It was a small thing. But small things, he was learning, could matter enormously.
As he approached the village, he became aware of eyes on him. Curtains twitching and faces appearing briefly in windows. The Duke of Corvenwell, walking through Ashwick at sunset with a bottle of wine under his arm. It was, he suspected, the most interesting thing that had happened here in years.
Let them look. Let them wonder. He had nothing to hide.
The blacksmith's house was at the far end of the village, attached to the forge itself. It was a sturdy stone building, practical rather than pretty, with a small garden in front that showed signs of careful tending. Flowers had been planted along the path, late-blooming chrysanthemums in shades of rust and gold, and the windows glowed with warm candlelight.
Frederick stood at the gate for a moment, gathering his courage. He had dined with kings and had survived. Why did this feel more terrifying than any royal banquet?
Because you care, Boggins' voice reminded him. Because this time, it matters.
He opened the gate and walked up the path. He raised his hand to knock.
The door opened before his knuckles could touch wood.
Lydia stood in the doorway, wearing a dress he hadn't seen before—deep blue, almost the colour of midnight, with small white flowers embroidered along the neckline. Her hair was pinned up more carefully than usual, though a few rebellious strands had already escaped to frame her face.
She was, he thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
"You came," she said.
"I said I would."
"You're early."
"By three minutes. I was trying not to be late."
"Well." A smile played at the corners of her mouth. "You'd better come in, then. Before the neighbours expire from curiosity."
She stepped aside, and Frederick entered the blacksmith's house.
***
The interior was smaller than he'd expected; a single main room that served as kitchen, dining area, and parlour, with doors leading to what he assumed were bedrooms. But it was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth. Every surface showed signs of life; books stacked on a shelf, a half-finished piece of embroidery on a chair, a pair ofwell-worn boots by the door. This was a home, he realised. Not a house, not a residence, but a home.
He hadn't been in a home since his mother died.
Thomas Fletcher stood by the fire, stirring something in a large pot that smelled extraordinary. He turned as Frederick entered, and for a moment the two men simply looked at each other—the duke and the blacksmith, each taking the other's measure.
"Your Grace," Thomas said. His tone was neutral, neither warm nor cold. "Welcome to our home."
"Thank you for having me, Mr Fletcher. I know this is unusual."
"Unusual is one word for it." Thomas set down his spoon and crossed the room, extending his hand. "But unusual isn't always bad. Let's see what kind of unusual this turns out to be."
Frederick shook his hand; a firm grip, calloused from years of work, the handshake of a man who had earned everything he had.
"I brought wine," Frederick said, holding out the bottle. "Boggins, my valet, said one shouldn't arrive empty-handed. I hope it's not too presumptuous."
Thomas took the bottle and examined the label with raised eyebrows. "That's... not what I was expecting."
"Is it wrong? I wasn't sure what would be appropriate. If you'd prefer something else…"
"It's fine. It's more than fine." Thomas's expression had shifted into something that might have been amusement. "I was expecting you to show up with something ridiculous. French champagne, maybe. Or a case of port that cost more than my forge."
"Lydia told me not to bring anything ostentatious."
"Did she now?" Thomas glanced at his niece, who was watching this exchange with barely concealed anxiety. "Smart girl. She knows I don't trust gifts wrapped in silk."
