Page 3 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s… it’s their lack of passion, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to sell your books, Stella,” he whispered. “If you’d prefer, I can have bookshelves built for every room on the first and second floor, and you can keep them here at home.”

“Your offer is tempting, but…” She allowed the sentence to trail off.

For centuries, she had collected scrolls and folios, manuscripts, and bound books in an effort to protect documents from the vagaries of time. They were the records of her and Darius’s history. Records of the places they had lived and the civilizations in which they had played a part. Over time, her collection had grown so large, it required hundreds of wooden crates every time they were forced to relocate to a new town or country.

Forced because their lack of visible aging raised suspicions, especially among those who were ignorant or believed in witchcraft and sorcery. Despite altering their hairstyles, changing their hair color, or adding spectacles, twenty years had become the limit for the amount of time they could spend in one place without arousing suspicion among their neighbors.

“I am keeping the most important volumes in our library here,” she assured him. “Although I’m beginning to think I need to move those to the bookshop, too.”

“But why?” he challenged.

“Because you seem determined to blow up our house,” she replied. “And you along with it.”

“I won’t,” he said, placing the palms of his hands together as he dipped his head, a gesture he made with every promise he had given her since their first meeting.

Stella was tempted to argue with him. If a blast rendered him mortally wounded and he miraculously healed in front of witnesses, they’d have to move yet again. Of course he knew that. Stubborn man. She wondered why she loved him—but then again, who else could she love? There was no one like Darius. He was her perfect immortal match, though he was, truly, stubborn. Stella finally nodded.

“I am glad you’re all right,” she said, once again sniffling.

Darius reached out with his thumb and wiped away the tear on her cheek, leaving a dark smudge in the process. “So am I.” He glanced over to where Angus was still sweeping up debris, and he gave a start. “Has the post arrived? Or a delivery been made?”

The unexpected query had Stella giving a start. “As a matter of fact, there is a rather large crate in the hall.”

“Ah, they’ve arrived,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“They?” she prompted.

“The trees,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

“The trees,” she repeated, dumbfounded.

“Five hundred of them,” he said with excitement.

“Five hundred trees,” she whispered. Despite the soot that still covered most of his face, she lifted a hand to his forehead and pressed it there for a moment. She was now sure he hadn’t completely recovered from his most recent death. “You’re not feverish,” she murmured. “But I can’t tell if you’re right in the head.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry about me,” he replied, once again taking her hand to his lips. “By this time next year, we’ll have a substantial payment from their sale. I’m a partner, of sorts, with a greenhouse in Chiswick.”

Stella furrowed her brows. “A partner… in trees?”

“Not just any trees,” he said with excitement. “Redwood trees. The tallest trees in the entire world.”

“Are you referring to the taxodium sempervirens?” she asked in wonder.

Darius scoffed. “I thought I was the botanist.”

“Well, you were for a decade or so,” she acknowledged.

“Then how is it you remember all those scientific names?”

“I remember them because I read the same books as you. And because it hasn’t been that long since that Scottish botanist decided they were in the bald cypress genus,” she replied, rolling her eyes in disgust. “Idiot.” She glanced in the direction of the house before scoffing. “The crate in the hall cannot be redwood trees, though,” she reasoned.

“Why ever not?”

“Five hundred of the tallest trees in the world?” she countered, now positive he wasn’t yet completely recovered.

“Oh, those are merely seedlings,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “I need to see to it they are delivered to Mr. Jones.”