Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
J oss watched her leave and fought the urge to go after her. His heart still beat fast, even after she’d disappeared into the crowd. He felt rumpled and restless, as if something momentous had just occurred.
She was devastatingly lovely but also dangerous. He knew it instinctively. That boom of thunder that had come out of nowhere . . . He felt as if he’d survived an encounter with a lioness—or perhaps a vengeful goddess was more correct, given those flashing hazel eyes and curling auburn hair. Even his bauble had been frightened of her.
“Merlin’s beard,” he muttered, scowling at the orb as it came floating out from behind his back. “What’s the matter with you?” He knew he was asking the same question of himself. “Scared of a girl like that?”
“And so you should be,” Jarby told him. “That wee girl could squash you like a bug with just a twitch of her eye. She wouldn’t even have to blink.”
“That powerful, is she?”
“And more so. And she’s well loved by all of us attached to the Night Market, so watch your step, lad.”
“No worries. I am only planning to step away.” He’d watched her step away, though. He couldn’t help it. She wore a dark navy gown, long sleeved and high necked, but form fitting. She most definitely had a form worth fitting. And as she’d moved, he’d noted the long slit in the front of her gown and glimpsed the tight trousers she wore underneath. They were of the same color and not easy to see in the normal scheme of things, but it was a modification that would be counted as scandalous in some circles. Practical, without a doubt, and likely comfortable. But definitely titillating.
He shook his head to clear it of the vision of her. “Before I go, may I ask a question?”
Jarby waited, a brow raised.
“My bauble.” Joss gestured. “Have you ever created such an object yourself?”
The cragged creature eyed the glowing ball with curiosity. “It’s a siphoning orb?”
Joss nodded.
“Nay, lad.” Jarby shook his head. “Objects like that are not in my wheelhouse.”
“Do you know of anyone who does create such things?”
“I’m sorry. There are not many capable of such a feat. It takes a good amount of skill to craft such a thing and even more magic.”
He’d heard similar answers before and each time it made him wonder. The Hagans were good at wresting magic away, but they had precious little power of their own. It was why he suspected the family heirloom had not been crafted by his family at all. “Do you know where I might find such a craftsman?”
Joss held his breath as Jarby stroked his chin, thinking.
“I’ve seen one before,” the little man admitted reluctantly. “But it was a dozen years ago or more, and I don’t know who cracked the secret of it, to make it. There were whispers, but that’s all they were. No one knew where it came from.”
Joss persisted. “Do you know how their siphoning magic works?”
“Nay. As I said, it’s not my area of knowledge.”
“And there’s never been such a craftsman associated with the Night Market?”
“Not that I know of, and I’ve been with the market for nearly fifteen years.”
“That woman?—”
“Miss Clio,” Jarby interrupted.
“She seemed to have a strong reaction to the sight of it.”
Jarby shrugged. “She has her own ways. Her own interests, too. I wouldn’t presume to interfere with them.” The weathered man tilted his head to look up at Joss. “Listen, I do thank you for your help, lad. ’Twas well-meant and fairly carried out, even if it wasn’t necessary. You had no way to know.”
“You are welcome. Thank you for tolerating my questions.” With a nod, Joss took his leave and moved on through the market. He’d taken a dozen steps before he realized his bauble was still hovering where he’d left it. Thunder still rumbled in the distance as he watched it bobbing slightly in the air. Joss got the distinct impression it was watching after the girl.
And suddenly, he knew that something momentous had indeed just occurred. He forced himself to entertain the niggling suspicion sneaking up his spine. That feeling of familiarity when he’d entered the market. The awe-inspiring power the girl had emanated. He’d recognized the warmth of it, the golden glow, the . . . sweet and spicy flavor of it.
His wanderings were supposed to have a purpose, after all. However much he tended to ignore the family mission and pursue his own interests, he was supposed to be engaged in the family hunt. The bauble was supposed to help lead him to find the missing piece of the Hagan puzzle.
