"Oh, there you are, Eve! Get in here, child!" Mrs. Eclaire clucked and ushered the young woman into the bakery. "Any later and I'm sure you'd have been stuck in the rain. Those clouds are brewing," she sighed, looking at the horizon. "I hope it's not a bad omen…" She put a hand to her mouth. Eve stared at her, noting how different she looked when not dressed for work. Her hands seemed almost infantile without the large, thick mitts that protected them from the heat of the oven, and without the kerchief her hair had a mind of its own, curling up into the air as though reaching for heaven.
"You'll be halfway to London by the time it begins," Eve assured her, pulling the strap of her bag over her head and letting it slump down in a chair. "You shouldn't worry about omens. It's a simple weekend trip."
"Oh, I know," the baker admitted, one hand tucking a stray lock of hair back into place beneath an imagined kerchief. "I do thank you again for agreeing to come stay here for the weekend."
"It's no trouble," Eve replied gently. "I don't mind watching the bakery. You don't need to worry about a thing. Just enjoy your trip; you'll love London, I know it. And Mr. Cantabella has promised to take you to some of the finest bakeries there; you'll be so busy getting new ideas that the weekend will be over before you know it."
Mrs. Eclaire gave an involuntary grin. "I must admit, I haven't been this excited since… well… since I can remember!" she laughed. "Going to see a new place, even though I must have seen it before, at some point," she trailed off thoughtfully. "In any case, the bakery will be fine by itself. It's more Zacharias that I'm concerned over."
"Zacharias took care of himself for years before coming to work for you," Eve pointed out with a hint of amusement. "I think he can handle himself for one weekend." But Mrs. Eclaire was still doubtful.
"Himself, yes. But this is the first time he'll be watching the bakery by himself for more than a few days. It's very taxing on a person, even someone as experienced as I am. I don't know how I survived without him and Espella; those children help me more than they'll ever know," she declared. "Speaking of which…" She walked over to the stairs that led to the family's living quarters on the second floor. "Espe-lla! Get down here, child! Aren't you ready yet?!" She paused, listening. "Your father will be here just any time now!"
"Almost ready!" the girl called back. "Give me ten more minutes, Aunt Patty!" Mrs. Eclaire shook her head, pursing her lips but saying nothing as she clomped back over to the table and sat down. Eve took the initiative to sit as well.
"In any case," Mrs. Eclaire continued, waving her hand dismissively, "it's a tough job and Zacharias has only been here four years. I've made enough to keep him well-off for tomorrow, but he'll be up to his eyebrows in work and it's enough stress to send someone mad."
"I don't know how much help I can be to him," Eve said hesitantly, tugging on her sleeves and staring down at the worn wood of the table. "I'm not the best cook, and the only bread I ever tried to make rose too high and turned the oven into a doughy mess." Mrs. Eclaire stared at her a moment, as though she couldn't decide how someone could mess up something as simple as bread, but then she shook her head.
"You just help the customers and keep the books in order, and let Zacharias concentrate on the cooking. Between the two of you, I'm sure you can keep this place afloat for the weekend." Her smile turned into a sly grin that crept across her face like a cat after cream. "You know, you two work so well together. I used to admire that when I'd go to see the Court; I always though the Storyteller was exactly right when he ordered that child to go and help you out with all those witch cases that kept piling up day after day." She picked at a splinter on the table. "Actually, I was only a year or two older than you when my husband and I founded this little bakery. Perhaps you and Zacharias might ought to thinking about opening a business together. I'm sure it would do well; you're so organized, and the boy has good potential…."
"Oh, um… perhaps," Eve laughed awkwardly, feeling a blush work its way up her neck as she suddenly became interested in a tray of day-old croissants. "But to be honest, I'm not sure if I want to spend my life working at a business…." Mrs. Eclaire rested her head in one hand, brow arching.
"Oh? And just what do you plan on doing?" she asked nosily. "After all, you're already in your twenties, you know. These are the prime years of your life. You need to me making a plan, settling down, maybe having a few children." Eve had no clue how to respond, but thankfully Espella saved her from having to think up some polite excuse. The younger girl bounded down the stairs, two bags in each hand. "Espella, what on earth are you bringing, girl?! It's only for the weekend; we're not moving to London!"
