“Shortbreads,” Rosie informed him, and she took my arm again.
She pulled me into the kitchen, where mixing bowls and jars of dry goods were already laid out.
Her father chuckled in our wake. “I’ll be in the garden if you need anything,” he said. Exiting out the front door, he left us in the quiet house. I had no doubt more people lived here, but rather than ask after them, I wondered something else.
“What grows here so late in the season?”
Rosie and I arrived at the kitchen counter, and she peeled away from me to wash her hands in the sink. Once she finished, she gestured for me to do the same.
“He’s clearing out the beds and getting ready for next season,” she said. “We don’t grow much here. Just potatoes and onions and marigolds. My mother loves marigolds.”
“We grow potatoes, too, and sometimes onions, at home…” I trailed off, worrying that I shouldn’t have mentioned the farm until Rosie picked up where I’d stopped.
“Where you’re from?” She grabbed a pair of aprons from the wall. I couldn’t help but be reminded of making bread with Sayla the evening before I left with Kit. I also couldn’t help but wonder if that was the last time I would ever see my sister. Rosie reminded me so much of her.
I nodded. “Eastcliff. My mother and sister live there. We have a farm.”
“You do more than grow, then!” She laughed. “I bet the Right Hand was pleased to hear about that.”
Her statement sucked the wind out of me. I bobbed my head again with far less enthusiasm. “He was.”
The fall of quiet prompted Rosie to turn toward the ingredients and begin listing them off. Flour, sugar, butter, and a pinch bowl with dried sprigs of lavender made for a short list of supplies. With a wooden scoop in hand, she opened the jar of flour and began measuring into one of the smaller bowls, rattling off quantities and ratios that I wasn’t sure I’d remember. My mind was still on the farm.
After creaming the sugar and butter together with the lavender in the largest bowl and then adding the flour, she gave me the wooden spoon she’d been using and ushered me closer to the counter and the dough in progress.
“Stir that until it forms a ball,” she instructed.
I did as told, and she moved to the stove, feeding small logs into the firebox and checking the oven’s temperature before turning back toward me.
She stood with one elbow propped on the counter, watching silently until she couldn’t hold in whatever question she’d been mulling over.
“Penny, what happened to your hands?”
I hesitated, glancing at the spoon clutched between my mangled fingers. She’d noticed my scars the first time we met. I’m sure her father had, too, when he shook with me.
When it took me more than a few seconds to answer, she crowded closer. Blush stained her cheeks deep burgundy. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business. It just looks… painful.”
“It’s not,” I said quickly. “Not anymore. It happened a long time ago.”
For some reason, I didn’t want her to know. That shame had chased me since I was nine years old, something everyone in Eastcliff knew about me. I didn’t want my time in Ashpoint to be tainted by the same judgment, so I was grateful when Rosie took my silence as a cue to change the subject.
“Next time, I’ll have to show you how to make pecan tarts,” she said. “We have an orchard nearby, and the pecans will be ripe soon. You can pick them up off the ground and fill your pockets.”
I returned to mixing as Rosie sprinkled more lavender into the bowl.
Behind us, the front door opened. I expected herfather’s return or perhaps the arrival of the rest of her family. Instead, a lanky young woman with long brown hair let herself into the house. Rosie turned toward the newcomer.
“Tessa, I told you to come overlater,” she said with puzzling emphasis.
The guest, Tessa, grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t stay long.” She aimed her attention at me. “You must be Penny. New to town, right?”
She crossed the room with surefooted strides. When she came into range, I expected her to offer her hand like Rosie’s father had. Instead, she propped her fists on her hips and looked me up and down. “I don’t know, Rosie. Isn’t he a little scrawny?”
Rosie’s blush from earlier was mild compared to the deep burn that seared her cheeks now. “He’s fine, Tess. Just fine. It was his friend I was telling you about. The new blacksmith?”
I remembered Tessa now, or at least the mention of her. Rosie had implied that her friend was on the hunt for a suitor and may find a match in Kit. The idea rankled me no less now than it had then.
Tessa’s scrunch-faced skepticism shifted to intrigue at the mention of Kit. “Ishescrawny?”
