The villagers admired him. That much was plain. They feared his silences too, his size, his stern mouth, the weight of a gaze that could make full-grown men straighten their backs and choose their words carefully. Yet beneath all that severity, he had remembered them. Their ailments. Their children. Their work. Their small troubles.
He did not speak gently, exactly. He did not soften his voice or make a show of concern. But the concern was there all the same, hidden inside practical orders and curt questions.
Emmeline felt the discovery settle strangely inside her.
He is not cold everywhere.
If Rowan could be attentive here, if he could carry all these small details beneath that severe exterior, then what else did he carry? What had he buried so deeply that only fragments came through in commands and restrained glances and the awkward set of his hand upon Aaron’s shoulder?
Biscuit barked at a passing goose and the goose hissed back.
Aaron gasped in delight. “He has m-made an enemy.”
“He is ambitious,” Emmeline said.
Rowan looked at the goose with solemn judgment. “A poor choice of enemy. Geese are vicious.”
Aaron nodded gravely, absorbing this as military advice.
They reached the bookshop after several more greetings, and Aaron’s hand tightened in hers the moment he saw the painted sign above the door.
“Books,” he breathed.
“Books,” Emmeline agreed.
The bell above the door chimed as they entered. The shop smelled of paper, dust, and beeswax polish. Shelves crowded the walls from floor to ceiling, some neatly ordered, others stacked in precarious towers.
Aaron forgot caution. He darted forward with Biscuit wriggling in his arms, then remembered himself halfway across the room and glanced back at Rowan.
Rowan’s expression did not soften, but he gave one short nod.
Aaron continued, slower now, toward a shelf marked with children’s tales and adventures. Biscuit’s tail thumped against his sleeve.
The shopkeeper, a thin man with spectacles perched near the end of his nose, appeared from behind a stack of ledgers. “Well now,” he said kindly. “A young gentleman of taste, I see. Adventures, is it?”
Aaron’s shoulders lifted slightly. “Y-yes, sir.”
“What sort? Pirates? Explorers? Knights? Shipwrecks?”
Aaron opened his mouth, then stopped. His fingers tightened around Biscuit. “I—I l-like…”
The word tangled.
Emmeline felt it in her own throat.
Rowan shifted beside her, almost imperceptibly, but she lifted one hand just a fraction, asking him to wait.
Aaron swallowed. “I l-like sh-sh—” His face reddened.
Biscuit licked his chin.
Aaron blinked, then gave a small breath. “Bark,” he whispered. “Shipwrecks.”
The shopkeeper did not laugh. Bless him, he did not so much as blink.
“Shipwrecks are excellent,” he said. “Very sensible choice. Nothing improves a young man’s constitution like surviving fictional storms.”
Aaron stared at him, then smiled.
