“So, Prince Oliver is looking for a bride. Do you have your eyes on anyone these days?”
Before I could answer, the door to the shop swung open and Birdie walked in, looking around in confusion.
“Oh crap,” she huffed. “I thought the bathroom was through here.”
“It’s inside the gift shop, two buildings down,” I told her.
“Gift shop building. Got it.” She paused as she turned back toward the door, taking in the woodshop. “Wow, this place is amazing!” She moved toward my workbench, and I felt my muscles instinctively tense.
“Well, I’m going to head back out there, make sure everyone is settled,” Darren said, patting me once on my shoulder.
“All right.” I didn’t want him to leave; I didn’t want to be left alone with Birdie. Not after that dream, and not after seeing her with Oliver.
I scooted back from my workbench, putting as much space between us as I could without getting up and walking away. I reminded myself that she had no idea that she was the reason I had even snuck away to find some solace.
“Wow, Knox. Did you make this?” She held up the horse I had just been working on.
“Yeah.”
“This is amazing. I had no idea you were so good at this stuff.” She set the horse back on the table. “I mean, I figured you chopped wood since, you know, that’s your whole vibe.” She waved her hand toward me, referencing my clothes. “But I didn’t know you were also an artist. That’s so cool.” She smiled brightly.
No one had ever called me an artist. Typically, they just called me an ass, or moody, or a recluse. Artist wasn’t a description that had ever been used before.
“If you say so,” I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.
“Is this where you work?” She gestured vaguely around the workshop.
“No, I’m head of the grounds crew at the palace. This is where…” I stopped, wondering just how much I wanted to divulge to her about why I came here. I cleared my throat. “This is just a hobby.” Short answers seemed better. Less chance of a prolonged conversation.
“Well, it’s such a neat place. I can see why you’d want to come here. I really enjoyed the tour and meeting everyone today.”
Her joy was evident—she had been nothing but smiles the entire afternoon, asking so many questions and being the first to volunteer at each workshop. I could tell that she was really trying to get to know Wextone’s people and culture. It made me like her even more, especially when contrasted with the other women, who thus far seemed to either think they were too good for this place or were too shy to speak up much. Oliver needed someone outgoing who could at least feign interest in his country.
“What’s this called?” Birdie asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. She held up one of my carving knives.
“That’s a flat chisel knife.”
She placed it back in my knife roll and picked up another. “And this one?”
“That’s a pen knife.”
She set it down. “Amazing. I didn’t know there were so many different knives to carve with.”
“Yeah.”
“Could you show me how to carve something?”
I started, taken aback. “Uh, sure?”
“My granddad had a woodshop in his backyard. He made my mom shelves, benches for her garden, and all these little birdhouses. She loved them. He died when I was little, though,” she said, the words rushing out.
I picked up a long, flat-head knife and a random chunk of wood from the scrap pile next to my bench. I handed her the wood and the knife and stood beside her.
“Okay, so take the knife and just start scraping down the wood with it. Make sure you’re always workingawayfrom your body,” I instructed.
She started working, making large divots that hurt my soul. I placed my hand on her wrist, stopping her.
“All right, you see how you’re making those divots? That means you’re pushing down too hard when you rake down. Hold the wood tight but move the knife a little faster, and don’t push down so hard.”
