Kit’s dark eyes swept the space with no small amount of trepidation. He’d fought me on this, saying he would rather sleep on the road than inconvenience my family with a visit. But I missed my mother and sister and owed them a warning that my brief venture from home was being extended.
Kit’s inspection ended on Sayla, who stood with her hand on the door. I watched him notice what everyone else did the first time they met her: burn scars covered one side of her face, leaving the skin patchy red and white. Further evidence of old injuries was hidden by the dress she wore, but I knew they ran all the way down the front of her body. And every time someone’s focus lingered on the disfigured flesh or the spot on her scalp where her blonde hair was missing, I felt so guilty I couldn’t breathe.
Finally, Kit came inside. Sayla rushed to slam the door at his back, making him flinch. She had a devious look that I didn’t trust.
On second thought, I trusted it; I trusted it to mean nothing good.
“Well, Pen,” she began straight away, “why don’t you introduce us to your handsome suitor?”
Kit coughed, a strangled sound, while protest spilled from my lips in a jumble. “Kit is… Mister Mosel is a blacksmith. He’s going to teach me… blacksmithing.”
Sayla snorted a laugh. “Is that so?”
My toes curled in my boots. I felt like I was shriveling, shrinking until I thought I might disappear into my borrowed clothes.
Mother walked forward and clasped Kit's hand for a shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Mister Mosel. I'm Amelina Oliver. This is my daughter, Sayla.” Her head swiveled toward me. “Smithing, you say, Pen? That’s an interesting choice. Were there no…otheroptions for apprenticeship?” She looked embarrassed and turned to Kit to clarify, “No offense to you, Mister Mosel. It's a fine trade.”
Kit shook his head. “None taken.”
“In fact, we have several tools made by our local blacksmith,” Mother continued, then seemed to change tack. “There’s an idea, Pen. You could apprentice under Amos Elsher. That way you can be close to home?—”
“Why would he work with Amos when he could work withMister Mosel?” Sayla cut in. The exaggerated way she said Kit’s name made me cringe. I tensed even more when she followed the question up with, “Your son has eyes, Mother.”
Across from them, Kit observed with a smirk. The sight of it stirred up my stomach with something vastly different than the shame from Sayla’s teasing.
Smoothing her skirt, Mother turned back to Kit. “Mister Mosel, may I show you around? You can put yourthings down and get settled in. We’ll have supper after a while. I’m sure you’re tired and hungry.”
The amusement fled Kit’s face, and he shot me an almost desperate look at the prospect of being alone with my mother. But she already had a hand on his arm and was guiding him down the short hall toward the bedrooms.
They had barely gone before my sister crossed the room to me. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure we were alone before she spoke. “He’s more handsome than the rumors made him sound. And he must have hadquitea bit of valuable information if you went to the trouble of bringing him home.”
She paused as a grin split her face. “Unless that’s not it at all. You know, if youlikehim, you could pursue him directly instead of pretending you’ll ever be able to work over a forge.”
I huffed a breath. “You want me topursuethe ex-cultist?”
Sayla gasped, and her eyes stretched wide. “What if you marry?” She cupped her chin in one hand in a pensive pose. “Are we to provide a dowry for you? Must I decide how many cows you’re worth?”
“Sayla…” I dragged her name out in a pleading groan.
My eyes darted toward the hallway where Mother and Kit had gone. Our cottage was small, and the walls were thin. I knew from experience very few things went unheard in this house.
“No, you’re right.” Sayla flapped a dismissive hand. “Mother should decide. Or perhaps Merrick.” She bumped her shoulder into me as she walked toward the kitchen.
Of all the things I’d come to say, I’d managed none of them. Leave it to my sister to run roughshod over me at thefirst hint of something interesting happening in our otherwise monotonous farm life.
With Kit and Mother occupied, I followed Sayla into the kitchen, where the makings of the evening meal were laid out.
Sayla took an apron from a hook on the wall and tied it around her waist before moving to the lump of floury dough on the counter and beginning to knead it.
I washed my hands, then donned an apron of my own and allowed myself to be guided by my sister’s point toward a bowl of string beans waiting to be snapped.
“You know I’m not going to be smithing,” I grumbled as I set to the task. “This was your grand plan, after all.”
Sayla punched into the dough and left her fist buried in it as her head whipped toward me. “I sent you tofindthe man, not to bring him to our door.”
I chewed my lip as my sister’s usual good humor was restored.
She gave an impish smile. “He is dashing, though. I’m certain you noticed.”