The bauble will know , his great-uncle had told him after the orb had chosen him. It will recognize the magic that created it, that filled it with so much power. Follow it, boy. Find what we have looked so long for.
In the several years that Joss and the bauble had been journeying, it had never had such a reaction. It generally stuck to him and paid no one else any mind. But today, it had darted behind him when the girl had appeared. He’d thought it due to the palpable aura of her magic, but now it hovered, as if lovelorn, watching the spot where she had disappeared.
And Joss had to wonder. Could this be it? Had the bauble been shy rather than frightened? Could this girl be what he was looking for? Or might she be able to lead him to it?
And the most important question of all. Did he wish to know the truth of it?
“Come, now,” he said quietly. The orb gave itself a shake and zipped to his side, following in his wake once more.
His mind whirled as Joss continued to explore the market. As the light faded, the torches and lanterns brightened. Every sort of creature roamed the grassy trails. He spotted a goblin couple perusing lengths of sparkling fabric. Sprites flitted through the air and Pixies traded lush fruits for bottles of exotic soils. Joss followed the sound of laughter and found a group of boys at a pastry stall.
“Listen!” A dark-haired youth took a huge bite of a layered, honey covered confection. He closed his eyes in bliss and said something that came out in what sounded like Ancient Greek. He laughed and all of his friends hooted as he spewed crumbs at them.
“Now me!” Another lad bit into a buttery, layered pastry. He swallowed audibly, then burst into impassioned French.
“My turn!” A blonde boy took a nibble of a bubbly-crusted hand pie, but when he opened his mouth, his eyes widened as a stream of bubbles emerged instead of words.
Behind a table half filled with trays of baked goods, a stout, grey-haired woman smiled at their antics. Turning to feed the fire beneath her round, stone oven, she reached for a log, only to groan out loud as the whole stack came tumbling down.
Joss moved quickly, tucking the bauble in a pocket as he moved to help her. “Here, let me.”
She paused and watched him carefully.
“You have more customers,” he said with a nod.
She ran a shrewd eye over him, then gave a shrug. “Thank you.”
A group of shoppers regaled the older woman with eager questions about her pastries as Joss restacked the wood. He paused a moment, listening as another crack of thunder sounded, thinking as he finished and gave a good look around the stall.
The three-sides-open tent held lovely, carved tables covered in trays of pastries and breads at the front. The oven and woodpile took up the back. One side held a workbench with a marbled top and a tiered cart of bowls, utensils and ingredients. He noticed two large glass canisters for flour. One stood empty, the other very low indeed.
An idea began to form. Ducking behind the oven and woodpile, he moved a flap of tent fabric aside and found a brightly painted wagon parked behind. A door at the back of it would lead to her living quarters, he presumed, but there were long, low cupboards beneath. He opened one to find a cold box holding ice, butter and cream. The other held sacks of flour and salt.
Joss stared at the supplies while he debated with himself. He had a decision to make and it must be made now.
Before dawn the Night Market would empty. When the sun cracked the horizon, there was no guarantee that the market would still be here in Newquay. It moved randomly and at its own whim, if rumor was to be believed. No one knew where it would be found from one day to the next. Not even the vendors.
Not even the auburn-haired vixen that ran the place?
He had no way of knowing. But if he meant to explore the possibility that she was connected to the Hagans, he would have to find a way to connect himself to the Night Market so that he could travel with it.
Did he mean to pursue it, though?
He was conflicted. When he was shipped from his home to the English branch of the Hagans, he’d been tolerated, not welcomed. Not comforted for his loss, accepted or loved. None of those concepts seemed to belong to the family vocabulary. It was why he never felt guilty for exploring his own interests as he traveled. Did he truly wish to subject anyone or anything else to their dubious embrace?
He should just leave now and move on.
Several things held him back.
