3. Sparks Fly
3
Sparks Fly
Over the last few years, Rosalind had grown accustomed to waking in the quiet hours of the morning. At first, she would read in bed until the clock struck a more reasonable hour, but it wasn't long before restlessness set in. Certain her time could be put to better use, she began venturing downstairs in search of something to do. Eventually, she succeeded in persuading Maria to let her help out in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for the household. In recent months, Maria had even gone so far as to teach her how to bake.
Now, Rosalind stood at the large stone counter in the center of the kitchen, her hair tucked into a loose bun and a determined look on her face. She pulled at the dough in front of her, stretching each end until her arms protested. With the weight of her body, she pressed into the dough, kneading it into submission slowly and deliberately. While she hadn’t yet developed the strength or confidence Maria had when baking, Rosalind was proud she was capable enough to prepare the bread on her own.
“You’re not who I was expecting to find in here.”
Rosalind jumped at the voice. She looked up to find Jonathan leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching her. Three days had passed since his return to Brighthall, and she had scarcely seen him. He spent the majority of his time in the study, emerging late at night after the rest of the house had retired to their rooms.
Since he kept to himself in the study during the day, she thought he’d have worn more casual attire, as he had in the past, but such was not the case. Today he wore a suit the color of storm clouds. Underneath his double-breasted jacket, he donned a crisp white shirt with black buttons, and a gold brooch was pinned at his collar.
Rosalind, on the other hand, had put little effort into her attire. Knowing she was going to bake today, she’d opted for a plain cotton dress that, to its credit, was once a lovely shade of turquoise. Now it was a very pale blue, having faded over time. True, she wore an apron, but still knew she would manage to get flour all over her dress.
“Good morning,” she greeted him. “If you’re looking for Maria, I can go get her. I suspect she’s in the laundry room.”
“No need.” Jonathan pushed himself off the doorframe and walked over to the stove. “I can help myself.” He poured himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee and approached the counter idly. “I didn’t know you baked,” he commented, taking a sip from his steaming cup.
“It’s a rather recent skill I’ve picked up,” she admitted sheepishly, eyeing the mess she had made on the counter. “Thought I might as well help out if I’m up at this hour.”
Jonathan nodded. “Early riser as well then? Have you always been that way? I don’t recall…” He trailed off.
“No, I suppose it’s been a while,” Rosalind said quietly.
It had been almost eight years since they were around one another for any real length of time. They had grown up spending much of their days in each other’s company—playing games, sharing meals, studying together. With Valentina, too, of course. Then Jonathan went off to university, the same year Lady Rashford passed away. He would return for the holidays and over long breaks, but his visits grew fewer and farther between as time went on. Afterward, he left for the capital to further his studies and now here they were, three and a half years later.
It wasn't that he'd forgotten about them; she knew that. He sent letters regularly and gifts for every special occasion. Valentina even made it out to the capital to visit him several times. Rosalind stayed behind because the thought of entering the most affluent city in Sauvign terrified her. High society in Denault Proper wasn’t particularly accepting of her, how much more in the capital?
Rosalind shook away the thoughts and turned her attention back to Jonathan. “Are you enjoying being back at Brighthall?” Or would he rather be back in the capital, she wondered.
Jonathan sighed. “Well, so far I have spent most of my time combing through decades of council meeting transcripts and notes my father and grandmother left behind. It’s dreadfully dull and a bit depressing, so I can’t say that has been all that enjoyable,” he said sardonically. “But,” he added, voice softening, “it’s been nice seeing everyone again.” He paused. “It’s odd, how some things change while others stay the same.” He peered around the room. “The house, for instance, looks and feels largely the same as it did when I was last here. But you”—Rosalind felt the weight of his gaze on her—“are not as I remembered.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “I could say the same of you.”
Their eyes held one another’s for a moment before Rosalind looked away, her nerves getting the best of her.
“For one thing,” she went on, her fingers drumming restlessly against the countertop, “you’re Chancellor now. That’s no small feat.” She hesitated. “I suppose I should refer to you as such from here on out?” She chided herself, not having meant to pose it as a question.
