“Did you speak the truth when you said there was no man at Fort Versailles skilled at fine metal engravings?” she asked.
His brows lowered in concentration, but he nodded without hesitation. “The blacksmith there is barely worthy of the title. I wouldn’t trust him to make a lock for my musket, much less anything requiring real skill. I saw nothing of note in any of the new men brought in, either.”
“And other forts in the area? Do you know of anyone capable there?” If a skilled craftsman might possibly be within reach...
His brows dipped even lower. “That’s what I was trying to think of. There’s a fellow who’s not bad at making traps up in Fort Jarrett, but that’s a special skill in itself. Just because he can twist a coil with even thickness all the way through doesn’t mean he would have the artistry needed for a detailed engraving. If you want to speak with him, I can take you there. I suspect it would be at least a week’s travel, though.”
She pressed down her disappointment and shifted her focus to another word he’d used.Artistry.That sketch of Gulliver had been so intricate. So lifelike. And the glimpse she’d had of the knife handle he’d been carving that first night in the cave...
Even as the possibility rose with a seed of hope inside her, she tried her best to temper it. “Damien...” He must have caught the shift in her tone, for his brows lifted. “Do you know much about metals? Brass, especially. Could an artist and a metal craftsman work together to accomplishan engraving? Maybe one could help shape the basic form and keep the material at just the right temperature, then the artist could do the finer work.”
His expression shifted, a bit of wariness slipping into his gaze. “I don’t know. I suppose it would depend on the amount of detail you’re talking about. And the skill of the men working on it.”
The stirring of hope rose into excitement. “Have you ever drawn anything like the scene of the Lord’s Last Supper?” Perhaps it was too much to think he might be able to accomplish such a masterpiece. Yet perhaps if he practiced on paper, or maybe even wood . . . and if Papa handled the preparation of the metal...
Now his wariness turned to suspicion. “I’ve never drawn anything like that. No.” That wasn’t a direct refusal in his tone. He spoke the words more as a statement of fact. Perhaps she could work him into the idea during the return journey to Laurent. Papa’s expertise could do a great deal with the chalice, and with Damien’s ability—along with having part of the scene still intact on the cup for him to study—surely they had a better chance of repairing the work than a blacksmith who could simply manage an even coil.
For the first time since she’d pulled the singed chalice from the flame—before that, even—a lightness worked its way through her. A lifting of a burden she’d not fully realized was driving her reckless desperation.
A new war waged within Damien as they set out down the mountain the next morning. They’d slept away much oftheir exhaustion, but he’d awakened with the things Charlotte asked pounding in his mind. Her questions wouldn’t be silenced, no matter how much he tried to focus on the landscape around them.
He was no artist nor engraver. He’d attempted a bit of both, either when the urge struck him or when Michelle had pressed. But he’d only just begun carving again, and that sketch of Gulliver and Charlotte was the first drawing he had done since his sister took sick.
Nothing about his experience or skill qualified him for whatever she had in mind—a need so important she would set out alone to find a person capable. The fact that she thought she would find such a craftsman in these mountains showed her naïveté, but that didn’t diminish her need.
She hadn’t directly asked him for whatever it was she wanted of him. That would likely come when they reached her village and she revealed her plan. For shehada plan—that had been clear from the light that dawned in her eyes as she questioned him.
For now, he would be content to accompany her home. After that, he would find a way to explain how incapable he was of whatever masterpiece she needed. Maybe he would even attempt what she asked, on paper at least, where no damage could be done. One glance at his immature efforts would prove the truth with no mistake.
“How far back to the lake, do you think?”
He glanced at Charlotte, once more mounted atop Gulliver. She looked worried, though he wasn’t sure if that was because of his deception before or some other reason.
Regardless, he would speak only the truth from now on. He’d already calculated the approximate time, so the answerwas easy. “We’ll go back by way of the campsite where you poisoned me so I can get the things I left there. That means two days to the lake, if the weather holds and we don’t get more snowfall.”
Disappointment clouded her expression, or perhaps worry. Did she expect the weather to hold them up? He glanced at the sky—gray, but no more so than the usual winter day. The clouds weren’t the kind to bring more snow.
One more look at Charlotte’s face showed what was definitely unease. “When does your family expect you back?” If she’d contemplated going on to a distant fort, they must not expect her urgently.
But the way her bottom lip slipped between her teeth made his belly tighten. And not just with longing to touch those lips himself. What had she told her family about where she was going? He still couldn’t believe any decent father would allow his daughter to set out into this country alone with winter coming in earnest.
She didn’t answer, but her expression turned guilty.
He tugged Gulliver to a halt so he could face Charlotte fully. The mule needed to rest anyway. “How long do they expect you to be gone?” If she snuck away without telling anyone...
Who knew what kind of hunt would have ensued? Despite the fact she was a woman full grown, any decent family would search for someone who went missing. Especially someone as special as Charlotte.
His chest tightened more with each second she delayed her answer.
At last, she murmured, “I said I’d be back before Discovery Day. That’s when we celebrate the anniversary of when our ancestors found Laurent.”
Part of his tension eased. She’d told them something at least. “And when is that?” His voice sounded calmer than he felt. Good.
“A week and a half from now.” Her tone came out so small and worried, it raised up all his protective instincts.
“We should have two more days to reach the lake, and you said your village is a day beyond that, right?” They should reach her village in plenty of time.
She nodded, but apprehension still squeezed her features. “I guess I’m afraid they’ll be worried. I remember how panicked my father was the time Brielle was caught in a blizzard. This isn’t a blizzard, of course, but he’ll still be worried.”