"I wanted to be prepared, Aunt Patty," the girl answered indifferently, grabbing a jellied roll from the counter and biting into it with relish as she joined Eve and her guardian at the table. "The last time I was in London, I didn't have time to enjoy it since I was running everywhere, and then I was in court. I want to really have a good time this time," she explained around bites of her sugary breakfast. "Oh, do you think we can look up the professor and Luke? I'd love to visit with them again! I even know where the university is, so—"
"Well now, I don't know," Mrs. Eclaire interrupted, "we don't want to just barge in on them for no reason."
"Please?" The baker frowned, but looked ready to give in.
"We'll speak to your father about it," she said after a moment, shifting responsibility onto the old man. Espella brightened and polished off her food, licking the powdered sugar from her fingers before turning to Eve.
"Try to get along with Sir Barnham, Eve. I know he's dense and if he gets in a mood he's hard to work with, but he'll make sure that you won't have to do much if you let him. Just keep your tempers so the neighbors don't gossip," she ordered with a wink.
"I'll try my best," Eve replied in a deadpan tone, wanting to roll her eyes. Espella had only worked with Zacharias for four years… try more than double that amount, Espella. Then see how worrisome he can be. But she held her tongue, only smiling a little forcefully at her friend. Mrs. Eclaire made a face and seemed ready to add her two sense, but then the door opened with a blast of chilly morning air.
"Are we ready to leave now?" The Storyteller asked, looking around at them gathered at the table. "We should hurry, or we'll be late for our first appointment, "he continued, looking down at his watch. He noticed Espella's bags by her chair and his eyebrows rose, but he said nothing against the multitude of luggage. Barnham came through the door behind him, keys to the boat dangling from his hand.
"Good Morning, Miss Eve," he greeted warmly when he saw her at the table. "Are you ready for this weekend?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," she answered, the smile freezing on her face when Mrs. Eclaire winked at her. "Um…" She stared back at the baker, feeling the same uncomfortable shyness as before. She had a sneaking suspicion that if Mrs. Eclaire knew she could get away with it, she would be playing a hard-driven game of matchmaker. What's the matter with her? I'm not even interested in dating, much less with him. Still, her eyes flitted back up to watch him as he struggled with the task of managing both Espella and Mrs. Eclaire's bags: a feat that was nigh on impossible for anyone with only two arms.
Sure, everyone knew that he was one of the handsomest men in Labyrinthia, and even the tourists clambered over each other just for a glimpse of him in full armor on the back of his horse. All the women of Labyrinthia would give their right arm for ten minutes of undivided attention from him, and Espella had told her that profit in the bakery had almost tripled thanks to his presence the past few years. But the question was: how did Eve feel about him? She'd often wondered the same thing, every time someone hinted at a secret tryst or smiled knowingly at them as they worked together on the reconstruction project, which was finally nearing its end.
He was kind and gentle to everyone, and he was a loyal friend. She knew he'd give her the shirt off his back if she needed it. And he showed her a side he hardly showed anyone else, even going so far as to argue with her to the point of shouting if they disagreed on something. They'd been coworkers for years and she considered him worth praise and merit, but did she have any sort of feelings for him? That, she couldn't say.
Every time she tried to think about it, she only ended up more puzzled than when she started. The problem was that she'd never even had a crush on anyone before. Her teenage years had been so busy between school and taking care of the town with her father and the Storyteller that she rarely had time to look up, much less pine after some boy. And every time her father would encourage her to go out with people her own age (and actually succeed in making her go), she never found anyone relatively attractive.
Even if she had, she would have been far too shy to say anything about it. In the end, she had grown up alone, lived alone, and when her father had died, she'd truly felt alone. She was just now learning how to form relationships, something that she should have learned in primary school. But now was not the time to be bitter about squandered opportunities. She had moved past that, but those years of solitude and keeping up the veil for Espella's sake had left her isolated from the community. Outside of Barnham and Espella, she still had no real friends her own age.
But then again… before Barnham had come, she'd never noticed other boy's appearances. He was the first man that had ever made her stop and actually lookbefore. The problem was that at the time, she hadn't been looking on with desire. It was more awe and a sense of confusion, mingled together in a way that made her think. She still remembered him standing beside the Storyteller in the Court lobby, dressed to the nines in his new armor and looking around curiously at the furnishings.
"This is to be your assistant, High Inquisitor. May I introduce you to Sir Zacharias Barnham?" At the time Eve had felt little more than exasperation, as she'd firmly told the Storyteller that she could handle things on her own, and didn't need an assistant. But he'd stepped past the old man and held out his hand, a serious, yet amiable smile on his face.
