Apollo dared a glance at Temple, unable to keep the laugh from his lips.The poor older brother looked like Sybil had just hit him in the face with his own hammer.
Good God, she was a menace.A bloody beautiful menace.
Temple finally controlled his face and said, “I do not think he’s on the queen’s list of potential suitors for you.”
“The queen gave you a list?”Apollo asked.Good God.She’d never approve.
Sybil threw her shoulders back.“Then I’ll add him to it.”
Temple slumped against the door, pinching the bridge of his nose.“I figured something of the sort might happen after he showed up here yelling that he loved you.”
“You did?”Sybil hung on Apollo’s arm, her chin digging into his muscle.
“Perhaps.”Apollo scratched the back of his neck.“I don’t remember.”
“How terribly romantic.”
“Go inside, princess.You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
Too true.“I will.”He pulled away from her, every bone in his body reluctant to let go.But he had to.“But then I have some gardening to do.”
Sybil nodded.She understood.“Good luck, Mary Sullivan.”
Apollo set his steps down the street, and Temple’s voice carried after him.
“Who’s Mary Sullivan?And since when does Apollo Chestergarden?”
Next Apollo heard Sybil’s laughter rise into the sky, pure and golden and perfect.
27
PHILPOT LANE
A fortnight later
Sybil smashed a glowing bit of metal with a heavy hammer and thought of the next time she saw Apollo.She was going to give him a lecture.Well, first she would kiss him senseless, and then she would sit him down and explain in terribly clear terms exactly what courtship meant.
It meant daily visits, walks in Hyde Park, family evenings, where he attempted to charm her brother and parents.It meant intimate conversations about what they wanted their future to look like.It meant stolen kisses in quiet corners.
It did not mean disappearing.
It did not mean showering her with gorgeous bouquets every day but never appearing on her doorstep himself.
She hammered some more, until the metal was nice and thin, and then she shoved it into a bucket of water and brought it sizzling to the worktable in the middle of Temple’s forge.With her hands, she shaped the metal.Temple had said to focus all her mind on the shaping, but how could she?
Fourteen days and he’d not appeared once!He was busy.She knew that.She felt that through the ring she wore, self-forged of his gold.She could feel his exhaustion and his fear and his hope.
She was, perhaps, being selfish, wanting his attention.But he could have at least sent her a letter, a note to tell her where he’d gone.The ring loved to tell her how he was feeling but failed to provide geographical coordinates.He wasn’t at his lodgings anymore.She’d gone there, been told by a landlady that he was living somewhere else.
“Pay attention, Sybil.”
She looked up.Temple strode into the forge and studied her work over her shoulder.“Passable work.Good thinness.The shape is off, though.”
“Not by much.”
“By enough.”
