I paced the parlor until my legs tired. When I’d worn myself out, I fell asleep on the sofa.
Clattering carried down the hall, waking me. I winced against the sun that soaked through the burgundy curtains.
The position I’d slept in made my neck ache. Wiping a hand down my face, I groaned.
“Gah!” An alarmed exclamation and a loud metallic crash roused me fully. I sprang to my feet and ran for the kitchen.
“Else?” I shouted before reaching the entry.
She stood beside the oven with a pained expression and one hand wrapped around her other wrist. A baking tray had fallen to the ground, and pale cream-colored dough littered the stones surrounding the oven’s opening.
“You alright?” I fought the underlying bitterness in my tone.
Elsedora wore a knee-length dark-green linen skirt and a matching tunic—both dusted with flour. A smudge of powdered sugar graced her freckled cheek. Her hair hung loose and damp, as though she’d just bathed, and a stripe of flour coated a few strands.
“Yes, fine. I knocked my wrist on the iron grate,” she said through a wince.
“Let me see.” I dodged the downed dough and closed the distance between us. She allowed me to pry her hand away from her wrist.
“Ouch,” I breathed out. Angry red lines inflamed her skin.
Years ago, Amara had taught me a Phynnic healing charm after the battle at Luz. It healed superficial wounds. I whispered it, and my palm glowed with golden light. Elsedora watched silently as I placed my hand on her burnt flesh, and the mark receded.
“Thank you,” she whispered, refusing to meet my gaze. The buttons on my tunic weren’t all that interesting—eventually she’d need to look at me.
“You didn’t come home,” I grated out.
This is where the fray would begin; no more quiet avoidance. No more tiptoeing around the edge of our emotions. Our warring hearts would have this out.
She sighed and tried to back away, but I held her wrist.
Maybe I should let her flee. Maybe it made me an ass to ask for more than she offered.
“No.” I shook my head. “You don’t get to leave now. We are fighting this time, Elsedora.”
“What is there to fight about?” Her eyes glistened when they met mine. How could she not see what bloomed here? It could be so beautiful.
“You gave me your father’s watch. And then you got drunk and wandered off with another. Why? Over something that Sybilla’s wagging tongue said? She’s wrong. About you, about me...”
El straightened, clearly not expecting me to have spoken with Sybilla. “It’s just a watch, Emmerick.”
Lie.
I stepped closer. “It isn’t to me. It’s a family heirloom, a part of you. I’ll treasure it forever.”
“You will soon have your own heirlooms to pass down,” she argued. “I don’t want to get in your way.”
Fighting an exasperated growl, I let her retreat until her back hit the kitchen’s brick wall. I placed a palm on either side of her head. Our gazes collided; our breaths quickened together.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Emmerick,” she whispered.
I itched to demand an explanation. The longing in her stare stanched the burn of my anger. It melted down to passion so quickly. My mother joked that Faulker men never stayed angry long. I’d thought Caym may have ruined that quality for me. Clearly, he hadn’t.
“Well, for starters, what are you failing to bake in here?” I asked, giving her some reprieve from the heavier discussion.
“Shortbread cookies with jam.” Her voice wavered on the word. “Angeline gave me her recipe, since they’re your favorite. Happy birthday.”
My brows rose. “She doesn’t give out recipes often.”