"Zacharias Barnham," he had repeated as he took his hand in hers and given it a firm shake. "I'm pleased to be given the opportunity to work with you," he had added, as though he'd known about her long before now. She knew that he'd most likely come with the newest batch of Labyrinthians that morning, and the hypnosis was already working the way it needed to. He was making false memories left and right. The thought was already giving Eve chills, long before her father's suicide. Something about it had just seemed wrong, and yet—wasn't that just the way things had to be?
"High Inquisitor Darklaw," she had introduced herself, looking him straight in the eye. Thinking back now, it was his eyes that had fascinated her. She'd never seen anyone with such a color; his irises were the light gray of a winter morning, but the overall effect on his eyes made them look dark and enigmatic. No one in Labyrinthia had eyes like his. Looking over him quickly, she had decided then and there that no one in Labyrinthia had anything like him. That fiery hair (she'd later learned of the temper that matched), the tall, lean build, the way he carried himself, and even the phrases he used.
But she hadn't been attracted to him, not really. Just more interested in him; that interest was what kept him around until she realized that he made her life easier with his work drive and motivation to help everyone he came across. With him doing the heavy lifting, so to speak, she found herself with more time to devote to her Shades, helping them to finish their work and be reinstated into the town system.
Even now, as she waved goodbye to Mrs. Eclaire and Mr. Cantabella, and let Espella clutch her in a quick embrace, she watched him loading up the bags into Mary's borrowed milk cart and waited for some sign, any sign; a faster heartbeat, a blush, a sudden desire to hold his hand, anything. But all she felt was the warmth of the bakery behind her, and the crisp morning air at her front. He looked over at her standing in the threshold and smiled, offering a quick wave.
"I'll be back in about two hours," he called out to her. The smile was his usual dazzling expression, all white teeth and sparkling eyes. She smiled back and nodded, waving to them as he picked up the handles of the cart and they clattered as one down the cobbled street, only dropping her arm when they turned the bend at the potter's and were lost from view. Yes, she decided at once, he is handsome. She tried for a moment to decide whether acknowledging that he was handsome also meant that she was attracted to him. After all, one could think another girl was pretty without being attracted to them; did the same thing go for men as well?
No answer came to her mind, and so she turned around and went back into the bakery, just as confused as she always had been, and most likely always would be.
The first few customers began arriving at 8:00 on the dot, and then it was a steady stream of people pouring in for the day's supplies. They were all surprised to see Eve at the counter instead of the usual baker and her two lackeys, but they greeted her politely and if they thought anything strange about it, they didn't ask. Only Ridelle the Librarian had the gall to wonder why Eve was there by herself, but she was pacified by the explanation that the baker had taken a trip to the mainland on the Storyteller's orders and didn't press any further. Mr. Cantabella still had enough power in the town that the citizens listened to him without question.
It seemed only a half hour instead of two when Barnham returned. He donned one of Mrs. Eclaire's aprons, rolled up his sleeves, and began working on some fresh dough while Eve continued to help the customers. When she wasn't busy, she was either cleaning the counters or taking stock of what had already been bought; she could see now why Mrs. Eclaire had thought it too hard a task for Barnham to do on his own. Every time she turned around there was someone wanting an order they placed three days ago, or a child crying over a dropped pastry that had been accidentally squashed under another customer's boot, or someone ready to pay for their items, or someone asking if she knew when such-and-such would be in stock and could she perhaps put in a forward order for when Mrs. Eclaire returned? By midmorning her head was spinning, and she felt a new sense of respect for the portly baker for ever doing it on her own in the first place.
And it wasn't that Barnham wasn't helping her, either; he was just as busy as she was. He would be taking something out of the oven to cool, and between blinks he'd be across the store, helping a little old lady get a box of pastries off the top shelf, and then he'd be signing for a delivery of fresh vegetables at the door, only to be walking up from the basement with three heavy bags of flour in the crook of his arm. Eve had no idea where he got the energy to move so fast, and then a thought hit her when she watched him juggling the bags of flour while bending down to pick up a dropped toy and hand it back to the child it belonged to.
