"Mostly isn't completely."
"It's good enough."
"Good enough isn't good enough. Not for you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you deserve better than good enough. You deserve properly done, completely finished, no buckets required."
"It's just a roof."
"Nothing with you is just anything."
They were alone now, him on the roof, her standing in her doorway, the village settling into evening around them. Snow had begun falling again, light flakes that caught the lamplight from the windows.
"Come down," she said softly. "You've done enough."
"Have I?"
"For today."
He climbed down carefully, his hands stiff with cold and blood from the blisters. When he reached the ground, Marianne was waiting with a bucket of water and clean cloths.
"Let me see," she said, taking his hands without asking.
Her touch was gentle but clinical as she examined the damage. "You're a fool."
"Specifically, or generally?"
"Both. These need proper treatment or they'll get infected."
"They're just blisters."
"On a duke's hands that have never done proper work. Your skin is like paper."
"Thank you for that flattering assessment."
"Come inside. I have salve that will help."
"I don't need..."
"Get inside before I change my mind about helping you."
Chapter 17
He followed her into the bakery, which was warm and smelled of fresh bread and the peculiar comfort of a place where good work was done daily. She led him to the kitchen where she kept her medical supplies—necessary when you worked with hot ovens and sharp implements.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing to a stool.
He sat, watching as she prepared her supplies with the same efficiency she brought to baking. When she took his hands again, her touch was careful, spreading salve over the wounds with movements that were almost tender.
"This was foolish," she said quietly. "You didn't have to destroy your hands to prove a point."
"What point do you think I was trying to prove?"
"That you're willing to suffer for my benefit."
"Is that what I was doing?"
