At the blacksmith's forge, Lydia was having her own conversation.
"He's coming to dinner," she told her uncle, who had looked up from his work with raised eyebrows when she'd walked in damp and flushed and unable to stop smiling.
"The duke."
"Yes."
"To our house."
"Yes."
"For dinner."
"Is everyone going to repeat things to me today? Yes, Uncle Thomas. The Duke of Corvenwell is coming to dinner tomorrow night. To eat food. At our table."
Thomas set down his hammer and crossed his arms. "You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure that I want to find out if I'm sure. Does that make sense?"
"Not particularly. But then, love rarely does." He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "What happened during that storm?"
"We talked."
"For three hours."
"There was a lot to talk about."
"And that's all? Talking?"
Lydia met her uncle's eyes steadily. "He held my hand. He kissed my knuckles. He told me things about his childhood that broke my heart. And he looked at me like I was the most important person in the world." She felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them back. "That's all. And it was everything."
Thomas was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he uncrossed his arms and leaned back against his workbench.
"I remember when your mother first came to the village," he said. "Did you know that?"
"You've mentioned it before."
"Have I mentioned that I didn't like her at first?"
Lydia blinked. "You said something about not believing she would fit into the village life."
"It's true. She arrived in Ashwick like a creature from another world—fine clothes, soft hands, a way of speaking that marked her as different. My brother took one look at her and forgot how to breathe. And I..." He shook his head. "I thought she was going to break his heart. I thought she'd play with him for a while, like a cat with a mouse, and then go back to her real life and leave him in pieces."
"What changed your mind?"
"She stayed. When things got hard, when her father disowned her, when the money ran out, when she had to learn to do things she'd never done before, she stayed. She didn't complain, didn't blame him, didn't retreat into bitterness. She just... adapted. Became part of us." Thomas's voice roughened. "When she was dying, when the fever took her, took both of them, she held my hand and thanked me. Thanked me for welcoming her, for accepting her, for letting her be part of this family. As if she'd been the lucky one."
Lydia felt tears sliding down her cheeks now, and she didn't try to stop them.
"The point," Thomas continued, "is that I was wrong. I judged her before I knew her. I assumed that because she came from one world, she couldn't belong in another. And she proved me wrong, every day, for many years." He pushed off from the workbench and crossed to where Lydia stood. "I'm not going to make that mistake again. If this duke, this man who makes you smile like you can't help it, if he's willing to sit at our table and prove who he is, then I'm willing to give him a chance."
"You'd do that? For me?"
"I'd do considerably more than that for you, child." He pulled her into a hug—the kind of bone-crushing embrace he'd given her when she was small and scared and needed to know she was loved. "You're my brother's daughter. You're the closest thing I have to a child of my own. If you think this man is worth knowing, then I trust your judgment."
"I don't know if he's worth knowing. But I want to find out."
"Then find out. But be careful."