Didn't he usually wear his armor when working? She'd held his gauntlets before when he had to remove them quickly during fieldwork; they weren't light, and she knew for a fact that the entirety of his armor weighed almost 50 kilograms. While she inwardly balked at the thought of him doing the same thing he was doing now in his armor, another part of her realized that he was probably used to it, and felt very light and agile without it. She didn't get a chance to ask him about it until the bell tower rang the noon hour and he turned the sign in the window around to announce that the bakery was closed for lunch.
"Zacharias, I thought you told me that you preferred to work in your armor?" She had collapsed at the table, her legs trembling and the silence echoing in her ears after the loud hustle and bustle of customers filling the small space with their body heat and noise. He brought her a glass of water and a sandwich, piled thick with meat and vegetables. When on earth had he had time to make that?! He had one for himself too, and sat down across from her after draping the apron over the floury counter.
"I do," he said before taking a large bite of the sandwich. He spoke again around the mouthful of food. "'Tis being restored by Master Blacksmith." Eve aahed and took a daintier bite of her own sandwich—it was delicious, but then again she was very hungry. Most knights worked on an annual schedule when it came to having their weapons and armor repaired and renewed, depending on the first letter of their last name. It kept the blacksmiths from being overwhelmed as well as allowing for a smooth, orderly round out of forces. Of course, since there were no more witches to chase they weren't needed as often; however, they served as security guards and policemen, so they weren't without their purpose.
"So, what do you think about your first day on the job?" he asked teasingly, having nearly polished off his meal in the time it had taken her to take three bites. He pulled a piece of ham out of the sandwich and tore it in half, dropping it to the floor. Eve looked over the edge of the table to see Constantine, and Eve the cat, sitting at what seemed to be their appointed stations. She blinked in surprise, wondering where the animals had been all morning. She'd never seen a cat and a dog get along before, but the mutt didn't seem to mind the black cat—or, more than likely, Eve didn't having a puppy bounding along after her and helping her to get into mischief. They took their halves of the ham and went running back through the door that led to the alley, treasures in hand (or mouth, as it were).
"A typical Saturday, right?" she responded at last. He laughed and nodded, stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and following it with the entire glass of water in four long gulps. She watched this almost barbaric display with a small sense of unease, but otherwise it didn't affect her. He only ate like every other man his age that lived within the town borders. She'd tried to hypnotize it out of the Shades, but it never really worked as well as she would have liked.
"Makes the day go by quickly, though. 'Tis only four and a half hours until closing time." He suddenly looked at her, tilting his head like a dog. "That reminds me, you're staying in Espella's room, aren't you? I heard her saying something to me about it."
"Yes. There's no reason for me to walk back and forth to the bakery every day when two bedrooms are empty," she replied, quoting Mrs. Eclaire word for word.
"Then what would you like for supper? If we want it ready by the time we close up, we'll have to start working on it now." Eve froze, mind blank. Supper? She took another bite of her sandwich to stall for time, not sure what to say.
"Well… to be honest… I usually just buy something already made from the market on the way home. I don't often—" She trailed off, not wanting to admit that she hardly used her nice kitchen for more than stirring porridge for breakfast and washing dirty dishes. She was hardly the most culinary person. She always had Shades that were willing to cook their Great Witch a meal; in fact, everything she'd ever tried to cook she ended up burning, or undercooking it. Nevertheless, it was always inedible.
"Buy something?" Barnham repeated incredulously, then his grin widened. "Well, tonight I'll cook you a nice supper, and you won't have to worry about spending your money. How does that sound?"
"Oh—d-don't go to any trouble for me," she tried to make up some excuse, but he was already lost in his own world of planning his 'nice supper'.
"I'm thinking maybe a roast chicken—I know we'll get three from the farmer later today when he comes. And potatoes of course, and carrots… I can't do beans as well as Mrs. Patty, so we'll have to do without, but we can have some of the leftover rolls with butter to make up for it. Sounds good, right?" he asked, almost hopefully. She nodded, no excuse coming to her aid, and he looked at her as though she'd just put the moon up in the sky for him. "It'll be great, just wait and—that's the bell?" he exclaimed, glancing up at the clock hanging over the door. "It's time to open up again. Hurry up and finish—I'll wipe down the counters before turning the sign."
