Page 51 of Mistletoe

“No.” He squirmed, plucking at the waist as if it were too tight.

“How do they feel?”

“Adequate.”

“Damning me with faint praise. Is it uncomfortable? You keep—” She wiggled her hips and gave an overly dramatic sigh.

“The trousers are appreciated. The mockery is not.”

“Seriously, are they itchy? Is it the seam on the sides? There’s extra fabric there, in case I got the measurements wrong and needed to let them out. It’s sloppy,” she said, unable to stop the deluge of criticism over her work. She rose to her feet, still reeling off her errors. “I should have pressed down the seams. The stitches are too big. They’re uneven.”

“Emma,” Hal said, offering a hand to help her up. “It is very kind and generous of you to make these for me. I am thankful. I’m not used to wearing such garments, that is all. It is not a slight on your work.”

“Clothes that fit?”

“Clothes in general.”

“Oh, right,” she said, as if that explained everything clearly instead of adding to the confusion. What kind of place was he from where people didn’t wear clothes?

Chapter Thirteen

Hal

Mistletoe Farm

The Workshop

The door creaked open.

“Sitting in the cold isn’t helpful,” Agatha said.

“The house is too loud.”

Agatha entered the workshop, taking a cautious step into the clutter. She ran a finger across the nearest surface, frowning at the dust. “I suppose we can get rambunctious.”

The De Laceys gotloud. They all had strong opinions and possessed the innate belief that speaking louder made one’s opinion more correct.

“My ears are more sensitive than yours,” Hal said.

“How very diplomatic of you.” Agatha chuckled. “I haven’t been in my workshop in ages. What a strange place for you to seek refuge.”

The workshop was an odd place to spend time. It was a cluttered, hazardous menace incapable of allowing anyone to work within its walls.

“The goats chew on my shoelaces.” His shoes were a basic, primitive design with cord woven through holes punched in the leather. He waxed the leather every day to keep his feet dry.

She worked her way deeper into the room, heading toward the tarp covering a large object. “Can you help me?” she asked, lifting a corner of the tarp.

Hal removed it, sending a plume of dust into the air. The machine underneath was unlike anything he had ever seen. Primitive in that it was constructed of wood. There was a platform, string pulled taut between frames, foot pedals, and an arm that looked like it moved.

“Is the loom operational?” He’d seen drawings in history books, but fabric technology had moved far past the looms powered by manual labor. He had no idea how the machine functioned.

“It’s a bit dusty, but it works.” Agatha brushed the dust off a stool. “I’ll tell you a secret, Hal. I agree with you that my family is loud. I used to come out here to have a moment to myself.”

“Emma said it is your workshop.”

“In theory, though I haven’t had time for dabbling in my projects since Oscar lost his sight. Speaking of projects, hold out your arms.” She demonstrated, holding her arms straight out from her sides. Hal copied. She then lifted her arms above her head.

“What is the point of this?” he asked, even as he lifted his arms above his head.

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