Page 68 of Sweetling
As she watched him work, whether on his books or on a wall or chopping wood, she grew to appreciate the sharp lines of his body and the fluid grace of his movements. He was all coiled strength, skin stretched taut over densely packed muscle. A wildcat, beautiful and dangerous, and Molly liked him all the more for that danger.
Definitely something wrong with me.
Except, nothing about it, abouthim,truly felt wrong. Quite the opposite.
As well as helping on projects, Molly decided to take up hobbies or skills she’d been meaning to. She set herself to improving her reading, she endeavored to keep the garden alive, and she even tried her hand at drawing. Her cooking and baking got more creative, too. Even if he didn’t eat, Allarion seemed to enjoy hanging around the kitchen as she cooked, watching her chop and knead and stir.
Eventually, she put him to work.
She couldn’t help laughing at his abysmal chopping skills, although his determination to see it through had her smiling.
“It’s nothing like stabbing an enemy,” he remarked as he butchered a radish.
“No, it’s not,” she choked on her laugh.
He held the knives awkwardly—and it was more than being a rich scion from a great house, it was the untried movements of someone who’d truly never prepared food nor even watched someone do it. Still, he tried his best—and covered in seasoning and sauce, his ugly cutting made little difference.
Even better, Molly discovered he could sing.
They stood preparing the night’s dinner, chopping vegetables, when Allarion asked if there was truly nothing she liked about serving at the tavern.
“Oh, there were things I enjoyed.”
“What was your favorite?”
That was easy. “The songs.”
He looked up in curiosity, and Molly explained the nights when singing would take over the tavern. Bawdy ballads and sea shanties, she loved leading or joining in with the patrons in a round of singing. No one cared if they harmonized or sounded halfway decent—most were drunk, after all—it was only about the camaraderie and good cheer.
“Would you sing for me?” he asked.
Molly’s stomach flipped with nerves. Her first instinct was to deny him, that she couldn’t possibly sing by herself just for him—but then, she loved to sing. She’d never be someone who gathered an audience, but she thought her voice was fair enough.
“All right,” she agreed.
She used her chopping to set a beat and began a ballad familiar to anyone in Eirea, a sweet song about loving their rolling hills and vast forests. Molly couldn’t quite look at him as she sang, but soon enough, she swayed her hips in time and her voice filled the kitchen as they worked.
It didn’t take long for a deep hum to accompany her voice. She looked up in surprise to find that, after two verses, he’d picked up the tune. He added a deep, guttural hum to her song, using his voice as an instrument.
Breathless with pleasure, they soon forgot about dinner and cooking. Molly sang song after song to his accompaniment; sometimes he hummed and others, when he picked up the words, he’d harmonize with her.
It shouldn’t have surprised her that his singing was as beautiful as his speaking voice, rich and syrupy like molasses.
She remembered him saying his eldest sister was a musician and how he’d enjoyed playing with her, but Molly hadn’t realized that meant he sang, as well.
They spent most of the evening trading favorite songs, and he even had her singing in broken faethling, his language, as he taught her some of their favorite ballads. Molly loved how his eyes went bright and his face soft as he sang, the long column of his throat vibrating with his baritone. His pitch was perfect, his harmony a thing of beauty.
To her amazement and utter pleasure, it didn’t take him long to procure a harpsichord.
One morning, she watched it slowly roll up the drive, the gravel beneath moving it along in gentle little waves. Molly couldn’t help but laugh and shake her head at the strangeness—it was to be expected by now.
Once up the front steps, the house took care of moving the instrument. By the time they entered her solar, the house was just moving the harpsichord into place.
With a flourish, Allarion sat at the bench, tossing his cloak over the back. The rich fabric pooled around his feet, a waterfall of glistening black velvet. Those tapered fingers moved seamlessly over the keys, testing the sound.
Molly sat on the bench beside him, returning his grin when he leaned down to see how she liked it.
“Needs a little tuning,” he said as his fingers moved almost too quickly to track. “Do you know this one?”