The store stayed busy until an hour before closing time, when the sun began to set and people began to head home after another long day. Eve worked hard on cleaning up the store while Barnham alternately cooked bread to refill the shelves and worked on their supper. It was quiet in the store now, the waning light casting long shadows on the walls and shining in her eyes every time she passed by the window. Finally the bell rang for 5:00 and Barnham went outside to close up the casements and shutter them, throwing her into temporary darkness lit only by the crackling fire. She found the matches and began to light the candles in the wall sconces while he finished locked up.
"Whew! What a day," he sighed happily as he came in, locking the door behind him. He went to the oven and basted the chicken, checking the potatoes as their skins slowly turned golden from the juices. "Wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, it was… eventful." Physically she was fine, but she was mentally exhausted. She wiped some flour off her shirt and breathed in deeply, the smell of the chicken making her stomach growl. The second wind she'd gotten from the sandwich was gone, and she sat down at the table and began to count the money so that she could update the records while he busied himself at the counter. He hummed a cheerful tune that she couldn't quite place as he cleaned up, washing the trays and scrubbing the counters until they shone like new. By the time she had added up the profit and entered it neatly into Mrs. Eclaire small account book, he was setting the table for dinner. "Do you want me to help?"
"No, I have it," he said as he pushed the candlestick to the middle of the table, piling every available surface high with the chicken, a bowl full of stewed potatoes and carrots, and then the butter and rolls and their own plates and cups. She sat, somewhat bashfully, as he poured her ale from a jug and then sat across from her, filling his plate quickly. She helped herself as well, the silence between them growing now that they'd both stopped moving so much. She found herself watching the muscles in his arms, how they moved so fluidly beneath the tanned skin as he cut apart the chicken on his plate and spread butter over the potatoes as well as his role. She remembered seeing a diagram of muscles in her father's study; it was hard to equate that picture to what was going on in his arms… Why am I so fascinated by his arms? she thought in annoyance, stuffing her mouth with potatoes and chewing quickly. I must be more exhausted than I thought.
Eve and Constantine came by again for their complimentary piece of chicken, but this time they stayed in the kitchen, lying together close by the oven. Eve curled her tail over her nose and went to sleep while the pup chewed noisily on a bone, his tiny helmet glinting in the firelight. The two humans ate in companionable silence until half the chicken and most of the vegetables were gone, both of them having two plates apiece. Finally Eve was too stuffed to move and relaxed in the chair.
"What now?" she asked Barnham as she helped him to clear the table. He washed while she dried, stacking the plates and bowls up neatly and then handing them back to him so that she didn't have to strain trying to put them on the high shelves. She had no idea what their after-supper routines were; she always went home before they cleared the table when she was invited to eat at the bakery. Barnham paused, drying his hands on a towel as he glanced quickly at her, and then away.
"Well… usually Mrs. Patty would work on her sewing or read, while Espella and I play cards." Eve blinked in surprise; she knew Espella enjoyed playing cards, but she had no idea that Barnham did as well.
"What kind of cards?" she asked curiously. This was something new…. Barnham shrugged nonchalantly.
"Crates, mostly." She looked at him in confusion. "Well, that's what I call it. Espella and Mrs. Eclaire call it…" His brow furrowed for a moment. "Crazy Eights?" he wagered, still sounding unsure.
"Oh, yes. I know that game." Crates? She shrugged; maybe that's what he called the game in his past life. "So you two gamble, then." She was teasing, but tried to inject some proper disapproval into her words. She knew he frequented the tavern on the 'bad' side of town; he was probably a good gambler.
"Not money," he interjected sheepishly. "We bet on little things that the other would miss. Right now I have one of her favorite books, and she won my second-best quill last Thursday. Mrs. Eclaire scolds us if we bet money. She says 'tis indecent for a young girl to learn how to gamble from a man, even if he has morals like my own."
"I agree with her," Eve proclaimed, but Barnham only looked at her strangely.
"She's better than I am at poker and gin. I believe she plays with the Storyteller," he admitted. "She knew all the rules before we began our nightly routines."
"It wouldn't surprise me," Eve sighed. "But then again, I know how to play too, so I can't complain." Her own father had taught her, on long winter's nights where there wasn't much to do and the light was too poorly to read by. Now that she thought about it, most likely Mr. Cantabella and her father had played together, before they grew distant. But she'd never gambled a day in her life.
"You have nothing to wager," Barnham pointed out with a chuckle. "But 'tis no harm in playing for sport." That in itself shouldn't have irritated her, but the way he said it sounded dismissive.