When she’d first flashed onto that scene with the Promethean boys, he’d promptly forgotten the conflict. Staring into her face, all pale skin and pink lips set in a pleasant, determined smile, he'd been impressed with her calm confidence. Her eyes, in variegated shades of green flecked with gold, had set him in mind of sunshine and spring leaves. She’d looked warm and welcoming, and at the same time, so utterly assured. He’d felt his reaction to her deep inside, a hard strike of a bell—and honestly, he could still feel the long vibration of it.
Then came that moment when the girl had glimpsed his golden orb. She had been stricken with a look of both shock and utter longing. She’d recognized his bauble. He was nearly sure of it. How? Why?
And the moment he’d said family heirloom —she’d blazed with excitement for a single breath, but then she’d tamped it all down with something that looked like despair.
He burned to know why. To know her.
After all, even if he found she was connected to the Hagan mystery, Joss did not have to share with them what he learned.
He repeated it, saying it out loud to the sacks of flour. He took several deep breaths, then he hoisted a heavy sack and threw it over his shoulder.
The baker passed over a bag to the last of the group of shoppers, then turned to watch him place the sack on the workbench. “Thank you, lad. That’s very considerate.”
“I noticed you were running low out here.” Her magical aura was filled with soft greens and caretaking vibrations, along with signs of earthy humor. He gave her a nod. “My name is Joss.”
“You can call me Droose. It’s Drusilla, rightly, but it’s always sounded too wicked for my taste.”
He grinned. “Well, my last name is Hagan, so I understand not being keen on undeserved labels.”
Her eyes widened, but she merely looked him over again. “You don’t sound like a Hagan.”
He shrugged. “Surely, you do not manage all of this yourself?” He waved a hand.
“Not usually, but my Karl injured himself, tripping over a tent stake. He’s laid up at our son’s home in Yorkshire, his leg in a splint. Our Georgie might have come to take his place, but his wife is shortly to present us with our first grandchild.” She shrugged. “And so I carry on, as best I can.”
Joss pursed his lips. “I had meant to travel to Truro next, but there is no urgency . . . and I admit, I find myself intrigued with the Night Market. Could you, perhaps, use a helper? A temporary position, of course. I could chop wood, tend to your fire, fetch supplies and perhaps carry a tray out into the market to direct business your way.”
Instead of answering, Droose pulled a gold locket out from behind her apron and over her head. She thrust it toward him. “This is my Karl.”
He took it and gazed down at a miniature painting of an older man, his hair cut close and his smiling face wreathed in lines. “Very nice,” Joss said dutifully.
He nearly dropped the locket when the image suddenly shook its head and peered up at him. “Here, now! What’s this?” the older man’s image demanded. “Droose! Have you taken your chance to step out on me?”
“’Twould serve you right, should I do so, you big lug.” Droose leaned over to address her husband’s image. “I swear, you arranged this accident purely so that you may get your hands on that babe before me.”
“I never! If you must set blame, take it up with the Market! That tent stake has never been in that spot before.”
Droose’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “Karl! You may have tripped over the truth, there! Do you know, there’s been thunder in the air all afternoon?” She shot a look at Joss.
Karl looked surprised. “Thunder? Well, now. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”
“Ages. Indeed.”
Karl peered upward. “And have you only just arrived at the Night Market today, lad?”
Joss nodded.
“And what gave you the notion to sign on to help my dear Droose?”
He shrugged. “Well, I am traveling, in any case. She looked as if she could use a bit of help, and I thought I might as well be of use.”
“And why is it you are traveling, lad?”
“I’m just . . . exploring. Looking for something.” He paused. “But not what I’m meant to be looking for.” Joss wasn’t really sure where that last part came from. “If you do not approve, sir, I will, of course, move on.”
Karl’s image twisted to peer at his wife. She gave a shake of her head.
“Nay, nay. You seem a fine, strapping lad. I’m sure you’ll be a boon to my girl.” He raised a brow. “I’ll have a promise from you, though.”
“Yes?”
“Just don’t go making Droose sad, will you? It gets into the dough, and it’s bad business to make the customers cry.”
