“This one coming has got money,” Da calls. “You be on your best behavior, boy.”
“Yes, Da.” In the midst of my hammering, I glance up at the lane, then do a double take. A bay mare with a stripe down her face.
Lord Tycho.
I miss the anvil entirely, and my hammer goes sailing into the dirt. The hinge I was working on isn’t long behind it. It lands with a loud clink.
My father swears, then heaves himself off his stool. “Do you have to make us look incompetent?”
I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I remember every word I said last week, the way I chased Lord Tycho out of Callyn’s bakery.
I don’t want him to see my father. I don’t want him to seeme. My hand, the one he healed, clenches closed. I have half a mind to dash into the house, and my father’s warnings be damned. But he’s already in the courtyard, his mare blowing steam and kicking up slush.
I’m angry. I’m humiliated. I’m afraid. I don’t know what I am.
And he hasn’t even dismounted his horse yet.
My father clocks me on the back of the head. “Are you addled, boy?” he hisses. “Take his horse.”
I duck my head and grab my crutches. For the first time, I look at Lord Tycho the way I’d look at Lord Alek. Rich and powerful and someone who wouldn’t glance at me twice if he didn’t need something from me.
I take hold of the mare’s rein, but I keep my eyes on her shoulder, on his oddly scuffed boots, on anything but his face. “What can we offer?” I say woodenly.
He swings down from the saddle, and for a moment, he says absolutely nothing. The silence swells between us. I wait for him to cuff me on the ear or make a demand or worse—to tell my father what I said.
But Lord Tycho doesn’t do any of those things. “My mare’s hind shoes are loose.” His voice is cool and dispassionate. “I still have a few hours’ ride ahead of me. I wondered if you could replace them.”
My heart seems to pull free of the vise grip to start pounding. I nod. “Yes, my lord.” I tether Mercy to the post, and she presses her head to my chest, breathing warmth against my thighs. I want to hold tight, to press my forehead to her mane and let her strength hold me up, but I’m being ridiculous, and my father would knock me in the mud if I tried.
So I give her a gentle pat along the crest of her neck, then grab my tools.
Lord Tycho says nothing. I wait for him to say that I’ve shod his horse before, or that we know each other, but he stands there silently. I still haven’t fully looked at him. I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and drop onto my stool.
“Work quick,” my father snaps, as if I’m one to dawdle.
The first shoe pulls loose and drops to the ground with a clink. Behind me, my father mutters instructions I don’t need, as if I haven’t been shoeing horses independently for the last few years. He’s trying to earn an extra coin or two, I can tell. The master blacksmith keeping a close eye on his “apprentice.” The whole time, Lord Tycho is silent while my father grows louder and harsher with his criticism, so I work fast and hard so this moment can end.
Eventually, it does. Mercy has two fresh shoes, and my father is charging him two silvers. I want to wince, because I know Lord Tycho is aware it’s not what we usually charge. But the lord hands over the coins, the metal sparking in the light, and my father eagerly pockets it.
I untether the mare, stroking a hand down the stripe on her face,wishing I had a cookie to feed her when she noses at my fingers. “Be good, sweet Mercy,” I murmur under my breath.
Then I hand the reins to Lord Tycho. When his fingers brush mine, a jolt goes through me, just like the day he fixed my hand. I wonder if it’s his magic. I hold my breath and let go.
I haven’t met his eyes since he arrived—and now he’s about to leave.
“Master Blacksmith,” Lord Tycho says to my father. “I left a carriage down the road toward town, and the springs have gone rusty. Can I borrow your”—he hesitates—“apprenticeto assess whether it’s something you could repair before I’m due to leave tomorrow?”
My father inhales, and it sounds like he’s going to protest. I’m not sure if he’s going to say that Lord Tycho should bring the carriagehere, or if he’s going to insist that he should go, as I’ll obviously take too much time. But the lord tosses him another silver, and says, “I’d be much obliged for the service.”
My father sounds like he’s choked on a rock. “Yes—yes, of course, my lord.”
Wonderful. Maybe I can trip over my crutch again.
Or … maybe Lord Tycho is getting me away from my father so he can beat the piss out of me for what I said in the bakery.
That’s a new thought that hasn’t occurred to me, and now that it’s entered my brain, it refuses to shake loose. It would explain his cool demeanor, the way he interacted with my father, the way he stood silently while I shod his horse. My fists are tight on my crutches as we make our way down the lane, away from the forge, and I brace myself. He’ll likely wait for the stretch of woods between my place and Callyn’s, where nothing will be seen. If I fight back, it’ll probably make it worse. It’s not like I can run. Could I play dead to get it over with more quickly? I feel like I could be rather convincing.
When his hand reaches out, I flinch, jerking left. Mercy throws her head up and snorts.