"I have plenty to wager. You're only afraid that I'll be better than you, and win everything you own," she replied challengingly. His eyes narrowed and he tossed the towel onto the counter, turning to face her fully.
"If that's how you see it, then I'll be more than happy to face you in battle," he avowed. "Now, if you are indeed the victor—however unlikely that might be—what do you want from me?" She thought a moment, and then as if it had come from heaven itself, the perfect wager came to the front of her mind. Something that she'd been wanting from him for the past few years, but had never managed to convince him to do.
"When I win, you have to clean off your desk on Monday, polish the desks and chairs, sort out that overcrowded bulletin board, and then scrub the office from top to bottom," she declared. "And throw out that horrible drawing of me that you keep throwing daggers at," she added for good measure.
"No! 'Tis a physical thing you're supposed to ask for, not chores!" he complained, but she crossed her arms and stood firm.
"It is physical," she argued adamantly. "Physical labor. I'm always the one that has to clean up, and I refuse to touch that moldering pile of parchment that you call a workspace." His face colored and his jaw worked, but he was able to offer no other arguments and was forced to give in. "Besides, if you win…?"
"If I win, which I will win, I want—" He looked at her, looked around the bakery as if searching for an idea, and then his face lit up. Almost immediately he seemed to rethink it, and then decided again on the same thing. SHE could see the gears turning in his head as he looked up at her decisively. "A kiss."
"A what?" she asked, thinking that she had misheard. There was no way that he had just said what she thought he'd said.
"A kiss," he repeated, a little louder. He did. He did say what I thought he said. He saw the look on her face and snickered. "Come now, Miss Eve. 'Tis not like you're a schoolgirl anymore. I'm not asking for you to disrobe in front of me… 'tis only one kiss. And besides," he sneered, leaning in. "I thought you were going to win."
"I am. So you can go ahead and put the thought out of your head right this minute." She turned up her nose. "But—why a kiss?" He had moved across the room to a cabinet, opening a draw and rummaging around, presumably for the cards. "Hmm?"
"Well, 'tis just—I'm curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat, you know." He laughed at that, turning around with the pack of cards, held together neatly with a band.
"Aye, that it did. But still.…" He stared at her a moment longer before turning and walking to the table. He cleared his throat and began to shuffle the cards. "Will best of ten be sufficient?" She nodded and he began to deal. "Then let's begin, before it gets too late."
Nine hands later, Eve was beginning to sweat. She'd won four hands, he five. She had underestimated his abilities, but now she could see that he wasn't lying when he said he played with Espella all the time. He was truly proficient, and his years as an Inquisitor had given him a perfect neutral expression for when he was in a bind and didn't want her to know. Now if he won this hand, she'd have lost the game and would have to pay up. That part didn't bother as much as the loss of a clean office did. But, if she won this hand, they'd have to have a tiebreaker.
At the moment, things weren't looking well. She had double the cards he had, and unless she could figure out what suits were in his hand, he'd easily beat her. She glared as he threw down an eight of spades. Damn him. He looked her right in the eyes with a smug expression.
"I call hearts," he said triumphantly, and she began to seethe. Damn him! He knew perfectly well that they'd cleared almost all of the hearts earlier in the match! She didn't have a single one in her hand, and who knew how many were left. One card? Two? How many would she have to draw until she found it? She prayed to her lucky stars that it wouldn't be many as she began drawing, glaring swords—and every other weapon imaginable—at him. He only smirked widely as he watched her draw, fanning himself with his cards as he tilted his chair back on two legs. She had to draw seven cards before she finally found the six of hearts and threw it on the pile.
He countered with the six of diamonds, and then she was back in the game with the Jack. Maybe she could win this after all? A glimmer of hope welled inside her, only to be completely crushed as she threw down a four of clubs and he laughed out loud. He threw down his last card, the King, and raised both empty hands. Her shoulders slumped and she let the cards slip through her fingers and onto the table.
"I believe, if I count correctly, that I've won six games and you've only won four, Miss Eve." She closed her eyes and began to gather the cards, allowing him his moment of victory. It was a well-played match, but she had to admit that in this, she had been bested. "Now, about my payment."
"Yes, yes. You don't have to clean the office on Monday," she sighed. He helped her with the rest of the cards before blowing out one of the candles that was nearly burnt down to the wick.
"And—?" She growled under her breath as she snapped the band back onto the cards and laid them to the side.
