Chapter 2: Manor Manners
The carriage was open, it was a fine night. The sun was not yet down, so there was no need for a lantern.
Merlin noticed that Freya opened her mouth a dozen times to say something along the way, but never did. She watched him most of the way, too, only slightly relaxed since they'd left the room.
Maybe he should have kept pretending to be asleep.
Had Morgana told her something about his past that had scared her? He didn't know of anything that was worse than the death of his family, his desire and plan to kill the murderer and his family, Freya herself. She was in the habit of watching training sessions from the balcony, but that was all well-controlled – even his bout with Gwaine, really.
But her fear had started weeks ago, and he couldn't believe anything had happened to her while she was living at her cousins' house. She hadn't been afraid of him at Jordan's house at all. And now she couldn't say what was on her mind. She'd said some pretty hard things to him in the past, asked some pretty searching questions.
Again he wondered, what changed?
By the time they reached the Hamstead Manor, she still had not said anything. A silence like that was so much more tense than the companionable quiet they'd experienced in each other's company when neither had anything to say. He didn't feel himself in the best of moods as he stepped down from the carriage, then turned to give her his hand down.
"Merlin," she said hesitantly, as the carriage started away.
He stopped and waited. In the last light of the setting sun, her skin was golden, her eyes dark. Her hair might have been dry after their open-air ride, but it still smelled intoxicating.
"Did you – did you have a good day?" she continued at last.
And there it was again – asking one question when she really wanted the answer to another. And what was so important about how his day had gone – dull, monotonous day – that they needed to discuss it before going inside?
He shrugged. "Same as any other," he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.
She probably realized how incongruous her question was, in the situation. "I – I mean," she stuttered, "do you know any reason why Arthur asked us here tonight?" She laid the smallest emphasis on the word us, and he thought he understood. She didn't enjoy being out in public, and wanted to know, probably, if the evening was to be primarily work-related.
So he took a moment to explain, "The morning was more unproductive discussion. The afternoon was shaping up to be more of the same. I left early." He figured the fact that Arthur had sent a messenger would be reason enough for her to assume he knew as little as she did what to expect.
"But – why here?" she ventured.
Hamstead Manor was, he knew, one of the largest private residences in Turad, the home of one of the leading families – powerful in commerce, though not actually part of the council. Hardly a week went by when there wasn't a gathering of some sort or another at the Manor. Probably the evening was meant to be social, or he'd have been called back to the Council Palais alone; he'd never met any of the family, himself.
But a social, rather than business, evening would probably not make her feel any more comfortable. That left him wondering what to say to reassure her.
"You look very lovely tonight," he settled on. Maybe if she was reminded that with her new dresses, and as the wife of an agent, she was of equal standing with the sort of people they could expect to be inside.
She jumped and shot him a startled look like he'd announced his intention of disrobing and walking in bare as the day he was born. He cursed himself silently; that only made things worse. Well, what then?
"I am proud to claim you as my wife," he tried again, but that wasn't much better.
Only a fleeting smile she gave him, half-worried, and her eyes were down again, her fingers twisting the silk tie of her little handbag.
Tell me what I should say, and I'll say it, he thought, a bit desperately.
For a long time before his parents' death, he'd shouldered a man's responsibility on his father's farm. Since he'd left Ealdor, he'd considered himself and others had treated him as a man. And he'd never thought to question that, it had seemed so natural and obvious.
Until he married. These days he felt lost and inadequate at least once a day. Twice today, he reflected.
Behind and above them at the top of the stair, a butler opened the door and the faint strain of more than one stringed instrument wafted down to them. Someone's shadow obscured the lamplight from the open door.
"Merlin!" Arthur's voice greeted them. "Freya! Why don't you come inside where it's cooler?"
Merlin didn't turn, didn't take his eyes off Freya. His wife. He pointed to the west at the setting sun, still shining a sliver of light over the rooftops.
"I still have five minutes," he informed Arthur, who laughed like he'd had a drink or two already, enough to loosen up.
Freya moved past him, gathering her skirt to climb the stone stairway leading to the double front doors. He followed at her elbow. If anyone was going to be able to do anything about her peace of mind in her marriage, it was him.
The question was, what?
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The way Arthur greeted them helped to set Freya at ease. If he was relaxed and enjoying himself, if there was music, then this wasn't about Philbert or her. She hoped. But it was his house.