“I do so promise,” Joss said easily. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir . . . How long do you think you will be laid up?”
“Oh, just a fortnight or so. No more than a month, the sawbones promises.”
Joss nodded. A few weeks should be enough time for him to get some answers.
Karl stretched his neck to look at his wife again. “You’ll have to get him approved and signed, my dear.”
“I know that,” his wife answered testily. “But I wanted your opinion first.”
“Ahh, thank you, my sweet. And I do miss you. Something fierce. Especially at night.”
“Oh, go on with you!” Droose blushed. She took the locket back and blew him a kiss. “We’re off, then.”
“Good luck, lad!”
The baker restored her necklace and set out a sign telling customers that she would return before she beckoned for Joss to follow her. “I don’t see how the ladies could object to you, lad, but you’ll need to sign a contract to stay, even if it’s only for just a few weeks,” she said as she bustled down one lane and up another.
“I suppose it’s only good business.”
“It’s more than that. You’ll need to give it a drop of your blood—just a small one. It’s so that the Night Market will know you for one of its own and bring you along when we depart.”
“When will that be?”
“Only the Market knows! It has its own ways. I give it full credit, though. It always seems to know what’s best.”
“Who are the ladies?” He hoped to gain a little more information before he met with the auburn-haired girl again.
“Miss Maret and Miss Clio. Good women. Powerful witches. You’ll see.” Droose walked on, exchanging a wave or a word with the other vendors as she went. At last, she stopped before a tent that looked a bit faded and shabby compared to the others. “Here we are.”
Joss followed her in and stopped to marvel at the sheer number of objects crammed into the space—which appeared larger than it rightfully should.
“Droose! You’ve heard it, then? The thunder?”
“And so I have, Miss Maret.” The baker spoke to an old woman who sat in a corner, carding wool. They both glanced up as another rumble sounded.
“She set off to see about a disturbance at Jarby’s stall,” the old woman said, sounding worried. “It’s been sounding about up there ever since. Have you heard or seen anything?”
“Not a thing.” Droose frowned. “Do you think she’ll be needing help, then?” She sounded doubtful.
“If you are both speaking of the young lady with mahogany hair, then she settled that problem some time ago.” Joss tried to sound reassuring.
“You’ve seen her, then?” Droose asked, surprised.
“I was there.”
“And you weren’t banished?” Miss Maret asked.
“No one was banished.”
The two women exchanged glances.
“Will you tell me just who this young man is, then?” the older woman asked.
“The lad’s a newcomer,” Droose told her. “He’s offered to sign on to help me about the stall until Karl is healed.”
“Has he?” The old woman ran an assessing eye over him, then glanced down at the fluff of wool in her lap. “I did wonder why my wool had gone this particular shade of dusty blue, but now I see. It will match your coloring just perfectly.”
Joss frowned.
“Should we call her in to consult her, do you think?” Droose asked.
“With that thunder sounding? Likely not.”
“Will the Night Market have him?”
Both women glanced toward a pedestal, where a squat lantern was held by an elaborately carved pot stand shaped like a dragon. “It’s holding steady,” Miss Maret said. She shrugged. “Test him, then.”
Droose moved to a desk and pulled a sheet of vellum from a drawer. Taking up a quill, she began to scratch upon it. “I’ll make it a length of two to four weeks,” she said, beckoning him. “Now, sign here.” She pulled a pin from a jar on the desk. “And give your finger a prick and put a drop of blood under your name.”
He did as he was bid, sticking his finger in his mouth as Droose handed the sheet to the older woman.
Miss Maret gave him a solemn look. “If the Market doesn’t want you, the contract will burn—and you will have to leave right away.”
Joss started to ask a question, but she’d already turned away and thrust the vellum into the flame in the lantern. It licked along the edge and crept up to where his signature and blood marked it. For a moment, the flames lingered there. The eyes of the dragon began to glow and it felt as if they looked right through him. Slowly, the flames withdrew and left the sheet whole.
