"She's terrifying," said Flavian.
"Isn't she?" Mordecai sighed happily. Anyone would have thought he'd spent the last hour being fed grapes and serenaded with soft music, instead of having the expense report from their latest mission gone over with withering sarcasm, and half the items tossed out.
In fact, when Rosalie did play the harp—which was the only pleasant thing she ever did—Mordecai usually made snippy comments about her musical taste. And went back to making mooncalf eyes at her as soon as she turned her back. Flavian didn't understand it.
"She's pretty enough, I suppose," Flavian said doubtfully. He didn't consider himself a very good judge. Most of the women he'd heard praised as beauties tended to be taller—and slimmer—but there was something about Rosalie. When she smiled, or when she was angry, when her color rose. As long as she wasn't angry at him, Flavian didn't mind looking at her. "But then so was that antiques dealer in Bristol. You know, the one who helped us with the provenance of the chalice. She seemed friendly."
She had all but thrown herself at Mordecai. It had been alarming.
"Oh, her. Between you and me, Flavian, I could never admire a woman with thick ankles." Mordecai sighed again. "Rosalie has lovely ankles."
It wasn't a subject Flavian had ever considered. He suspected Mordecai was having him on. Either that or he was just mad.
But there was this: What if Mordecai had gone for the antiques dealer? Or any of the younger witches at the castle who were always accidentally brushing up against him in the halls, or needing help with a fiddly spell . . . losing Mordecai to a romance would mean being alone in the castle, which was frightening enough as it was. And—it would be losing Mordecai.
It was selfish of him, Flavian knew. But if the woman Mordecai wanted was unattainable—maybe it was just as well.
#
"Undeniably, he has his talents." Gabriel peered at Rosalie over the top of the marked-up expense report she'd just handed him. "But he's hardly what I'd call a steady young man."
"No," agreed Rosalie. Years of working with her meant that Gabriel could see the slight blush, the flash of dimples in her cheeks, that meant her agreement wasn't, quite. "No, he isn't."
"He gives pretty speeches. But he isn't the type to settle down. How could he? No family, no money of his own, and he spends half his salary on—" Gabriel scanned the crossed-out items on the report with growing incredulity. Wild creativity in claiming things as work-related expenses was one of Mordecai's talents. "Music hall performances. Brandy. Shoes."
Rosalie looked away, swallowed, blinked. What had Gabriel said now? Rosalie was too sensible a young woman to be hurt by statements of obvious fact—but she was hurt, and Gabriel was sorry. He would have said so, if she hadn't spoken first.
"He doesn't—he never means any harm by it, sir."
"When did I say he did?" said Gabriel. "But—there's Frederick Parkinson. Didn't he make you an offer?"
"Frederick is a dear," said Rosalie, "but I couldn't accept him."
Gabriel was hardly an expert in the question of what women looked for in a husband. But surely sober, responsible Frederick Parkinson—or any of the respectable sorcerers who'd courted Rosalie over the years—surely they had more of whatever-it-was than Mordecai Roberts.
And presumably, if Rosalie married any of them, she'd leave Gabriel's employ. Devote herself to managing a household and raising children—a waste of her considerable and unique talents. A terrible inconvenience for him, to have to train a new secretary. And he'd miss her.
So if she had her heart set on a man who would never make her a serious offer, perhaps that was just as well.