Not that it mattered to me what she thought. I just hadn’t had any visitors inside my shop in…well, I couldn’t remember the last time someone had been in this shed except for me.
Frida deposited her sack of cheese on the floor and clasped her hands beneath her chin, gazing around the room with…adoration? That couldn’t be right.
“I thought your workspace inside the house was incredible, but this…this is something else!” Her eyes sparkled as she took it all in.
“It is?” I asked, suspicious. It was just an old workshop, one cluttered with too many hammers, nails, and scraps of wood.
She gingerly stepped through the mess, making her way to the far wall, where I’d tacked up an assortment of sketches and designs for the townsfolk cottages. She motioned at one I’d added a bit of color to, the home I’d built for a group of travelling minstrels who’d arrived here three years ago. It was a large, sprawling estate with at least a dozen rooms. It had taken me thirteen months from start to finish, but the looks on their faces when they’d first walked inside had been well worth the effort.
“May I?” She looked over her shoulder at me, and as much as I tried to find some insincerity in her expression, I couldn’t. I nodded my acquiescence.
She reached out as if to pluck the parchment from the wall, but then she paused before letting her hand drop back to herside. “This is beautiful. Is it just something you drew on a whim? Or did you see it somewhere?”
“That’s one of my builds,” I said gruffly.
She twisted back toward me. “You built this house? By yourself?”
“I had some help carrying some supplies to the site, but…for the most part, yes.”
For a moment, she just stared at me. So I stared right back, trying to get the measure of her. Trying to read the thoughts hovering just behind her eyes. And as we stood there, on opposite sides of my shop, I had the sudden urge to just ask. Maybe it would be best to get it all out in the open. Of course, if shewasan assassin, it wasn’t like she’d admit it. And then I’d lose any cards I held.
Before I could make up my mind, she broke the heavy silence. “I’m afraid my pitiful fence won’t measure up to what I’m sure the dwarves expect from you.”
I held out a hand. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She flicked her eyes down to the parchment, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Honestly, I’m not very good at sketching.”
“Just let me see it,” I said.
Cringing, she passed the parchment over my worktable. She’d taken a fine set of notes, but she wasn’t wrong about her sketch. All wonky lines and crooked angles, it looked like a child had drawn it, though I didn’t have the heart to tell her that. Still, I couldn’t help a little ribbing.
“I think you handed me the wrong parchment,” I said dryly.
“What?” Frowning, she looked at her empty hands, like another sheet might suddenly materialize there. “But that’s the only one I have.”
“Well, you see…” I held up her drawing. “This is a sketch of a horse, not a fence.”
A furious blush filled her cheeks. “That doesnotlook like a horse.”
“Doesn’t much look like a fence, either.” I grinned.
She propped her fisted hands on her hips, wrinkling her nose. For a brief—very brief, in fact—moment, my breath caught. Fate, she looked nothing like an assassin half the time. All the ones I’d met over the years, including her father, had hardened edges sharpened by every kill they notched into their belt. My eyes were drawn to her waist and the leather belt that encircled it. No notches there. Nice hips, though, I couldn’t help but notice. As long and lean as she was, the lass had curves.
She sighed, drawing my attention back to her face. “It’s really terrible, isn’t it? I mean, look at your sketch here, then look at mine.”
“Really, it’s not so bad,” I found myself saying. “It’s like any other talent. You just need some practice, that’s all. For example, what would you say you’re good at?”
“Archery and horse-riding,” she said without a hint of hesitation.
I nodded. “And could you hit a bullseye the first time you nocked an arrow?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember a time I’ve ever missed,” she said. In another situation, those words would come across as the epitome of bragging, but there was something so matter-of-fact in the way she said it, like she was commenting on the color of the sky and nothing more. Confidence. I liked that in a woman.
“Well, if that’s the case, it’s a shame we can’t build a home by shooting arrows at a bullseye,” I said, laughing.
Frida stood up a little straighter, and the hint of a smile twitched on her lips.
“What?” I asked.
