Larran stepped back from the shelves. “For the wall, the back of the shelves, do you care if the wood matches? I have enough scraps, I think, but it’ll be a patchwork of colors.”
“That’s fine.” If they arranged it in a pattern, it would look intentionally artistic. “What do you mean your parents wouldn’t have? You said they wanted you to stay in the family business, but surely they wouldn’t have let a foal die?”
Larran didn’t answer. “I’ll be back with more wood.”
He ducked out the door. She wanted to follow him and continue the conversation—he couldn’t have meant that his parents would rather let a foal die than see him choose his own future? Unless that’s exactly what he meant.
Her gaze followed him as he disappeared into the greenery, and then she looked down at the jam, unsure why her eyes felt suddenly hot and watery.
Thick, gooey bubbles roiled in the pot. It was time to pour the jam into the glass jars, which she, following her parents’ instructions, had heated so they wouldn’t shatter from the sudden heat. She retrieved the oven mitts. She’d found them in one of the drawers—they were a faded gingham but still sturdy. “Caz, can you hold the jars steady while I pour?”
Climbing along the rafters, he swung himself over to the kitchen counter and landed with a plop. “Do not—and I repeat, donot—pour hot jam on me.”
“I’ll be careful,” she promised. She wondered when Larran would come back inside. There were so many other questions she wanted to ask him and so many parts of his story that he’d jumped over. What had happened to his parents? What about their store? How had he become a herder despite them? “What do you think it was that he wasn’t saying?”
“I think he was saying everything very clearly,” Caz said. “His parents weren’t nice people. Yours were.”
“Oh.” Yes, they were.
Before returning to Caltrey, she hadn’t thought much about how lucky she’d been to have them, only how unlucky she’d been to lose them. Glancing out through the door again, Kiela wondered if that was why Larran tried so hard to be kind. Was all of this—the cinnamon buns, fixing the chimney, the ride on the merhorse, the warm clothes after she fell into the water, the help with the shelves—a thank-you for feeding a foal as a kid? If so, after he’d said thank you enough . . . would that be it?
A day ago, she would have wanted that to be it. Now?
Now, he’s making me shelves.
Lifting up the pot, she poured the jam into the waiting jars.
By the time she’d finished pouring her first batch of jam into jars, Larran had returned with a stack of wood slats over his shoulder. He dumped them just outside the door.
“If you’re done with the stove, I can fry us some fish,” he offered.
“You brought wood and fish?”
Coming inside, he produced a wrapped fillet from one of his pockets, and she tried not to think about what his pocket must now smell like. “It’s from Sian, an apology fish. She had a string of them laid out on the stone pier when I got back. She knows she behaved badly.”
An apology fish.She smiled. “I didn’t know merhorses were so intelligent.”
“They’re more like dolphins than, say, cod or tuna. Highly intelligent. How else did their ancestors know it’d be good for them and us if they worked with humans?”
“Symbiosis is often just instinct paired with evolution, like honeybees and flowers or crocodiles and plovers, not actual intelligence.” When he looked at her blankly, she added, “Plovers peck food out from between the crocodiles’ teeth. The bird gets fed, and the croc doesn’t suffer from toothaches. But it’s not as if the birds choose dentistry.” He was still looking at her blankly, and she realized she’d strayed from the normal communication pattern. “Fish for lunch would be lovely. Please thank Sian for me.”
He smiled and then retrieved the frying pan. Placing the raw fish on a plate, he began looking through the cabinets as if he lived here.
She felt her warm, fuzzy feelings dissipate like bubbles in the air.
It was suddenly all too familiar, too friendly, too . . .Too much.She’d just wanted to build shelves; she hadn’t wanted to share memories and confidences. It was nice she’d been kind to him as a kid, but she hadn’t chosen to—she’d helped a foal and hadn’t even known he’d been watching her. He’d embroiled her in his emotions without her consent.
She told herself not to let it bother her. She’d liked talking to him. And she’d said yes to his fish. Use of her kitchen went along with that yes. It wasn’t such a grievous invasion of personal space to open a kitchen cabinet. But what if he decided it was also okay to barge into her bedroom and start pawing through the crates of forbidden books?
In as pleasantly polite a tone as she could, she asked, “Can I help you find something?”
He froze. “Uh, sorry. Salt and pepper?”
Caz climbed onto one of the kitchen shelves and plucked the little bags of salt and pepper out from behind the sugar. He passed them silently, reproachfully to Larran.
“I’m used to living on my own,” Larran said, blushing. “I didn’t intend . . . I’m sorry. This is your kitchen, not mine. I overstepped. I don’t know why I keep . . . I won’t do it again.”
Kiela exhaled. That was a nice apology, and it wasn’t a problem that he’d looked for salt and pepper—it was just that with the books in the other room . . . “I’m used to my own space too.” It hadn’t been much, her nook in the library with her bed and her cookplate and her desk, but it had been all hers and no other librarian would dream of making themselves at home in it. “Use whatever you need. But could you please just ask first?”
