night, but he was obviously dangerous.
Curiosity and caution tangled together until her skin itched with it. A clanging from somewhere inside the edifice she assumed was Dark Armor’s didn’t have her retreating, though; instead, she stepped forward as if in a trance. She needed to know, for her own sanity, exactly what had occurred last night.
Perhaps everything would make more sense now, in the light of day.
Or perhaps she was mad for doing something so completely reckless. Again.
“Hello,” Isobel called when she was steps from the structure’s entryway.
The clanking noise stopped, but there was no answer. She knocked on the metal siding and called out again. Heavy footsteps sounded inresponse, and she had the sudden image of a prowling predator closing in on her. Her heart picked up an anxious patter punctuated by the footfall.
Dark Armor’s shadow preceded him, looming and inky, until there he was. Just as large and intimidating as she remembered him being, if not more so. He still bore armor, but it seemed different than what he’d worn the night before, as though there were less of it, somehow—but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why she felt that way.
He rumbled with something Isobel could only describe as a gravelly growl. She took a step back out of instinct, and he took a step forward. Shecouldretreat, but she still had a thousand questions she wanted answers to. Not to mention she’d tried running from him before, and that hadn’t gone well. Taking a deep breath, she approached again until she was only four paces away from him.
He stared at her for a long time, chin tilted down. It was unsettling, not seeing his facial expressions. She often relied on seeing people’s faces to read them better, as their words often contradicted their body language. Did he disapprove of her? Was he upset? Was he contemplating the best way to kill her?
When he shifted, she thought it might be the latter. But then he moved aside as if inviting her in.
The moment she stepped inside the craft, she felt validated. It all reallyhadhappened.
He’d somehow corrected the lighting so that it was a solid, low blue glow that revealed a much cleaner interior than that of the silver one. However, she still couldn’t find the source of the light. Flames that sat in the ceiling? A strange chandelier of some sort? Magic?
Remembering where she was and who she was with, she pulled her gaze from the ceiling and back to Dark Armor. “Uhm, good afternoon,”Isobel said, a bit hoarse. “I brought you some goods.” She held the basket up between them as if it were her shield.
He lifted a gloved hand and pressed something on his forearm. She heard a clicking sound and then… “Where am I?” he asked.
The words ran together in a rather gruff tone, but Isobel's eyes widened when she deciphered it. “Sir, you are … well, you’re in Cinder.”
“Cinder,” he repeated. His eye shields flashed a dim red.
