Fine. That was fine. Next on the list: a new leather journal. Brielle, however, was picky. She favored brown leather, and the salesman only had black leather in stock. He left the shop empty-handed.
With the majority of the day gone, Zephyrus headed back to the florist to pick up his order. Along the way, he passed the church, its curved, oaken doors open to reveal a pew-lined interior, vast windows of stained glass.
Moving to Kilkare had been a difficult transition for Brielle. The first few months, she had cried nearly every night. She collected journals as though they were coin, filling the pages with her innermost musings, the struggles of redefining her faith. Zephyrus felt helpless in those moments, but he stayed by her side, offering what comfort he could, because how could he not? They belonged together.
Eventually, they’d settled in to village life, attending service every Holy Day. Word had spread of her arrival—this bladesmith with atalent for daggers, knives—and after six months of working for her old mentor, Brielle was able to open her own shop. The gray cloud of sadness dissipated. Even Harper visited on occasion.
Though Brielle’s relationship with the abbess might never be as it once was, the woman had gone to great lengths to ensure that the abbey would outlive the Orchid King. Since his death, the fair folk had collectively gifted Thornbrook’s land to the abbey, to begin mending the relationship between peoples and realms. Zephyrus, who often acted as a mediator between Under and Thornbrook, had enjoyed witnessing Under’s recovery, its well of power gradually restored now that there was no one left to consume it. The tithe was thus made redundant.
By the time he reached the florist, the day was fast waning. He strode up to the counter without delay.
“I’m here to pick up the daisies I ordered this morning, Lionel.”
“Good day to you, Zephyrus.” The man cleared his throat. “The daisies… yes.” Looking over his shoulder, he cast his eyes over his meager stock. “Unfortunately, it seems they’ve been sold.”
That word—sold—struck his skin like a sharp stone. “You can’t be serious.” Empty hands and unfulfilled promises. Is that all he was good for? “You said you’d set a bouquet aside,” he whispered, voice dropping to a hiss. “You assured me.”
The florist’s mouth pulled with strain. “I apologize. Business was unusually demanding, and there was no guarantee you would return.”
“I told you I would.” And anyway, he was a routine customer. He and Brielle bought flowers from Lionel every few weeks.
“They are sold, as I said. Perhaps you should try again next week?”
Zephyrus gritted his teeth. “The proposal istoday,” he growled, then turned on his heel and shoved out the door, blinking rapidly in the afternoon sun.
Panic thrummed at his temples. He could fix this. He could fashion flowers out of snow, ferns out of rain. Or he used to be able to, rather. With his powers gone, he was just a man.Mundane.
He stood by his decision. He would choose this life with Brielle ten times over, but there existed a hollow where his power had once resided.
With a sigh, he scrubbed his hands down his face, needing a moment to gather the scattered fragments of his plan. No blanket, no flowers. Fine. That left the tarts. Hopefully they weren’t sold out.
As luck would have it, they weren’t. One dozen raspberry tarts—Brielle’s favorite dessert. They lined a small box, flaky dough resting beneath cool white icing. The day was looking up.
Brielle’s workshop perched along the curve of the broad River Twee. It was a solitary, one-roomed structure, thick black smoke erupting from the brick chimney. Zephyrus had hoped to draw her down to the river, but really, the proposal should take place within these four walls, for it represented the forging of two lives.
The back door lay open, a hot, ghastly mouth ringed in fiery teeth. The peal of a hammer impacting metal rang through the forge.
Inside, the darkness belched flame. From his position near the doorway, he watched Brielle work. She’d tied back her red hair, though a few curls had escaped. A sheen of sweat coated her bare arms, the prominent muscles bulging beneath the straps of her thick canvas apron.
He waited until she lowered the hammer before stepping inside. Heat immediately engulfed him, drawing sweat to his skin. “Hungry?”
Brielle whirled around, beaming. “Hello, my love.”
The endearment never failed to make his heart stumble. Soil-dark eyes, rounded cheeks, those scarlet tresses, the bow of her soft pink mouth. He had never met someone more beautiful, either in body or in soul.
“What?” She touched the side of her soot-stained neck self-consciously. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Sensing her desire to retreat, Zephyrus pressed a hand to the curve of her spine, sliding it low until he cupped her rear in his palm.
Her eyes popped wide. “Zephyrus!” She swatted at him, and he laughed. “That’s inappropriate.”
Gods, he adored her. “Is it?” A gentle squeeze to her backside, and she flushed.
The distance between them was officially too much. Dragging her close, he crushed his mouth against hers and slid his tongue inside. Fire and salt—the taste of his bladesmith.
Brielle pulled away first. “You look nice,” she said, plucking the collar of his tunic. “What’s the occasion?”
“You.”