She felt Merlin at her elbow like the heat from a steady fire on a cold night and thought it strange that while she could feel so nervous with him alone, it was always reassuring to have him with her when they were around others. It was as if his opinion of her, and the impression he made on others, combined to make her someone worthwhile.
"I've had a letter from Camelot this evening," Arthur said jovially as they stepped into the entryway of the manor. Freya looked at him; she'd rarely seen the older agent in this mood. He nodded gregariously to her. "Gwen said to tell you hello. She's expecting our first child late this fall."
Freya felt her mouth drop open, and then curve up into a happy smile. No wonder her friend had seemed ill and tired, before she and Merlin had left the city. "Oh, that's wonderful, I'm so happy for you!"
He nodded acceptance of the congratulations. "No one else knows yet," he said, turning to Merlin behind her.
Just past the half-glass doors of the antechamber Freya glimpsed someone in a champagne-colored dress, then her cousin Vivian ducked her head through the doorway and smiled at her triumphantly.
"I've been waiting for you!" she called, waving Freya forward, then taking her hand to hurry her across the marbled entry to another set of double doors, opened on a scene of light and music.
Freya only just remembered not to gape as she glanced around.
The room itself was breath-taking – high, vaulted ceilings, plastered walls painted with murals of many different themes. In one shallow alcove three musicians played their instruments, and one side of the room was occupied by four – no, five – little boys dressed exactly as the butler had been, each dragging on a separate set of cords that propelled the six-foot long panes of an enormous fan that sent a pleasant breeze through the room, dispelling the heat from the lamps and the people. She noticed at least six basins set before the fans that appeared to contain melting ice, to cool the breeze.
From her one morning spent giving testimony about the late Reeve Agravaine, Freya recognized at least six of the councilmen.
"The whole council's here, with their wives," Vivian told her, catching the direction of her attention. "Mother and Father were invited of course, and there's Reeve Gregor in the corner."
Freya looked to see a short slight man about a decade older than Arthur, but with an air of toughness. Vivian rattled off a list of names that were mostly unknown to Freya, though she recognized a few from conversations concerning Randall's business dealings. Some were dancing, some clustered around a long low table loaded with trays and dishes of food, some gathered in small groups around the edge of the room in conversation.
As she chattered, Vivian led Freya slowly around the dancers toward the long table of food. Freya listened with half an ear as her cousin jumped from topic to topic, whispering about the other ladies' dresses, the food, the room, rumors about their host family. Freya wondered if Vivian remembered the night Philbert had come to dinner, or his invitation to her that had ended so disastrously; she wondered if he remembered.
She did manage to gather that the celebration was in honor of some real progress that had been made with the council that day. That must have been after Merlin left, she thought.
"Strawberry and lemon ice," Vivian gushed at her side. "You must try some of that," and she tried to pull Freya toward the buffet.
Freya noticed that a quartet of wives already standing there had noticed her, and were watching her as they talked together. And then she was acutely aware that hers was the darkest-colored dress in the room, the only one with sleeves and a collar. She didn't much care what they thought of her – she knew she didn't belong – but she hated to think what their opinion would be of Merlin for marrying someone like her. Then there was the gossip that had necessitated their marriage, and the speculation that would surely come of that – she stopped.
"You go," she said to Vivian's quizzical look. "I'll just – wait here."
Vivian shrugged, but strawberry and lemon ice evidently meant more to her than a cousin's shy self-consciousness. As she moved away, Freya tried to see where Emma might be, and wondered if she would feel better or worse to have Merlin appear at her side.
And out of the crowd of dancers came a youngish-looking man with ginger-sandy hair and a plump smiling lady at his side, the fingers of their hands entwined where he simultaneously accompanied and led her. She recognized him from the council, but couldn't recollect a name. Both of them were looking right at her – her heart thumped nervously – but both were smiling.
"Missus Freya, isn't it?" the man said to her. She nodded, putting her hand out automatically. He took it, adding, "I am Drew, and this is my wife Nell." He passed Freya's hand into his wife's, beaming proudly at her before turning back to Freya. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but someone mentioned you'd married our Agent Merlin?"
Freya blushed and murmured something vaguely affirmative. So here it was – they were asking questions right to her face so quickly.
