Page 8 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“Yes, sir.” Angus gathered up the snap tin that had contained his lunch and headed towards the back doors. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

“Good night, Angus.” Darius watched as his apprentice took the seat on his ancient phaeton and urged an old nag into motion. When he was out of sight, Darius closed and bolted the doors. Helping himself to a rag, he cleaned off as much soot as he could from his overalls, hands, and his head before tossing the soiled square of fabric into a metal container. He stripped the overalls from his body, leaving him in only a shirt, smalls, and stockings.

Then he remembered he had planned to plant one of the redwood seedlings, and he cursed softly. “There’s always tomorrow,” he murmured.

Dropping his work boots next to the door, he extinguished the overhead gas light and made his way into the house.

He should have expected the cry of surprise and a string of unladylike curses from the cook when he walked past the open door to the kitchens. His legs were almost entirely bare, after all.

Humored, he called out, “Apologies, Mrs. Crabbe.” He thought to tease her, but she was making his dinner, and he wouldn’t put poisoning his meal past the cranky old cook.

Chapter Four

Dessert Before Dinner

A few minutes later

“You walked up here dressed like that?” Stella asked, a grin lighting her face as she gathered bath linens and set them on a chair next to the shower bath.

“I did,” he acknowledged, dropping a kiss atop her head. She had a mobcap covering her light auburn hair and was wearing a dressing robe. “And I did not go unnoticed,” he added, a smirk lifting the corner of one lip.

Stella gave him a quelling glance. “I wondered what had the cook cursing so,” she said. “I heard her all the way up here.” When he merely shrugged as he saw to setting up the shower bath, she added in a whisper, “It’s a good thing we’re Immortal, because I’m imagining she’s poisoning our dinner right this minute.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” he countered. Water began falling from an overhead spigot, and he quickly stepped under it. “Who else would hire her?”

“Good question. If we’re dead, we can’t provide her with a character.” Stella motioned to the falling water. “Is it terribly hot?” she asked, gingerly reaching out with a hand to test the temperature.

“I reset the tank thermometer this morning,” he replied.

Stella doffed her dressing robe and joined him under the falling water. “Is that the device that heats the water?” she asked.

He grinned as he rubbed the waiting ball of French soap over his arms. “The device that helps to keep the water at the right temperature,” he replied. “The tank is where the water is heated.”

“But what heats the water?”

“The burner.”

“What makes the burner hot?”

“Gas that’s been set afire.”

She took the ball of soap from him and motioned for him to turn around. When he did so, she began rubbing it over his back, eliciting a groan of satisfaction from him. “I must admit I’ve been quite impressed with your additions to this house since we arrived in England,” she remarked.

“Glad to hear it,” he replied, reaching his arms up to adjust the flow of the water from the spigot.

“I can’t help but think you miss your prior lives as a soldier, though. A legatos, a coastguardsman,” she murmured, reaching her arms around his body so she could wash his ridged abdomen. His arms dropped, and he covered her hands with his. “A gladiator?”

Darius took the soap from her hand and turned to face her, pulling her so she was pressed to the front of his body. “At times, I suppose I do,” he admitted. “But inventing machines is quite satisfying, too. We’re finally back to having the same amenities we had when we lived on Strongili.” He motioned to the spigot. “Running water, flush toilets, lighting on demand.”

“We never had lighting on demand on Strongili,” she countered.

“We did in the watch towers,” he said, grinning at her look of surprise. He moved so he was entirely under the spigot, the falling water sluicing off his head and splashing against the linen curtain that surrounded them.

“Do you miss it? That life, I mean?” she asked, displaying a look of worry. She rubbed the soap over an area of his skin where once-bright tattoos were now long-faded.

He gave a start. “If you’re asking did I like killing, then the answer is no.” He took the ball of soap from her and set it back in a dish held in place by a double-hooked tray Angus had fashioned from wrought iron.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”