Miss Maret handed it over to Droose. “Put it in the bottom drawer, if you will.” She grinned in Joss’s direction. “Well, son. We’ve started something here. I feel it in my bones.” She shook her head. “I just hope you’ve the strength to finish it.”
Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and he felt his bauble move restlessly in his pocket. He didn’t say it aloud, but he hoped so, too.
Clio spent the afternoon and evening prowling. She left the boundaries of the Night Market and walked the cliff-side paths outside of the seaside town of Newquay, letting the thunder follow and keeping largely to herself.
How long had she worried, wondered, and sought out information about her past, about her family? All these years and she’d never had even a hint of an answer—until now. And what did she do? She turned tail and ran, feeling raw and exposed.
Was it because she had been attracted to the messenger? She had to admit it, if only to herself. The stranger had been nearly her ideal, after all. Tall, strong, handsome and on the side of justice, if Jarby’s attitude was any indication. Her response had been swift and strong—and immediately tempered by wariness.
Her parents had been killed . Cut down without mercy. She’d often wondered if the baubles had been the reason. Rare and valuable—and she could not recall seeing them when she emerged from her hiding place. Taken by the raiders?
And now a bauble showed up, connected to a man involved in an altercation that surely would have ended in a brawl without her intervention.
She’d thought about tracking him down before he left the market. About demanding answers. But the thunder following in her wake had stopped her. Her emotions were in turmoil. She was not in control.
She hated not being in control.
Don’t let your temper get away from you, dearest Clio. You are powerful. You don’t wish to hurt anyone.
Better not to confront him directly, then. For her own sake, as well as his. But Jarby had seemed to like him. She could ask her friend what he knew of the stranger. Come at the problem from the side. Carefully.
With that decision made, she’d been able to rest at last. The rumble of thunder had faded as she’d returned to her tent. She’d slept—and when she awoke, she held still and listened. No sound of the surf. No flapping of the tent in the sea breeze. Well. The Night Market had moved again.
Good.
Athena’s perch was still empty. She’d likely gone out hunting last night. She would find her way back, even though the market had shifted spots. She always did.
Dressing quickly, Clio drank down a cup of cold tea and grabbed up hunks of bread and cheese. Leaving the tent flap open, she strolled out beyond the boundaries to see where they had landed.
It took her a moment to recognize it. The market had settled into a long, low field that sprawled out from a terraced slope at one end. A rural site in Gloucestershire. She remembered the collection of ancient ruins at the top plateau. The Market had been here before, but not often. The last time, Giosetta, the fortune teller who traveled with them, had spoken of the spirits that roamed the ruins clad in tunics and flowing mantles in the fashion of the ancient Roman conquerors.
Clio pursed her lips. The crowds would be smaller for the day or two that they stayed, but it was good to get out to meet the magical folk in the remote areas, too. She sat on the slope and absorbed the early morning peace while she finished her breakfast. Afterward, she went to check in with Maret before she made the rounds, greeting all the vendors who were up and out, making sure everyone had made the shift easily, and that nothing would prevent them all from greeting a new group of customers today.
It took a while. Some of them held back or looked at her warily, as if recalling yesterday’s stormy skies. But she persevered. It fell to her to stay connected with everyone who traveled with the Night Market. To listen to them, to celebrate their victories, to solve problems and to be sure that conflicts were dealt with quickly. She didn’t mind. In fact, this was one of her favorite bits of her position. These people cared for her, even though some of them had drawn away and grown distant as she took on more responsibilities that had once fallen to Maret.
Perhaps that had been another reason why she had turned away from that Viking yesterday. She always felt a little guilty, seeking out information about who she was and where she’d come from. As if her life, her odd, extended circle of friends, wasn’t enough.
And yet, her heart beat a little faster as she made her way to Jarby’s stall. She’d saved him for last, and the first shoppers were already drifting in.
