Torgan is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "Every male in the story was human."
I stare at him. "What?"
"You told me the story. Human lords, every time." He gestures at himself. "I have an objection."
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, half laugh, half sob. "That's your argument?"
"It's a good argument."
"It's a terrible argument."
"The pattern matters. If anything, your case against the Voss shows that patterns matter a great deal."
I cross my arms and give him a sardonic look. "It's still a terrible argument."
"It made you laugh."
I step closer. He doesn't move until I do.
"We are not planning our lives around a loophole in a dead woman's spell," I tell him.
"No."
"And we are not avoiding a wedding because we're frightened."
"No."
"Good."
He looks down at me. "I don't want a wedding," he says.
I blink. "You don't?"
"I've attended three this year. Mirelle's will make four. I've had enough."
"That's fair."
"I don't need a ceremony to choose you."
My heart thumps against my ribs, hard enough to hurt.
"I want the shop," he says, quieter. "The Hall. My newspaper in your corner chair. Ordinary mornings. Arguments about curtains."
"You lost the curtain argument."
"I remember."
"Good."
"I'll come to your door every day, if you'll have me. Not because a curse expects anything of me. Not because our families do. Because I want to."
He lifts one hand and stops just short of touching me. I put my face into his palm, and his fingers close gently around my cheek.
"That's my whole offer," he says. "Me. Delivered daily."
"I accept the terms."
Over his shoulder, through the front window, Grammy is standing at the end of the lane with her silver thimble at her throat. Torgan's grandfather is beside her, holding her shawl folded over one arm, four hours from his own hall for no reason he'd ever admit to out loud. They appear to be discussing the weather, and they are doing it very badly.
