Page 6 of A Magic Deep & Drowning

The man was shameless, trying to flatter her like that, but nonetheless she glowed at the compliment. “Why have you come back then? Did he find your report lacking?” Clara burned with curiosity about her betrothed—what sort of man sent a spy to the house of his intended?

The spy in question regarded her, some of the humor leaving his eyes. “Yesterday I came on business for my master, but today, I came only for myself.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “I wanted to see you again,” he elaborated.

Flustered at his directness, she fidgeted with the wilting stems in her hands. “Well, Inka will be sorely disappointed. She said she’d never seen such quality herring in years.” Indeed, the fish had been so fresh they had tasted as if they’d leapt right out of the water and onto Clara’s plate.

Looking around he asked, “And where is your guard dog today?”

It took her a moment to understand his meaning. “Who, Helma? Don’t call her a dog, she is only trying to stay on my mother’s good side, and I don’t always make it easy for her.” Clara nodded toward the flowers in her basket. “And the flowers this time of year make her sneeze, so I have the morning to myself.”

“And here I have intruded upon your solitude. Forgive me.” He bobbed his head and turned to leave.

“Oh, no. Wait!” Clara said a little too quickly. When he turned back with a raised brow, blood rushed to her cheeks. “Please,” she said, composing herself, “I would welcome your company.” New faces and lively conversation were so rare inher world, and the young man had such a pleasant way of speaking, such a comfortable warmth about him.

“I suppose I could tarry a little longer, gather some more information to take back to my master.”

“I can’t see how you will have time—he is due presently.”

She had hardly noticed that they had started walking, slowly, keeping to the shaded edge of the canal where they were hidden from view of the house. Occasionally Clara would stoop to snip up a few flowers, or her companion would reach up and wordlessly pluck a blossom out of a tree for her. She had not realized in the kitchen when he was holding the crates quite how tall he was. He stood a good head above her, easily able to pull down apple blossoms from the higher branches.

“Thank you for the orange,” she said presently. “That was kind of you to remember, and to send it up.”

“Orange? I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said gazing straight ahead of him. Only the tiniest glint in his eye said that he was pleased.

She smiled. “Well, it was sweet and lovely. Somehow even better than those that the fishmonger’s boy usually brings me.” She stopped short and looked up at him, a terrible realization dawning on her. “I don’t know your name. You’ve let me go on all this time without even an introduction.”

“In your case, it is not needed,” he said. “You’re Clara, only daughter of the great van Wieren family. You’re twenty years old, and soon to be married to my master, Mr. Edema.”

There was something in his voice that caused her to look at him, really look at his remarkably colored eyes, the defined line of his jaw. He looked extraordinary when she compared him to her father’s associates, who prided themselves on having narrow calves under their silk breeches, and slender waists. They were peacocks, all puffed-up finery and pride and completely useless. But this man was altogether a different kind of bird, wild and free, with a golden tongue.

“You’ll make me blush if you go on staring at me in that way,” he said, cutting into her thoughts.

Hiding her own growing color, she swept her glance away. “Why do I have the impression that it would take a great deal more than that to make you blush? In any case, you still have me at a disadvantage,” she said. “What is your name?”

“A fine lady such as yourself, interested in my humble name? I’m flattered.” He stuck out his hand as if he were introducing himself to another man. “Maurits de Vis.”

Without a blink of hesitation, she put her hand into his and shook it. His grip was strong and cool to the touch, not at all rough or calloused the way she assumed the hand of a man of his class would be.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. de Vis.”

“Maurits,” he gently corrected her.

By now her basket was overflowing with flowers, far more than she would need to make a bouquet. In fact, she had nearly forgotten the reason for her walk outside in the first place. Her heart dropped a little at the prospect of spending an afternoon in the house, making pleasantries with her intended.

He must have noticed the change in her face as she gazed at the basket. “Do you always arrange the flowers for your house?”

“No, I’m quite hopeless at them actually—my mother’s maid usually does them. These are for... something else.” She could not bring herself to tell him that they were for his master, though heaven knew why he would care.

He frowned a little, but did not press her on their purpose. Instead, he asked, “And which is your favorite?”

She had never really thought about it before. “They’re all beautiful,” she said as she let her gaze wander over the frills of pinks and blues in her basket. “They each have their own unique personality. I rather find that more interesting than putting them together in a pleasing manner.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” she said, considering it. “Roses are thorny and winding, but cut them and bring them inside and they will stand straight and obedient in a vase. Not tulips, though. Tulips will grow straight up, neat and orderly when they’re outside, but cut them and bring them inside and they go all curvy and wild, reaching for the sun.”

He slanted her a look. “So you’re a tulip then, straining for the sun, obedient to no man.” His voice was light, but there was something scrutinizing in his gaze.

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