Jonathan set his cup down and trailed the counter's edge until he stood before her. “You may call me whatever you like,” he said gently, “though I must admit I’d prefer that you call me by my name, seeing as we’re old friends, are we not?”
Rosalind looked up at him, nodded, and smiled. “Yes, of course.”
Jonathan’s gaze fell to her lips and lingered ever so briefly before drawing up to meet her eyes again. Warmth crept up the back of Rosalind’s neck and bloomed in her cheeks. She absentmindedly drew a hand to her face as if to wipe away the blush.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “You have a bit of flour on your face.” He tapped his left cheek. “Right there,” he added, lips quirking upward.
Realizing the flour had likely come from her hand, Rosalind wiped at her face with the back of her forearm.
Jonathan chuckled. “I’m afraid there’s even more now.”
Rosalind wrinkled her nose in frustration and looked down at her hands and arms, coated in flour.
Jonathan stepped closer. “Here,” he said softly as he reached out a hand, “let me help you with—”
Sparks of gold light erupted in front of Rosalind’s face, and in their wake, she saw Jonathan shaking out his hand, mumbling profanities.
Rosalind winced. “Sorry about that…”
Jonathan let out a dry laugh. “No, it isn’t your fault. I’m the one who should apologize. For the cursing, for one. And because I seem to have forgotten myself.”
He straightened and glanced around the kitchen. He picked up a washcloth from the sink and held it out to her.
“Thank you.” She took the washcloth and began to wipe her face.
“I suppose this won’t be an issue for much longer.”
Rosalind tilted her head in question.
“The enchantment,” he clarified. “What with your birthday only about a month away now.”
“Oh, yes,” Rosalind said with a half-smile.
If the proverb is true, she thought. Growing up, she’d clung to every word of it, whispering it into existence every night like a wish or a prayer. She told herself everything would be alright in the end because the enchantment had an expiration date. She just had to be patient.
Kept safe from all of he, until two and twenty, a border born shall be.
But in recent months, doubt began to weasel its way into her consciousness. What if the proverb was wrong? What if the enchantment didn’t lift on her twenty-second birthday? Or worse. What if it never does? It would be utterly devastating to hope with abandon after all these years, only for it not to happen. And so, she decided to temper her expectations and protect her heart as best she could by embracing the doubt. To let it eclipse whatever hopes she had of being normal, of being like everybody else.
“A man’s touch isn’t so different from a woman’s if that’s what concerns you,” Jonathan explained, seeming to sense her apprehension. “Should you like to see for yourself, I humbly offer my services.” He rested a hand on his chest. “Because as Chancellor, I am, above all else, a servant to the people.” He lowered himself into a deep bow.
Rosalind stared at him wide-eyed, and her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. That, or she must have misunderstood him because, if her ears were to be believed, he was implying something altogether indecent. For a second time that morning, her cheeks burned so hot she feared they might ignite.
She got her answer as Jonathan returned to full height and revealed a mischievous grin. He had spoken in jest, she realized, to allay her nerves. Feelings of gratitude and relief—and something else she couldn’t quite decipher—washed over her culminating in a bubble of nervous laughter.
“How noble of you,” she quipped .
Their eyes met and Rosalind knew then what that something else had been. How ridiculous, she thought, to feel a tinge of disappointment at it only being in jest.
The rear door to the kitchen swung open and Rosalind turned to see Maria shuffling into the room with a basket full of crisp linens.
“Jonathan,” she exclaimed with a warm smile. “Oh good, looks like you’ve found the coffee.”
“That I have,” Jonathan replied, lifting his cup to her. “Stumbled upon Ros here as well.”
Rosalind bit back a smile at the affectionate way he referred to her. She hadn’t heard him call her that in quite some time.
“I had hoped to speak to you about hosting a dinner next week for the council,” Jonathan remarked as he maneuvered his way over to Maria and relieved her of the linen basket. The pair chatted amiably as they headed for the hallway beyond the kitchen. Just before disappearing through the doorway, Jonathan threw a last glance at Rosalind and smiled.
She dusted her hands in a fresh coat of flour and returned to the task at hand, attempting to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.