Page 49 of Ironling
“Not that I’ve seen,” said Brenna. Her tone was the same, but curious red splotches appeared high on her cheeks.
“Strange. He spoke with me when I went to see Sorcha. He said he’d already sent two petitions and I said to send another.”
“Perhaps he changed his mind.”
“Hm. Can you leave me a note to write Sorcha? I’ll have her make inquiries in the camp.”
“Of course.”
Brenna resumed her recitation of the list, though Aislinn couldn’t help noticing her demeanor had chilled. Aislinn’s breakfast sat uneasily in her stomach, thinking she’d perhaps displeased Brenna somehow. Although she always seemed to be doing it, she never liked disappointing the chatelain. Brenna was a last tangible link to her mother.
Her manner may have been stern, but Brenna cared deeply for Aislinn and the Darrow family. She was always quick to defend Jerrod, always sure to see that Aislinn’s needs were met. Liege and Lady Darrow had kept many staff on for a long time not just because they were good people who did good work, but because change was difficult for Aislinn. Brenna too now ensured that life ran as smoothly as possible.
Although Aislinn complained, she’d be absolutely lost without the steadfast chatelain. Brenna was her breakwater,keeping back the deluge.
When she’d finished with the list, Brenna replaced it in her deep pocket and took the empty tray. Before leaving, she arched one of her severe brows, telling Aislinn, “And no sneaking away to the smithy today. There’s too much to do.”
Aislinn’s cheeks heated under that admonishing stare. She felt twelve years old again, being scolded for doing something naughty.
Aislinn nodded, which seemed to satisfy Brenna. “Good,” said the chatelain. “I’ll send Fia in to help you dress.”
Heart suddenly heavy, Aislinn crawled out of her large bed, even as she wanted to roll back into the soft, comforting darkness. The day stretched out before her, long and arduous, without the promise of her refuge to look forward to.
Part of her mourned that her hideaway was no longer secret.
A larger part already missed getting to see her blacksmith.
“This doesn’t go here.”
Hakon scraped his tusks against his upper teeth, checking the temper heating faster than the forge in his blood.
“It does now,” he told the head blacksmith with as much patience as he had left. Which was admittedly not much.
“And who said you could move things about?” Fearghas glared from over the spare anvil Hakon had had the audacity to move.
In the midst of their squabble, Hakon almost regretted resituating the smithy. Making stations for different tasks madethe most sense with it only being the two of them, and he’d made faster progress through his work in the two days it took Fearghas to notice the change.
He couldn’t completely regret it. He needed something todo.
She hadn’t come. Today, yesterday, or the day before.
Lady Aislinn hadn’t gone three days without coming to see him since she brought him their first project. But now, he’d only caught glimpses of her in the dining hall or walking through the courtyard.
The beast inside wanted to hunt her down and never leave her side again. How could he protect her if she wasn’t with him? How would he know how she fared and what she thought if she didn’t come to him?
Why wait,his beast demanded.Go to her!
He couldn’t do that, though. He had enough sense, common and self-preserving, that if he were to go to her, that would be the end.
She’d send him away—or her father would. Then he’d truly not see her, and neither he nor his beast could live with that.
So Hakon grew restless and agitated, trying to deny reason and reality. The smithy was rearranged in one afternoon as a result. Now his temper was flaring far too easily.
Fearghas stomped around the smithy, scoffing and grumbling over the different stations and where the tools had ended up.
“It makes sense, with only the two of us,” argued Hakon, not for the first time.
“It’s nonsense is what it is. This smithy has run just fine for years without you meddling!”
