“Are you any good at making beds?”
She bites the top of her lip and looks down.
“Yes,” she says seriously.
When she looks up again, she sees that he is smiling. Her cheeks redden, and Owen feels a quickening in his chest. Though he can’t help noticing there is history and sadness there, too, behind the modesty.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get used to my poor attempts at humor. Your other skills will be used as well, I daresay. We need all the help we can get.
“When can you start?”
“Whenever you wish,” she says. “From now.”
“Good,” he says, reaching to shake her hand again, and eager to feel it once more in his own. “From now, it is.”