"Ah, yes, I thought so," Drew said, his smile widening. The goodwill that radiated from them both was disconcerting if, as she thought, they meant to taunt her with the implications of her indiscretion. "Well, we've already congratulated your husband, but we're also happy to have the opportunity of saying so to you, aren't we, dear?"
"Of course, my love," Nell said, giving him an adoring look and reaching again for his hand, keeping Freya's in her other. "We owe him your life, after all."
Freya relaxed as the couple spoke, reassured that they were being earnestly kind. She tried to smile like she knew what they were talking about; something more, she gathered, that just uncovering the plot about the death-contracts on the council members.
But Drew was sharp, and saw that she was confused. "Surely Merlin told you?" he said politely, though clearly Merlin hadn't.
"I'm – sorry," she said, shaking her head. "He doesn't like talking about himself."
"Well, my dear, it's quite a story," Nell confided, with a shake of her curls.
Drew launched into the story, and Freya forgot about finding Emma.
Merlin probably had dozens of such stories. It was true he never said anything about himself, told stories from the past, but nothing about Drew's tale surprised her, really. She'd seen Merlin in action often enough to picture him diving across the room in a shower of broken glass. She was so intent that the voice almost right in her ear startled her.
"Yes, Agent Merlin is quite the – hero."
The pause was noticeable, but not quite enough obvious to be insulting. She saw Nell draw back and Drew's expression smooth from boyish enthusiasm to restrained sophistication as she turned to see Philbert.
"Oh," Freya said, and as no one else offered anything, she said, "Your home is very beautiful, Philbert."
"Yes," he said negligently, giving a glance around that was, Freya felt, just for show. "Well, it's probably nothing compared to a chalet on a hill – of course we haven't the view – but then again, as a newlywed, you're to be congratulated on your blissful happiness, and getting all you've ever wanted, yes?" His condescending tone made Freya flush miserably.
Days afterward, she'd sent a note of apology, unacknowledged. But with what gossip had gotten around, he probably considered her loose and opportunistic, and thought she had left him that afternoon for some lewd proposition of Merlin's.
"In my opinion, we have a lot to thank Agent Merlin for, and Freya as well," Drew said, and Freya was afraid he was going to let slip some of the details of the altercation at Jordan's house, which information was to stay within the council.
Philbert turned to him without a pause. "Thank you so much, Councilor, for gracing us with your presence tonight. I hope you and your – lovely wife, have a wonderful time." And he glided away across the floor, crowding Drew just enough that the councilman had to shift his shoulder out of the younger man's way.
Now Nell looked uncomfortable, even as she gave Freya a reassuring smile, and her husband patted her hand. But the councilman's wife leaned toward Freya and said in a low tone, "Of course no one has any right to the details, dear girl, but it's my opinion our young Philbert has a fairly competitive streak, and imagined he got second place, so to speak."
"But I didn't think he ever cared for me at all," Freya said, bewildered.
Drew shook his head, looking after Philbert. "I don't think that matters to him," he murmured.
Out of the corner of her eye Freya caught Merlin's glance from where he stood at the open doorway listening to Arthur. He was just looking from her to Philbert, crossing the room through the middle of the dance, and his expression was stony, his eyes dark and his jaw tight. He spoke, interrupting Arthur by the look of it, didn't indicate Philbert in any way Freya saw, but Arthur turned to look at the son of their host, before responding to whatever Merlin had said.
Then Merlin excused himself and stalked away. And where Philbert's grace was that which made other people give way before him, Merlin's was that of a hunting panther, weaving his way without noticing the people or causing them to notice him, yet never colliding with any.
And he was following Philbert.
Freya suddenly, overwhelmingly, wanted to go home. Not back to Morgana's chalet, nor yet to the house on Sycamore Avenue or even Emmett's Creek. But to Redwillow and the two-room house where life with her mother had been simple. No fears, no embarrassment, and the love of the one person in her life had been unquestioned.
She wanted to have a home, again. She was so tired.
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Merlin watched Freya's little cousin take her hand and lead her into the well-lit, noisy company chamber. He didn't quite relax, but he did turn his full attention to Arthur's enthusiastically-rambling series of remarks about his impending fatherhood. Almost.
"And… you'll never guess what happened this afternoon, after you left," Arthur said, blue eyes gleaming with his barely-suppressed excitement. Like the information would be icing on the cake of his personal good news. He didn't wait for Merlin to answer, but added, "They voted."
