Page 67 of Sweetling
Keeping her gaze, Allarion bowed his head to press his lips to the inside of her wrist.
“Thank you, sweetling,” he rumbled against her skin.
“For what?” she said, tucking her kerchief and hand back into her pocket.
“For today. For your company. I hope you weren’t too bored.”
“Not at all.”
Offering his arm, she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and let him lead her back down into the kitchen. In the better light, he asked to see her embroidery and spent a good few moments tracing the patterns and colors with a fingertip.
As Molly began preparing her dinner, she stole glances at him from under her lashes, anticipation stringing her tight.
“This is beautiful work,” he extolled. “You have an artist’s eye, my love.”
Blushing with pleasure, she made the necessary refutations,she wasn’t that goodandher lines could be neater,even though she practically glowed with the praise.
They’d spent the lion’s share of the day talking about him and his life in the faelands, which Molly was perfectly content with, curious as she was about all things magic and fae now, but as he continued to admire her work, he managed to shift conversation to her. Molly was far less content to talk about herself, but she supposed, if he took the time to ask, she may as well answer.
“My mother taught me, initially,” she said, “and I kept at it.”
Allarion nodded gravely. “And where is your mother now?”
It took effort, but Molly told him her story. All of it. From life in the village with her parents to the plague to going to live with Uncle Brom. Allarion sat quietly, absorbing what she said.
When she dared look up at him to see what he thought, she was relieved to find not pity but empathy shining through those dark eyes. It was strange…he wasn’t the most expressive person, yet she knew from looking at him that he hurtforher. It was the angle of his mouth, the somber turn of his shoulders. And it was how he asked her questions she never thought of—and listened to the answers.
Did she remember the sound of her mother’s voice? What was her favorite thing her father would say? He asked her all sorts of things—her favorite scent of Dundúran or color of the sunset. All things Molly knew but had to think about. And while some of the answers were painful, that pain was easier to bear when she knew she confided in someone who cared to hear.
And so their days went, Molly joining Allarion in his work, or if she couldn’t, finding things for herself to do.
With the roof complete, Allarion turned his focus to the solar next to the library. He insisted it would be her solar, where she could work on her own projects and fill the room with whatever she wanted. Molly hadn’t known what to say other than, “Thank you.”
Growing serious, Allarion closed the distance between them. With a crooked finger, he lifted her chin so she met his gaze when he said, “There is no thanks needed here, sweetling. It is yourdue.”
Throat running dry, Molly could only nod.
That was much easier said than done for someone who’d had to earn or take or steal every scrap she’d ever had.
Still, even if she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around his sentiment, it gave her a thrill to hear it. Her due. Imagine.
Between the solar and the unused room beside it, Molly became an expert in hanging wallpaper. Used to physical labor but not so much the skilled labor it took to redecorate a great house, she endeavored to learn quickly and came to enjoy the work.
When they next went to Mullon—this time with Bellarand pulling a cart after a ferocious argument over it—they sought furniture to fill the rooms. That was how she found herself with a beautiful set of armchairs for under the bay windows of her solar, a little table to sit in between them, a long worktable, and a chest of drawers for all her supplies. Allarion hunted for a table and chairs to put in the conservatory, so they could sit there in the evenings and watch the stars.
This time, he let her haggle to her heart’s content, and Molly enjoyed showing how ruthless she could be when it came to a discount. She wasn’t ashamed or afraid to use Bellarand for effect if it meant more money off, either.
Before her eyes, the solar became a dreamy green escape, where she could tuck into a cozy chair and sew. The rich green drapes and sage green walls, with the tall windows looking out into the forest beyond, made the room feel like an extension of the sylvan scene just outside. Molly even pulled a few of her small keepsakes from her room to display on the fireplace mantel, making the room hers with a touch of old and new.
On more than one occasion, they settled after dinner in their respective spaces, Molly in an armchair with her sewing, Allarion at his large desk in the library. With the connecting door open, she had but to look up to see him scratching away at his ledgers and maps.
She…liked it. That they could spend their days together in companionable chatter but then also be close in the evenings in equally pleasant quiet.
Molly had sometimes stolen up to her room above the tavern with her sewing, opening her window to hear the bustle of the city at night. She listened to the vendors come home for the day, the street performers play their sets, and the congenial chatter of the neighborhood. Here, it was forest noises and Allarion rustling paper, but she still enjoyed the quiet serenity of it.
She also liked stealing glances at him as he worked at his desk. Molly wasn’t a strong reader or writer, but she appreciated how his hand moved across the page, quill held masterfully in his fingers. The angle of his brow and curve of his neck as he bent his head over a ledger, how his lips parted as he traced a finger over a map…Molly felt it as if it was her skin he pored over.
Fates, there was something wrong with her, that she was starting to find those pointed ears charming and his sharp fangs endearing. With every day, his otherness inspired admiration, even…lust rather than aversion.