“Good morning.” Clio watched as her friend arranged a shelf of blue and violet swirled goblets. “Those are new, are they not? Lovely. I suppose that means you had no further trouble with that gang of Prometheans?”
Jarby grunted. “Just the opposite. I think I had a few empathetic sales from shoppers who had run-ins with those louts before you gave them the order to behave.”
“Their mischief was escalating, then?”
“I’d say their leader was spoiling for a fight. He almost got one.”
“From that would-be Viking?” She strove for nonchalance, but she could not suppress the jolt in her belly at the thought of his broad form, his tall boots and his longish hair. “I felt barely a whisper of power from him.”
“Aye, but the lad had courage and wit, and he looked like he knew what he was about. I expect he could have held his own with that crew.”
“So he’s an experienced brawler? That’s hardly an endorsement.”
“Depends on who he’s brawling with and why,” Jarby said with a shrug.
“Did you learn his name?”
“Nay. He didn’t stay long after you left. Just long enough to ask if I could make a bauble like his and to probe a bit to see if I knew anything of them. Where they come from, how they work.”
Clio frowned. “Wait. He was trying to find information about that bauble?”
“Aye.”
“But . . . It appeared to be . . . attached to him in some way. A family heirloom, he said. Why would he not know its history? Its function?”
“How would I know?”
She huffed her frustration and disappointment.
Jarby eyed her. “If you want to know so badly, why not ask him?”
“Who knows when next we will return to Newquay? Or even Cornwall?”
“Well, then. It’s a good thing he’s not in Newquay.” Jarby pointed with his chin. “He’s likely just a couple of lanes that way.”
“What?” Clio stared. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw the lad just a few minutes ago, carrying a tray of pastries and searching out the early shoppers.”
“What?” Alarm flared, as well as . . . interest. She pushed it down. “How? Why?”
“As I said?—”
“Yes. I know. I’ll ask him myself.” Clio turned on her heel and stalked off in search of a Viking.
She found him several minutes later, selling pastries to a group of farm laborers. She stalked toward him, feeling annoyed at the excitement rising inside her and silently ordering her body to stop reacting to the mere sight of him.
But, but . . . he looked so big and the sun was glinting in his hair and he carried one of Droose’s trays as if it were nothing, when she knew very well how heavy it was. The farm lads passed her, chewing happily. She reached the Viking just after a tiny, grey-haired lady approached him from the opposite direction.
“Why do you not allow me to show you the way to the baked goods stall?” he suggested to his customer. “There is a larger selection there.”
“Oh, but these tarts look very fine, indeed,” the woman assured him. “I’ll just take one of these.”
“You might wish to choose another pastry, ma’am,” he hedged.
“Why?”
“Because some of Droose’s pastries come with unexpected side effects,” he explained.
“Oh, yes. So I recall, from the Night Market’s last visit here. It’s all part of the fun, isn’t it?” The woman reached for a tart, but the Viking took a half step back. Had his face turned red?
“Yes, but these are gooseberry tarts,” he told her.
The implication hit Clio at the same time as understanding dawned on the woman’s face. The customer’s eyes lit up, and with a wicked grin, she snatched up a tart and took a bite. She gave a little jump and a snort of delight. “Oh, yes! They are, aren’t they?”
The Viking threw back his head and laughed—and Clio stilled. She stared at the length of his imperial nose, at the flash of his white teeth, at the small lines that formed at the corners of his icy blue eyes—and she suddenly felt as if she’d forgotten to get dressed this morning.
Wait. No. It was the opposite. Surely, she must have put on too many clothes today. Why else should she feel so . . . hot? Prickly? Why else was there this odd sensation moving along her skin, leaping and dancing and keeping time with the sound of his mirth?
The old woman finished the rest of her tart before she raised a brow at Clio, hovering behind him. “Good morning, my dear. Did you wish to purchase a tart? They are highly satisfactory.”
Clio swallowed. “Thank you, no.” She stiffened her spine as the Viking turned, and she addressed him directly. “What, exactly, are you doing?”