Merlin felt a sudden rise of excitement of his own, but said only, "And?"
"They didn't rescind the measure passed last year, but they've amended it – voted and signed. Now it's illegal for any of them to profit personally from the sole governorship of their district, and they've agreed to hold new elections for all ten districts within the next year." His whole demeanor invited, even demanded, that Merlin celebrate with him. It was, after all, a triumph for them as agents also. "Which means, any toll collections have to go to improvements within the district and should reduce considerably as a result!"
Merlin, in contrast, felt himself relax from a tautness he'd carried for a long time, like he could release a breath he'd been holding past endurance. So he did, taking a deep breath to let it out slowly. He said, "So…"
"So, what?" Arthur looked at him, still grinning, uncomprehending.
"So what about you?" And what about me?
"Well, I'll be here at least until Camelot sends another judge, maybe a bit longer, but for sure I'll be back home by fall." Then his eyes flicked back to Merlin's face, and his gaze turned serious. "You mean, what about you," he stated.
Merlin returned the look, crossed his arms over his chest, but said nothing. The unsigned contract on the desk in the suite at the chalet would remain meaningless, another piece of paper, until his writ was terminated. And the timing of that would be up to Arthur.
"Hm," Arthur said, considering. "I suppose if I make you sit still too much longer you'll manage to find trouble of some kind, sooner or later. And I don't know what I'd need you for that Reeve Gregor and the new deputies couldn't handle." He studied Merlin again for a long time. "Have you thought about what you'll do after your writ is terminated?"
Merlin said, "Emmett's Creek sent a contract."
"Ah." Arthur thought a moment more, then asked, "And how does Freya feel about going back?"
Merlin half-shrugged. Scared, probably, that was mostly what she seemed to be feeling these days. But he couldn't think of an excuse to leave her in Turad that wouldn't expose her to more ridicule, and he couldn't think of a plausible reason to give for her return to Emmett's Creek, if they wanted to keep the fact of their marriage hidden. Likely she'd written to Shasta and Gaius anyway, and unless she'd asked them to keep it quiet, the whole town knew of the marriage by now.
"You two not talking much these days?"
At the glint in Arthur's eye and his sly smile, Merlin had to stop himself from punching the agent in the face, but settled for an unsatisfactory murderous glare. Arthur probably wouldn't step outside even if he demanded it, not with this kind of a party to come back to. Although, he reflected grimly, if Arthur stepped outside to meet him, he wouldn't leave the agent in any condition to return to the festivities.
One of Arthur's eyebrows lifted. "It's like that, is it?" he said. "Strange."
To keep himself from violent physical action, or even swearing a blue streak to startle and shock those within hearing, Merlin said, "If I had a list of things I did not want to talk with you about, this would be at the top."
If he turned and walked away, the question of the writ would have to wait for an answer; one way or another, he was done with waiting. Although, a year ago, he'd have ripped or burned the writ – or both – and left town without another thought.
"I mean," Arthur continued, as if he hadn't heard him, "I don't think anyone expected a fiery romance, but it always seemed to me that you two had – a kind of special understanding."
Merlin remembered dreaming of bringing Freya home to his family at the farmhouse, and reached to rub the fading scar hidden by the hair that fell over his forehead.
"So what happened?" Arthur said.
Merlin said violently, "Nothing happened." First Morgana, now Arthur. Why was his marriage everyone else's business?
"You mean, you haven't–"
"I haven't touched her!" Merlin said intensely, but intentionally keeping his voice low. "She looks at me like she thinks I'm - You know what I am, what I've done, but I've never hurt a woman!"
The agent took Merlin's sleeve, drew him to the door of the company chamber. Glitter and lights and music, but Merlin knew few of these people who would measure up to the folks he'd gotten to know in Emmett's Creek. Not much substance. Freya, he saw, was talking with Drew and Nell, and he was satisfied she was fine.
Arthur studied her a moment, and Merlin couldn't help adding, "It's as if she doesn't trust me anymore."
"You know, I was investigating a man once that I was sure had committed a number of bank robberies," Arthur commented, his blue eyes sharp on Freya. "Trailed him into a good-sized city, watched him take rooms across from the bank – then I waited."
"So?"
