Page 9 of Tangwystle
I placed fresh water into the kettle, grateful for the heat of the hearth. A memory of Baz’s defined muscles made me dizzy. And how ridiculous was it to be all mixed up simply because I’d seen a man’s stomach?
I knew it to be rude if I asked Baz for his age, but he had no such qualms.
“How old are you?” he questioned, sitting back down at the table.
My heart dropped into my stomach when I realized my book from that morning remained on the table, open and face down, to save my place.
“T-twenty-six.” I cleared my throat and focused on finding jam for the scones.
“That’s only a year younger than me. And you’ve been alone here all this time?” He played with a tiny spoon, absently stirring his tea. I held up a jar of honey in offering. He shook his head no.
“Yes,” I answered.
“This is a rather large place to be taking care of it by yourself.”
Was I meant to hire someone else to help me?
“I’ve managed.” I offered him more tea.
“Thank you. Please sit down and join me.”
He sounded sincere, but part of me began to wonder if he was stupid. Or worse—pretending to be nice.
“Are you sure you don’t prefer going upstairs?” I asked.
“I’m bothering you.” He refilled his mug, steam rising. “You don’t like people in your kitchen.”
He didn’t give me time to try to deny this accusation. He informed me, “I won’t be taking my tea in the parlor. Or my meals in the dining room.”
My heart ticked as I listened attentively. It’d been a long time since I’d received orders, and I couldn’t get this wrong. I wouldn’t give him any reason to terminate my contract.
“I’ll dine here.” He poured tea into another cup that I hadn’t noticed. I realized a second later, it was meant for me. “You’ll find I’m not so fussy.”
I’m not sure what he meant by saying he wasn’t fussy. He’d arrived with fifteen bags, and he smiled in a way that only a man who’d only ever gotten what he wanted could.
“You’ll find that I can manage most things on my own,” he said, offering me a scone.
I reached for one, not knowing what else to do. He smiled again, his sapphire eyes practically twinkling.
Part of me knew he found me funny. Not in an amusing way. But more likewhat a strange thing I’ve found in my house. I was used to that, but under his direct eye contact, my skin warmed, and for just a moment, I wished I wasn’t such a strange thing. That I could smile back.
He’s your employer, not your friend!
My chin dipped as I continued to listen.
“I’m a terrible cook,” he said, and that tracked. He might act confident as he sat there next to me, drinking tea, but I doubted he knew how to work the stove. “Please have my meals prepared, and keep things tidy. I imagine I’ll have visitors. Tell me about the place.”
I inclined my head slightly, unsure of his question.
“I don’t like visitors,” he explained. “But I can’t imagine I’ll escape the odd visit from a businessman or a councilmember. So tell me, how awful can this place be?”
Memories skipped by. Blood on the grass, Gretel’s beautiful skin marred.
How could I tell my new employer it wasn’t Blackwell Manor that was awful, but rather the neighbors?
“Master Blackwell did not take visitors often either,” I said.
Boswell told me that when he was younger, if Master Blackwell had wished, he could’ve gained a seat on the Council. Had more of a say on town matters. But he hadn’t pursued it. Occasionally, important men came to the Manor, but the older he got, the more people left him alone.
