“Well . . . I’ve tried working at a museum. And art galleries. And offices. Nothing fit. It was like wearing a pair of too-small heels. You grin and bear it for a while, keep up appearances, try not to be a bother to everyone around you, but one day it’s too much and you have to step out of the shoes or amputate your toes. Know what I mean?”
“I hope that coming here was the stepping out of the shoes and not the toe amputation part of that,” he said. “But aye, I know what you mean. That’s how the armory started. I was going to work in a shite office every day, hating every minute of it. Coming home to a wife who thought she’d married a reliable office jockey keen on swords, then got met with the truth—she’d married an unreliable sword jockey who hated offices.”
His smile was rueful, and Portia tried to imagine him dressed in a suit, slogging to an office every day with a grimace on his face as he daydreamed of steel and battle.
“What happened?” She knew plenty of people who had divorced—it had been one of her reasons for never getting serious. Yeah, there were her parents but the data spoke for itself. Divorce was almost inevitable, but marriage didn’t have to be. It just seemed like a lot of work to end up miserable and trapped. She could get that anxiety for free without putting up with an annoying partner or wedding planning stress.
Tav chuckled. “Damned if I know. After making sure I had enough income coming in from the rent here, I quit my job and started apprenticing with a swordmaker I’d met through the martial arts stuff, and it was the first time since I’d graduated that I was happy to get up and go to work.
“Greer tried to be excited for me, to care because I did, but it just wasn’t what she wanted in her life—to be married to a niche tradesman. We grew apart.” He looked off into the distance, then smiled and shrugged. “She’s a good lassie. Living the life she wants now, just how I’m living the life I want. Which brings us back to you.”
“Did my parents put you up to this?” she asked.
“What?”
“This is their favorite question for me. Asking me what I’m doing with my life, and telling me I should be more like my sister, or more like them, or like . . . anyone but me. But I don’t know what I want,” she said. “I’ve been running from one thing to another for a long time. School, internship, school, fellowship, classes, drinking, and . . .” He didn’t need to know everything. “I’m almost thirty and I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.”
“I know that feeling,” he said. “Everyone acts like you’re just supposed to find what you love right away, and if you don’t, just do something you don’t love. And if you do neither of those things you’re being selfish.”
Portia’s throat went a little tight because that was the word that lay at the heart of every discussion with her parents, whether they said it aloud or not. And when all Portia wanted to do was make people happy, every insinuation otherwise was a reminder that no one, not even her family, could see through the veneer of hot mess to the real her.
“Well, what do you like to do?” he asked. “Besides annoy me?”
She wasn’t sure anyone besides Ledi had ever asked her that. She hadn’t had the answer before, but now . . . “I like figuring things out, like the website for the armory and how to get people into Mary’s bookshop. I like social media—you’ve gained over two thousand new followers in the past three weeks, by the way. I like . . . helping people. And making things with my hands, too.”
Tav shifted his bulk, leaning back in his seat. “So you’re just waiting to see which shoe fits, eh Freckerella?”
She didn’t quite like that comparison. People focused so much on the prince slipping on Cinderella’s lost shoe that they didn’t realize the real happily ever after was the moment she realized she was brave enough to go to the damned ball alone in the first place.
“I’m not waiting around for some fuckboy to bring me a shoe. I’m here, working for you. I’m finding my own shoe,” she said. “Do you know how hard finding the perfect pair of shoes is? Wait, I’ve seen your shoes. You don’t.”
“Ha. Ha. All right. I’ve got to go make some deliveries and I have a community meeting tonight, so I might not see you at dinner later.” He took a swig of his bottle of water and then stood, holding his tray. “Tomorrow is a forge day. No sleeping in.”
A rush of effervescent excitement went straight to Portia’s head. “Forge? I get to make a sword tomorrow? Finally?”
Her voice came out high-pitched and she would have been embarrassed if she wasn’t so damn souped up.
“Aye. You like making things with your hands, right? Meet me in the courtyard bright and early because I won’t wait for you if you’re late.”
“Yes, Sir Tavish, sir!” she said, saluting. He grinned as he walked away, and Portia sat for a moment with the carbonated happiness that fizzed in her.
She glanced at him as he took the steps up into the armory two at a time, and added Ass Man to the list of supervillain names she was compiling for him.
“Cheryl! I get to make a sword tomorrow!” She waved her hands in the air, an impromptu celebration dance, and Cheryl laughed.
“I’m not sure why you’d be happy to spend more time with that wanker, but I’m glad you get to do something that makes you happy.”
“Thanks,” Portia said. “Hey, do you want to do something this week maybe? Like, away from the armory?”
Cheryl’s brown eyes lit up. “Of course. There’s so much we can do! The Royal Mile, or a train out to the countryside, or I can take you to my parents’ neighborhood, or—”
A couple of teens walked up to the window and Cheryl gave her a quick smile that implied they’d finish the conversation later, after the customers had gone.
Portia reached to grab a fish ball, utensils be damned, and her fingers slid across something sticky and slick. She looked down at her plate and realized Tav had slid the last of his ribs onto her tray when she wasn’t looking.
She grinned as she bit into it, and told herself it didn’t mean anything at all that it really was the best rib she’d ever eaten.
Chapter 11
Okay, I was gonna get you started with something like a knife made with stock removal, but we’ll do this American style. ‘Go big or go home,’ or whatever it is you tossers say. We’re forging a longsword.”
Tav stood beside the forge, hands on his hips and swagger in his voice to hide his nerves. Yes, nerves. It was fucking ridiculous. He could forge with his eyes closed—or at the very least while squinting. But even prepping the forge had felt odd, like he was using someone else’s hands to gather the lengths of metal and wood, and to light the fire. That was mostly because someone else’s gaze was on him. Portia’s.
She stood before him now, tablet and electronic pencil in hand, diligently taking notes as he spoke. She was dressed rather casually, for her: a loose gray scoopneck T-shirt and black leggings. Both were made of soft fabrics that hugged her curves, and he was fairly certain that despite their casualness, they were both pricey designer items.
“Isn’t stock removal the more common technique?” she asked. “Tracing a pattern onto the steel and then grinding away the excess, leaving a blade?”
“Aye, but grinding away for hours requires a certain level of stamina.”
Portia’s studious gaze softened to something decidedly naughty. “I would imagine so.” She shook her head and laughed. “It’s going to be really hard to avoid innuendo today, isn’t it?”
Tav chuckled, felt the mood lighten a bit. “It’s a hazard of the job I’m afraid. Don’t worry, I can handle it.”
“Well, since the other hazards involve accidentally cutting a finger off or burning myself with molten metal, I’ll take Innuendo for $1,000, Tav.”
“In that case, here’s my eighteen-inch length of steel,” he said, pulling the thin flat metal from the worktable.
“Dear Lord,” Portia said, then pressed her lips together.
“Hey, you’re the one who pressed for these lessons, Freckles.” Tav gripped the steel and pointed it at her. “You had to have some idea they’d be like this.”