"So – nothing," Arthur answered. "I waited a week and he never went into the bank – no robbery. I was called off the case for lack of evidence, so I never knew if I was right." He looked back at Merlin. "I expected him to do something, to behave a certain way, but just because he did not, didn't make me trust him or stop expecting it of him, sooner or later."
Even though he'd never been rough with her, Merlin made the connection, if Freya expected such treatment from a husband, she'd think it true of him too. Sooner or later. Maybe Arthur was right, maybe not. Merlin braced his forearm against the doorway and leaned his head on it.
"So what do I do?" he asked himself.
Beside him, Arthur gave his own answer back to him – "Nothing. I don't know how long I would have followed my man before giving up my suspicions. And no one knows how long it may take for her to realize she does trust you. How you handle it is up to you."
He couldn't walk out and leave her; he couldn't justify her suspicions just to stop the suspense, and this waiting game didn't seem to be working. Merlin muttered into his sleeve, "Damned if I do, and damned if I don't."
Then he dropped his arm and straightened, senses heightening and muscles tensing.
A young man, immaculately dressed and well-oiled, was just parting from Freya and the others, saying something to her with a sarcastic sneer. Drew looked ruffled, Nell upset, and as Freya turned he could see her face was pink and her eyes down – Merlin searched the young man out as he passed unhurriedly through the crowd.
"Tall, black hair, brown suit, blue vest," Merlin demanded. "Who is that?"
Arthur turned, located the man in question. "The son of the manor," he answered, before turning back. "Philbert, I think his name is. Why?" Merlin stepped past him without touching him, only just heard him hiss, "Merlin!"
He followed the son of the manor between the dancers, toward an open door at the far end of the room, noticing that though Philbert nodded at several of the guests, he stopped to talk with none. And in return, he collected ingratiating smiles and compliments on all sides with the same bored air as he snagged a glass of wine from a passing tray. As he cleared the doorway, a man's white shirtsleeve was extended, clearly in greeting – and just as clearly and smoothly Philbert ignored him and turned to the right.
Merlin swerved to keep Philbert in sight as he came to the doorway, registering in his side vision that the snubbed gentleman was Freya's cousin Randall. And that Philbert had stopped beside an older gentleman equally immaculate and oiled, with the same air of erect condescension. Likely his father, Merlin thought.
"Agent Merlin! Or should we say cousin!" Emma, Randall's wife, exclaimed, offering her own hand, adorned with a nice-sized ring featuring a sparkling green stone to match the lighter shade of her dress.
He turned; it wasn't hard to find an appropriate smile. They had been kind to Freya, had treated her very well, under the circumstances. After their engagement, neither of Freya's cousins had behaved one whit differently to either of them.
"I'd answer to either," he said, taking Emma's hand politely, then put a question to Randall about the business of the day.
He listened to the older man begin a description and discussion of one of his impending deals, but the more important conversation was behind him.
"And she actually came," one male voice said. He hadn't heard either man before, but knew the voice to be the son's when the answer came in a deeper tone.
"-Told you not to expect too much when you went to Sycamore Avenue the first time."
The first voice came again, partially obscured by Emma laughing at some comment of Randall's – Merlin smiled again in expected response – "Thought she'd make an ideal match… exactly what I'm looking for in a wife."
Behind Emma was a decorative cabinet with an impressive display of silver vessels of every size and shape imaginable – one in particular, though it carried some embossing around its rim, reflected the room behind Merlin more than adequately.
"If he thought I was going to settle for that," Randall was saying.
Behind Merlin, the lord of the manor remarked quite clearly, "She probably did – for him."
"But – an agent, and a temporary one at that," Philbert exclaimed. Neither was looking at him, he saw in the dish; he figured better than even odds they didn't realize who he was. "Connections with… revenger on the hill… heard he even killed a man out west somewhere."
Merlin's grin came appropriately at the humorous conclusion of another of Randall's stories, and he bowed politely to both of Freya's cousins, excusing himself. He picked up speed as he timed his turn to coincide almost exactly with Philbert lifting his cup to his lips. Jostled him just enough to get wine-red stain spattered down his chin, cravat, shirt, and vest.
"Oh, I am so sorry, my fault entirely," Merlin apologized handsomely and insincerely as Philbert sputtered. But he couldn't and didn't really try to keep a slightly wolfish grin from showing. Well, he had been a revenger, hadn't he? And wasn't this sufficient comeuppance for embarrassing Merlin's wife?
Not quite.
