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“Too much,” I stammer out.

“Ellen.”

I hesitate, then say it in a rush, as if speed will make it less real. “He was… highly complimentary.”

Róisín’s brows shoot up. “Complimentary.”

“Layin’ it on thick, though a man like him ought to ken better than to try it with me,” I add quickly.

Róisín’s mouth curves. “Mmm.”

She ties off the twine and sets the switch aside. “You don’t believe for a second that James Sinclair went off to Trinity and came back anything less than fine, do you.”

I blink. “That’s not⁠—”

“I’ve eyes,” she says cheerfully. “And I’m not blind enough to miss that he’s grown into himself. If I were you, I’d’ve a hard time pretendin’ otherwise.”

“I’m not pretendin’ anything.”

“Of course not,” Róisín says lightly. “But let’s not act like he’s some pale scholar who’s never lifted more than a book. I’d wager most lasses wouldn’t turn him away, given the chance.”

Heat creeps up my neck again, sharp and unwelcome.

“That’s hardly relevant,” I say, reaching for another switch. “It’s not significant.”

“Ellen,” she says, gently this time, “ye’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you feel nothing at all,” she says, and then adds, because she can’t help herself, “while yer ears go pink.”

“My ears are not⁠—”

“They are,” she says, triumphant.

I press my fingers to the sides of my head as if that will cool them. It doesn’t. “He’s ridiculous,” I say, aiming for steady. “He makes everything into a lark.”

“And you hate that,” Róisín states.

“I do,” I say, because that’s the sensible answer. “It’s obnoxious.”

Róisín tilts her head. “But you didn’t actually hate it.”

I open my mouth to argue, then close it again.

She smiles, softer now. “You didn’t hate it because you and I both know a man like James Sinclair is the only sort who could ever catch your eye.”

The kitchen is warm despite the dead hearth, crowded with green things waiting to be tied into place, waiting to bless every threshold and byre and stall.

I hear again the way the morning sounded up on the slope. The soft, wet hush of grass underfoot. The steadiness of his voice when he spoke, low and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world and meant to spend it there.

If I linger on it too long, my breath shortens. Heat gathers low and insistent, a tightening that pulls inward on itself, sharp enough to steal my focus.

I hate that my body remembers that part.

Róisín leans forward, elbows on the table, voice going velvet-soft. “I’ll trade you. I’ll bind the west door wreaths by myself if you spit it out already.”

“Temptin’,” I say, because it is, though I don’t look up.