Chapter 8 Actions Speak Louder than Curds
ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN CURDS
The picnic was set up outside under a pergola covered in flowering vines that definitely shouldn’t have been blooming in December, but they were nevertheless heavy with blossoms. Tables groaned with food.
There were thick slices of rainbow cheddar that showed streaks of color through the pale creamy slabs, crusty bread still warm from the oven, gherkins and pepperoncini that sparkled in their jars.
“Now, then, my loves,” Blythe announced, “help yourselves to the feast while I pop back to the Creamery to coordinate our schedule with my helpers. The dwarves get a bit testy if I don’t give them lots of attention and precise timelines.”
She disappeared back toward the workrooms, though not before giving Bayard’s shoulder one last squeeze.
Over at the picnic table, Zephyr was explaining the components of a proper ploughman’s lunch to an interested group of the passengers.
Wren and Jasper stood together near the drinks table, away from the group, and Bayard noticed they were actually having a real conversation, not stilted or nervous, just two people genuinely enjoying each other’s company.
He was happy for the two of them, and a bit jealous as well.
If only things could be that easy with him and Exandra again.
Bayard set Fred’s carrier down next to Minerva. “Could you keep an eye on Fred for me? I just need to check something in the barn. The uh… ventilation… looked off earlier.”
It was a terrible excuse. Exandra’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
But she was also standing suddenly. “You know what?” she said to Zephyr, “I should do a perimeter check while everyone’s distracted. Make sure the premises are secure. I’d hate for there to be another incident.”
They moved in opposite directions, neither making eye contact with the other, but both heading toward different sides of the barn.
Bayard slipped into the barn through a side door, his heart thudding away. The wrapping room was still empty. The colorful muslin swayed gently overhead, casting rainbow shadows across the tables.
He knew what he was about to do was wrong. He knew it was destructive and childish and went against everything he’d spent his career protecting. But the thought of Exandra leaving, of having no reason to stay, of losing this precious opportunity with her, was more than he could bear.
His hands shook as he reached up and grabbed the first piece of muslin.
It came down easily, the fabric soft and ever so slightly damp.
He shoved it into a drawer under one of the worktables.
Then another. And another. Working quickly now, his heart pounding, he tore down the carefully dyed cloths and stashed them anywhere he could find space.
In drawers, in cabinets, behind bales of hay.
I’ll put them back later, he told himself. This isn’t permanent. Just enough to cause a delay. Just enough to keep her here.
At the opposite end of the barn, Exandra snuck inside through the stable.
She’d told herself she was just checking the perimeter. Looking for signs of any potential interlopers, if not for an actual Culture Vulture. She was still doing her job.
But the truth—the truth she could barely admit to herself—was that she was furious.
Furious and jealous of Blythe Meadowsweet for touching her Bayard.
Not that she had any right to think of him that way.
She was also furious with Bayard for not seeming to mind the fawning attention.
He’d seemed perfectly content to let the beautiful witch drool all over him like he was a hunk of her psychedelic cheese.
And most of all, Exandra was furious with herself for caring so much when she had no claim on him, no right to be possessive, no reason to feel this burning jealousy except—
Except she loved him.
She had always loved him. Would always love him. And would never be able to have him.
The rage that this thought unleashed was sudden and fierce.
Her hands found the nearest square of hanging muslin and tore it down.
Then another. She stamped them on the dirt floor, grinding the carefully dyed fabric under her boots, selfishly ruining hours of work because she couldn’t have what she wanted and it just wasn’t fair.
Bayard and Exandra worked their way toward each other through the vast barn, each consumed by their own guilt and desperation and grief, separated only by layers of hanging fabric.
Bayard grabbed another cloth, shoving it behind the rack of brown wrapping paper. Exandra tore down three more squares, crumpling them in her fists.
Bayard pushed past a curtain of orange and gold.
Exandra ducked under swaying squares of blue and green.
The rainbow light filtering through the muslin created an otherworldly atmosphere, turning everything soft and surreal.
They were each clearing a path, getting closer to each other.
Closer.
And closer.
And then, they were standing face to face, both reaching for the same square of purple cloth that cast them both in violet light.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other, frozen.
“What on earth are you doing?” Exandra whispered.
“Maybe you want to tell me what you are doing first?” Bayard shot back.
They looked long and hard at each other, neither brave enough to fully confess their wrongdoing. At last, Exandra broke the silence.
“Oh, gods,” Exandra said, her voice breaking. “Bayard, what are we—”
“I was investigating,” he said quickly. “I found evidence of tampering. Someone’s been in here, and I was trying to—”
“Oh! Me, too,” she said, seizing on the excuse. “I found evidence. Of tampering. That’s why I was—”
They both knew they were lying. They both knew the other one knew, too.
But admitting the truth meant admitting a great deal more, and neither of them was quite brave enough for that yet.
“We need to fix this,” Bayard said softly. “Before anyone sees.”
“Yes.” Exandra was already moving, gathering and shaking out the clothes she’d trampled. “The dwarves will be back soon.”
They worked together in silence at first, rehanging the muslin, smoothing out the wrinkles, retrieving the pieces Bayard had hidden. Their hands brushed occasionally, and each time they did, it generated a small electric shock.
“I’ve missed this,” Bayard admitted. He reached up to clip a yellow square back onto the line. “Working in the field together. Being partners.”
Exandra paused, a green cloth in her hands. “Yes. I’ve missed it, too.”
“Exandra, I need to tell you something—”
“No. Bayard, let me go first. There’s something I have to—”
“QUAAAAAACK!”
The sound was pure panic, coming from outside. Fred’s voice, high and distressed, followed by a deeper, more aggressive quacking.
They dropped everything and ran.