"Oh, say," he added on the tail of the apology, "I do believe I should introduce myself. Agent Merlin of Camelot." And he waited; the grin wanted to widen, baring teeth, but he held back.
Philbert almost choked again. The father was more composed, hesitating only momentarily before responding.
"Crand of Monarch Hill, welcome to Hamstead Manor." The district had been named for the butterfly, Merlin knew, but guessed that this man thoroughly enjoyed associating himself with the grander definition of the name. "My son, Philbert."
"My hosts." Merlin bowed fractionally – he knew manners as nice as any and could choose to dust them off to suit his purpose. "Sir, perhaps you could spare me a moment to discuss your guest list this evening?" He waited just long enough for a puzzled look to cross both faces, then added, "In my official capacity."
One of Crand's graying eyebrows raised. "Chasing criminals here?" he intoned in polite incredulity.
Merlin's smile flattened. "Nothing so ordinary, sir. I only wondered – you see, a man just insulted my wife in the other room." Philbert lost a little color. Merlin hoped killed a man back west was running through his mind again. "I was away from her side for only a moment," he continued. "I caught a glimpse, but had never met the man, and my wife is too–" good? kind? sweet? shy? – "afraid to tell me his name."
"Afraid?" Philbert spoke up then, forcing a sneer into his voice.
Merlin looked at him, then let the smile harden, let the revenger show through the agent, and Philbert swayed as if he'd take a step back if he could. "Oh! – not for me." He held the man's gaze one second too long, then turned his eyes only back to Crand. "Perhaps if you could introduce me to all the guests on the list, I could discover the gentleman in question, or we could uncover the bastard–" he used such a pleasant voice for the obscene term that he was continuing before the other two had time to react or object – "who is here without your invitation."
After a moment, Crand inquired, "Then what would you do?"
"Nothing tonight," Merlin replied, favoring him with another flat, humorless smile. "If I have his name, then – I have him."
Neither of the gentlemen moved or spoke. Crand looked a long moment at his son, with one swift searching glance spared for Merlin. Then he drew himself up, and without a trace of smugness, addressed him directly.
"Agent Merlin, I do not wish for any unpleasant incident to stem from tonight's festivities. However, I understand your desire to protect your wife and to require satisfaction for the insult. Please," he hesitated, then, as though it hurt him, he repeated, "please, accept our apology that it should have occurred under our roof, and be content."
There was enough of a question in Crand's last statement to prompt Merlin to answer. But he looked at Philbert as he said, finally, "Thank you for your apology. No other satisfaction is necessary." He returned his gaze to Crand. "My wife and I appreciate your – excellent hospitality. Good night, sir."
He backed two steps, out of arms' reach, before turning to enter the company chamber, noting Randall and Emma's discreet retreat with some amusement. Drew and Nell were dancing, smiling into each other's faces, and Freya was making a credible attempt to enjoy a strawberry ice with her young cousin. Arthur was waiting for him inside the doorway, close enough to have overheard the gist of his conversation with their hosts. Merlin stepped toward him, to skirt the room out of sight of the gentlemen of the house, unless they came to the doorway to watch him; a glance into the reflective glass of the open door satisfied him on that question.
"Well-handled," Arthur murmured. "I must say, I'm impressed." Two steps, then three, and Arthur drew him to a stop. "Merlin, I know we strike sparks from each other often enough, and we both remember why I have reason to hate you. But–" he paused, making sure he had Merlin's full attention. "I'm glad you didn't kill me. And I don't regret giving you your chance. I appreciate – I really do – all you've done for us here in Turad. You've given a lot, and it's partly due to you that things have started to turn around. You're a good man, Merlin. You can call on me anytime."
Merlin surprised himself by reaching for Arthur's hand. "Likewise," he said, and meant it.
"You can turn the writ over whenever you're ready," Arthur added. "I'll swear you to your signature on the reeve's contract, too, if you like."
"No, I'll wait to do that until we get to Emmett's Creek," Merlin answered.
"Good luck there," Arthur said in parting. "Go on, take Freya home."
"Good luck to you and Gwen also," Merlin said. Arthur's smile started to spread in response, as he turned back to Freya.
She was the length of the buffet-table away; her attention on her cousin and no one else's on her, she looked relaxed, even smiled at someone the other girl said.
I want to do that for you, he thought. I want to make you smile.