The laughter faded from his face. “Good morning, miss,” he said pointedly.
She sighed. “Good morning. Now, what are you up to?”
One massive shoulder lifted. “Selling pastries, miss. What else?”
“What else?” It was the what else that concerned her. “What are you doing here?”
“Did I not just answer that question? In any case, I should think it is fairly obvious.”
“Yes. Yes. Selling pastries. Why? Why are you selling Droose’s pastries?”
“Because it is my work, miss.”
“Your work?”
“Indeed. Part of my duties.” He spoke slowly. Just to agitate her, she felt sure. “As stipulated in my contract.”
“You have a contract?” she said in disbelief. How had that happened? “ You signed a contract with the Night Market?”
He nodded.
She straightened. “Well, I run the Night Market.”
“And yet, the agreement is between me and Droose.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You are Miss Clio, are you not?”
She paused. “Yes.”
“It is a pleasure to formally meet you, Miss Clio, but your name did not appear anywhere on that agreement.” He shot her a disdainful look and turned back to his customer. “Shall I escort you along to Droose’s stall, madam? If you enjoyed the tart, I feel sure you will like the French buns.”
The old woman’s eyes lit up, but Clio tapped him on the shoulder. The wide, rock-hard shoulder. “Excuse me, but I am going to need more of an explanation. When did you sign a contract?” She narrowed her eyes. “Where is your bauble? What is your name ?”
His brow raised. “I’m sorry. That is quite a collection of questions and I am meant to assist Droose. You are distracting me and keeping me from her business. If you wish to talk with me, the least you could do is buy a pastry.”
She eyed the tarts. Everything Droose baked was delicious. She knew it firsthand, but she would be dragged through a briar patch backward before she ate a gooseberry tart in front of this man. “I’ll take one and eat it later.”
“That will be a shilling, then, please.”
“A shilling?” She allowed the shock to sound in her tone. “Since when does Droose charge a shilling for a single pastry?”
“Since you have begun diverting me and keeping me from emptying my tray.”
She sighed. “Fine.” She reached for a pastry, but he turned away.
“The shilling first, if you please.”
“Start an account on credit for me,” she snapped. “I’ll pay Droose later.”
“I’m sorry, but if you wish to start a line of credit, you’ll have to purchase the two-pound minimum.”
Her jaw dropped. “You just made that up.”
“It’s just good business.”
The old woman was turning her head from one of them to the other. “This is better than the theater,” she said softly.
“Do you know how many pastries I would have to eat to reach two pounds?” Clio asked, outraged. Once again, she seemed to have lost control of the situation.
He ran an experienced eye up and down and over her. “Two pounds? It wouldn’t do you a bit of harm.”
She gaped at him.
“He’s right,” the old woman said. “You are very thin, my dear. Many men do like a bit of a cushion.” She winked at the Viking. “For the pushin’.”
“I . . . I . . .” She could not find a satisfactory answer.
He was valiantly biting back laughter—and abruptly, Clio was too. But she would not give in. Pressing her lips together, she gave him the same sort of insolent, assessing look that he’d cast over her. “Very well. Peddle your pastries. But I have questions that need answers. Tell Droose that I need a few minutes of your time when she can spare you.”
He shrugged. “She keeps me very busy.”
“I believe it.” She let her gaze linger on the wide planes of his chest. “Perhaps she is merely worried about you gaining two pounds. Or more.” She lifted a shoulder. “Not all women like their men . . . bulky.”
His jaw dropped.
Reaching out, she plucked a tart from the tray. “I’ll try to catch you when you are not so busy.”
Turning, she walked away. She could practically feel the weight of his gaze on her, so she kept her back straight and her stride rigid, but she heard it when he called out.
“I’ve seen Karl! I know Droose doesn’t mind a bit of bulk!”
She kept going, but when she rounded the corner and escaped his line of sight, she grinned and took a bite of the tart. And she laughed as she let it propel her forward and back to work.