“Of course I do,” she says pompously. She curtsies again. “For I am alady.”
“I’m not sure I know manyladieswho’d be commenting on … well,that.” I glance at the darkening window again. “I don’t think he’s coming back anyway, so you can save your marriage acceptance for someone else.”
“Do you want to get married, Cal?”
For a second, I think she’s being playful, so I almost give her a glibanswer. But when I look over, her expression is serious, her eyes searching mine.
“I don’t know,” I say.
She grabs the broom from the corner. “Mama always used to say you were wasting your time pining after Jax. I never understood why. I think he’d make a good husband, too.”
She says this so simply, but the words hit me like a rock. Nora was barely eight when our mother died, and it’s rare that she mentions her. “Mama … what?”
Nora begins sweeping. “When you’d go up the lane to bring him sweetcakes, she’d always say it to Da.” She glances over. “Don’t you think Jax would make a good husband?”
“No. I mean—yes. He’s very—” I stumble over my words. Jax is a lot of things. I spent way too much time thinking of the way he brushed flour off my cheek. Or the way he fled here after he burned his hand. “Jax is my friend. Our friend.”
“I suppose he’ll never have a soldier’s pension,” she prattles on, musing while she sweeps. “But you’d never want for new baking pans. And we could makehimfetch the eggs every day!”
“So generous.” I snort. “So now I’m marrying Jax?” I say, amused. “I thought I was marrying Lord Tycho.”
“Marry them both.” She winks at me. “I’ve read of such things.”
I stare at her, torn between laughter and shock. “What on earth are you reading?”
“Mama’s old books,” she says. “She has somany.”
Yes, she does. Stacks and stacks, high enough to line the back wall of my bedroom. When she wasn’t on duty as a soldier, she’d be curled up in the bakery window with an old romance while Da was doing the mixing and measuring and baking. He used to tease her that we’d have plenty of kindling for the ovens, but he never dared. I had no idea Nora had started reading the love stories on her own. I want to chastise her,but I’m hit hard with a memory of reading with Jax after he hurt his leg. We weren’t much older than Nora, and I remember giggling with him over the racy bits in some of Mother’s books.
“Is that really what it’s like?” I remember asking him.
He’d blushedsofiercely. “How should I know?”
It makes me smile now to remember it.
The door is thrust open roughly, making the bells jangle. I suck in a breath, wondering if it’s Lord Tycho.
Instead, I get Lord Alek. My heart stumbles in my chest. “Nora,” I hiss. “Go upstairs.”
“Yougo ups—”
“Go!” I snap. I keep hold of my rag and move closer to the end of the table, where I keep my knives. Lord Alek is through the door, followed by two guards, and he glances after my sister, who’s scurrying up the steps.
“Is your sister running from me?” he says.
“No, my lord,” I lie. “I sent her to fetch some more rags. We were just about to close for the night.”
“Then I’m just in time.” He moves closer to the table, and I swallow. My left hand is flat against the wood by the knives, my right hand slowly moving the damp rag.
I remember thinking Tycho moved like a soldier, but this man moves like a predator. There’s no easy smile, no light in his eyes. Just sharp features and tight movement. Even his red hair is thick and dark, making me think of the color of dried blood, his eyes blue and piercing like someone took the essence of ice and locked it in his gaze. When he draws close, I want to edge away.
“What would you like?” I say evenly. “I have fresh meat pies. One raisin loaf from this morning. Maybe even—”
“That’s not why I’m here.” He steps up to the side of the table.
My hand slips left, reaching for a knife.
He’s quick, though, and he reaches out to smack my hand down against the wood, pinning it there.
