Page 33 of The Spinster & the Sock

I open my eyes, scan the historical wonder around me, and find Jo standing right where I left her—yellow gown dancing with the breeze and the sun glinting off the stone dangling on a thin chain around her neck.

“I forgot,” I say hurriedly as I jog over to Jo. “Claire always has a gemstone with her when she travels, maybe that’s the key—can I borrow your necklace? Or, I guess have, since I won’t be able to return it?” She’s looking at me with so much pity it makes my stomach turn. Still, she reaches behind her, unclasps the chain, and hands it to me.

I nod once and trot back to the massive pillar, necklace tucked in one hand as I slap the other to the rock face.

Then, I run to the next pillar.

And the next.

And the next.

I’ve touched somewhere close to a hundred stones—every single one that I could reach at least—and nothing happens.

I slump to the ground, the traitorous sandstone cool against my back. Jo crouches in front of me, mumbling something about it getting late and that we should return to the inn. I can’t look at her. If I see my disappointment reflected on her face now, I’ll break. So I just get up and follow her back to The Broken Wheel.

“Do you want to stay another night so you can try again tomorrow? Maybe we should trade my necklace—would a different stone work better?” Jo asks as we lay back to back, the candles long since blown out.

“I think this idea is a dud, Jo,” I grumble. “Thank you, though. I hope you know that I appreciate you taking the time to come out here with me.” She hums in return, and I know she’s all but asleep.

I’m lying here, the same way I have been for the past hour, dissecting my own feelings—or trying to. My chest has been aching since my skin came into contact with that last stone, but at the same time, I have been able to breathe easier.

With a sigh, I roll over, toss the pillow wall to the floor, and tuck myself around my sleeping wife. I guess at this point I can just hope the ache lessens over time. I let the soft sounds of Jo breathing lull me to sleep.

The Johnson Says, “Hello”

Josephine

I have been a married woman for three months now, but this morning is the first time I feel like one. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought Blaze’s arms curling around me was nothing more than dreaming. Yet, in the glow of very real dawn’s light, I slip into a blissful state of consciousness to find him still holding me close. I am acutely aware as his breath caresses the back of my neck, tickling my loose hair over my shoulder’s bare skin of my arm. His belly rises and falls against my back. His cold wedding ring slides up my arm as he fully awakens, and he kisses my shoulder.

“Good morning, wife.” His voice is muddled with sleep, and he inhales deeply, rolling onto his back to stretch. “Are we ready to go home?”

I follow his body, turning with him and pressing a gentle palm against his coarse chest hair before nuzzling into the crook of his arm. “Yes,” I agree. “Home.”

Home for how long? I imagine the loft without Blaze, which was my home far before I started to realize that Blaze feels very much like where I belong. While I could dwell on this depressing thought, instead, I’m melting into his warmth for one last peaceful moment before our journey back to London. I drag my knee up his leg, intending to curl my thigh around him, and I come into contact with something frightfully stiff. It throbs against my touch, and I let out an unexpected shriek, which causes Blaze to mimic my same bird-like exclamation. In a flash, he is sitting upright on the opposite side of the bed, gripping the sheets to his chest, smashing a pillow across his lap, and staring at me as though I have betrayed him.

“I rolled over for a reason, Jo!”

My pulse batters against the skin at my throat, and I am certain he can see it, except he’s already fixated on the grimace glued to my face. “What was that?!”

Blaze chuckles nervously and sinks lower into the mattress. “That was my Johnson, wife! He says, ‘Rise and shine and leave the bed!’ I should get dressed with whatever dignity I still have...”

It is the evening of the end-of-season masquerade, hosted by none other than my mother, Countess Dashwood, when we arrive in London. We are road weary and when we finally drag ourselves up the stairs of the modiste, into the loft, wash the day’s dirt off, and warm ourselves beside a fire, Blaze and I agree my parents can spare us. In the last decade, I have attended every single one of the Dashwood masquerades and while the allure of the mysterious, fashionable event could almost persuade me from the comfort of my place in this over-stuffed high-back chair, the realization that I only care to see the dresses—which I made—convinces me not to go. Seeing ladies model their gowns for the fifth occasion is not half as interesting as watching Blaze ink value amounts onto thin discs he’d trimmed off a thick branch…apparently for fun?

“I anticipated sources of entertainment improving with time,” I mutter, leaning forward in my seat to scrutinize a dried disc. “You play this game in the future?”

Blaze chuckles, marks a round with $25, and lays it aside to dry. “Usually with real chips, but yeah. My dad has had me playing poker with him and my uncles since I was old enough to fan my own cards.”

“Poker?” I hate the name and imagine all his hard work being tossed into the hearth and burning whilst we prod the coals with iron rods. “What a horrible title for a card game.”

“Sometimes when Dad loses, he calls it ‘skewer’,” Blaze retorts with a childish grin as he continues labeling. “He says it seems to poke a hole in his wallet. I personally have never played with money because who the fuck wants to risk rent on a game? Anyway, I’ve always used chips.” He holds up one of the discs. “They symbolize fake money. It’s a much safer option for people who aren’t reckless and rollin’ in the dough.”

My face flattens into a puzzled expression. “Rolling in the dough? What dough? You mean…biscuit dough? What sort of profession is that?”

“No.” A comical, slightly joyous grin takes over Blaze’s countenance, and his eyes glimmer as he falls into a fit of laughter. “No, that’s just another way to say ‘rich’ in my time.”

I shake my head and snuggle back into my chair. “This ape leader learns something new every day with you,” I murmur sarcastically.

Blaze now appears perplexed. “Ape leader? Wait, Planet of the Apes isn’t published yet, is it?” His big fingers count backwards as he works out some math figure, and before I can ask about a planet filled with apes, he continues. “No, no, that isn’t for another hundred-and-fifty years. Jo, what the fuck is an ‘ape leader’?”