Page 34 of Sweetling
Nothing.No.
The breath hissed out of her.
Well, fates.That was a relief, except…could she trust the house?
Although talking with a sentient house was fascinating, Molly eventually grew bored of keeping to her bedchamber. Over the ensuing days, she dared more ventures beyond her door, careful now to mind the house’s warnings when something was unsafe.
Allarion seized the opportunity to give her the tour he’d been waiting to take her on. With obvious pride, he took her through the grand atrium that led to the ornate curving staircase; the ballroom with an inlaid parquet floor; the conservatory with its mullioned windows and humid air; the vast wine cellars where dozens of casks and hundreds of green-glass bottles still lay; and the cold box, pantries, and buttery where food was stored.
The south wing was almost entirely servants’ quarters, and Molly marveled at the number of people who must have once lived here—to support one noble family. It didn’t rival the staff of Dundúran Castle, but it still would’ve been a force unto itself. With so many people moving about…it was no wonder the house enjoyed having inhabitants again, even if it was only a human, a fae, and a unicorn.
Allarion took her through his many projects, detailing how he was fixing the roof shingles now but would then move onto the floor of the second-level study—or rather, would create a floor to the study.
“I can’t have any more beautiful women falling through the floor. It’s just not in good taste,” he said with what she took for good humor. He even smiled through a chuckle. While it did warm the cool pallor of his skin and severe contours of his face, a smile could only do so much—especially when it flashed those wicked fangs.
Molly couldn’t help staring at them before remembering her manners. She offered a lukewarm grin in return, her stomach still knotted with anxiety as he led her here, there, and everywhere.
It wasn’t that he felt threatening or that she entirely disliked the way he insisted they walk arm-in-arm—it was more that she half-expected that every door he opened would reveal some new horror. The corpses of the former family. A dungeon of other barmaids he’d bought. Even a bevy of more crimson-eyed unicorns.
Despite the kindliness of the house, it couldn’t help that the areas he’d yet to fix or renovate still bore the scars of abandonment and general air of doom and dread. The air was dank and stale in places he hadn’t gotten to yet, and he didn’t have to tell her to avoid them—she’d no desire to linger in such forgotten places.
Still, as he took her through the house, she made sure to remember all the routes and where each door led to. She’d every intention of running far away from this place someday soon, and she’d like to take something for her troubles. Yet, other than her bedchamber and the kitchen, none of the rooms had much if any furniture. While her room was sumptuously furnished, it wasn’t decorated. Not even a pretty vase to filch.
Not that shereallythought he was storing all his valuables in some kind of hoard. He was a fae, not a dragon.
As the days began to pass, though, Molly came to understand that the house not being decorated was something Allarion fully intended to rectify. He just…wanted her opinion first.
It started out simply, asking if she’d like flowers in the kitchen.
“Of course,” she said as she stirred that day’s stew, “flowers brighten up any room.”
He left immediately, as if she’d asked him to go slay some great beast for her favor, and returned a while later with a literal armload of larkspurs. He arranged the blue and purple spears in deliberate, artful bunches, filling pewter pitchers and ceramic cups.
Molly silently watched him work as she ate her luncheon, deeply curious. He approached flower arranging with the same focus as he did repairing the roof or practicing his sword forms or any other task. Gaze unflinching, mind totally consumed, it was as if placing each flower perfectly was his only concern.
Just think what a focus like that could do.
Molly hooked one knee over the other and squeezed her thighs together.
Fates, she couldn’t start having thoughts like those.
Still, she couldn’t help noticing the strong column of his throat, bared to the air for once in his downright casual attire of the day. Although his trou were still stiff and tight, his boots still high and shiny, and his jerkin still laced and form-fitting, the top three buttons of his black shirt had been left undone, revealing the long, pale line of his throat and winging arches of his collarbones.
He’d tied the top half of his silvery fall of hair back into a tail with a strip of leather, ensuring the inhumanly sharp cut of his cheeks, nose, and jaw were on full display as he filled the kitchen with flowers. She’d never seen a man arrange flowers before, but when the fae did it, it was beautiful, almost…sensual.
Molly nearly choked on a piece of carrot.
She waved him away when he would have come to her aid—she doubted she’d survive a powerful fae smacking her back to clear her airway.
He still hovered with concern for a while before returning to his task.
Thereafter, she always found flowers adorning the kitchen. And after another few days, she opened her bedchamber door each morning to find a new bouquet awaiting her. Her room slowly filled with flowers, none of which were in bloom but somehow he’d found, and fine porcelain and glass vases.
After the flowers came colors. Without much else to do, Molly would sometimes follow Allarion along on his projects. In the big solar on the second level, he asked her more than once what color she thought would be best.
Molly blinked in bafflement for a long while, not understanding why he asked. Uncle Brom certainly never let her change the tavern—even for the better—and hadn’t even let her repaint her own bedchamber. The most she’d ever been allowed was a few of her own baubles and some garlands for festivals.
Allarion wasn’t satisfied withIt’s your house,norI don’t know, white?