"And you get your kiss," she begrudgingly added. "Of all the foolish things to ask for. Curiosity, my boot." She stomped around the far side of the table, where he still sat patiently. If he wants a damn kiss, I'll give him a kiss! But when she stood in front of him, two thoughts occurred to her: that she'd never kissed anyone before, and that she wasn't exactly sure how to do it. She had meant to just bend down and give it to him, but now that she thought about it, wouldn't his nose just get in the way? The thought quailed her momentarily and she motioned to him. "G-get up." If I go in from the bottom, I won't be able to reach his nose, she thought to herself, glad to have cleared that up.
He stood and she put a hand on his shoulder, preparing to stand on her tiptoes to press her lips to his for the briefest moment possible. But he bent towards her and her plan went out the door, since she could reach his nose now. She sighed and her head weaved slightly as she tried to decide what the proper angle should be. He watched her and then she froze when his fingers brushed her jaw, tilting her head up. He'd never actually touched her before—not many people did. Not many people had a reason to. His fingers were calloused and rough against her skin as he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear only to have it fall back down a moment later.
He moved closer and she sniffed, smelling something different. It—was it him? She breathed in softly, trying to distinguish the myriad of scents. There was the usual bakery aroma, and soap, but what was that third thing? Another quick inhale had the answer coming to her; it was polish. Even if he's not wearing armor, he still smells like the polish…. How strange. Never before had she thought about being close enough to someone that she could smell them before. Especially not him.
Their eyes met and he watched her carefully before leaning in, his head tilting to the side. Of course he could too, why didn't I think— Every thought in her head stopped in its tracks when his lips met hers, his hand moving around to cup her jaw and tilt her head back. O-oh… Her eyes fell closed, the trouble of keeping them open suddenly too much for her. Just when she thought she might be getting some semblance of brain function back, his lips moved over hers gently.
She trembled, something deep inside her responding to the movement and spreading a strange prickling heat through her limbs. Her legs shook and then his arm was around her, those strong muscles pressed into her back as he bent over her, supporting her. They broke apart and she still couldn't think, breathing hard as her heart began to race. She swallowed, trying to force her eyes open when he kissed her again, even more actively than before. Now his fingers were in her hair, and somehow her arm had slung itself around his neck, her other hand wrapped up in the fabric of his shirt.
"H-hey!" she managed to gasp when they broke apart the third time, pushing him away with all her strength. Her body felt weak, heavy and shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her body felt cold without his pressed up against her, despite the warmth still flooding through her veins and settling in her lower stomach. "You were only—" She wiped the edge of her mouth with her finger and tried again. "That was three kisses, not one!" she accused him, but her voice failed her and she only sounded lost instead of angry.
"Maybe I did get a little carried away," he admitted. Despite everything she felt, he looked almost blissful. His hair was mussed—did she do that? When?—and his eyes were hazy and unfocused. The look of it, strangely enough, made her feel proud. I did that. She squared her shoulders, ignoring her knocking knees, and gave him her best glare. It didn't do a thing to him, except maybe encourage him to smile a little wider. "I suppose that if you were truly of a mind, you could always just take them back from me."
"W-what!?" She turned away, feeling the blood rushing to her face. "Don't talk foolishness! Your curiosity better have been abated, Sir Knight. That won't happen again."
"Why? Did you enjoy it too much, Lady Inquisitor?" he responded in the same tone, though he still had that smug air he'd donned after winning the card game. She glowered at him, but he was undeterred. "I kissed you three times, which means that you didn't stop the second one," he pointed out. She frowned further in the face of his logic. Damn him! She grabbed her bag near the door and strode quickly past him towards the stairs. She didn't have to take this sort of talk—it was late and she was ready for bed. He caught her by the wrist when she was almost past him, forcing her to turn around and look at him. His eyes roved across her face, as if searching for something.
"Sleep well, and if you require anything, be sure to ask me," he ordered in a softer tone before letting her go. She stumbled back a step, her heart fluttering in her chest, and then nodded quickly before practically running up the stairs. She fled to Espella's room and shut the door, sinking down onto the neatly made bed. Looking up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the girl's vanity—ruffled hair, swollen lips, tired, puzzled eyes, and bright pink cheeks. She looked down at her hands, still quivering slightly.
What happened? What is this… this feeling?
Afterword: This will probably only have one more chapter, for one more day. Barnham is card king.
