15. Felix

15

FELIX

I look up from dusting an intricate cuckoo clock when Cat appears at the top of the stairs late in the afternoon.

"What's the matter?" I ask, noticing the way she wrings her hands.

"I should bring something to dinner tonight, but I don't know what."

"What do you usually bring to a dinner party?"

"When your parents invite me, I take flowers." She glances toward the front of the shop, probably thinking of the bare window boxes.

"Neither of us has ventured behind the shop. Perhaps there's a garden back there?"

She brightens as she comes down the stairs. "I'll look."

Abandoning my project, I follow her out the front door and down the porch. We both stop when we see the ceramic redcap lying on its side.

Its head busted from its body when I tossed it over the porch rail last night. You'd think it would be less daunting like this, but with its toothy grimace directed right at us, it might be more so.

"I suppose I'm glad it didn't disappear," Cat says.

"What do you think was moving them last night in the woods?" I cross my arms as I study the little monster.

She's quiet for a moment. "Maybe we just missed them the first time?" When I give her a skeptical look, she walks past the broken redcap. "I don't believe it either."

We continue like we're walking to the community well that's in the common space behind the general goods store, but instead of going through the gate, we continue to the back of our little piece of property. There are cottages behind us, but they're up on the hill, giving us a fair bit of space. Our yard is separated from our neighbors' by a split-rail fence. There might have been a garden back here at one time, but it's overgrown with weeds now.

Cat sighs. "It doesn't look like I'll be bringing flowers."

"Why don't you give our host and hostess a clock?" I suggest.

She laughs, resting her hand on the top rail of the short fence. "Benjamin will charge us for it."

"I think we can afford it," I deadpan.

The pretty hunter looks back, her eyebrows drawing low as she contemplates me. "Maybe a little one?"

"Naturally. I don't want to carry a grandfather clock across the village for a dinner party."

A smile twitches her lips. "What if I want to take them a grandfather clock?"

"Then I'll do it, heaven help my back."

She laughs, shaking her head. "A little clock it is."

We go back inside, ignoring the broken redcap for now.

"What do you think of this one?" Cat asks after browsing our stock, stopping at a mantle clock with intricate carvings.

"I think it's perfect."

With that decided, she says, "I'm going to get ready."

As she walks up the stairs, I take a moment to admire the effort I put into the shop this afternoon. Half the clocks are organized on shelves and tables, looking neat and orderly. The others are still in a jumbled mess—but progress is progress.

And though the ticking is slightly maddening, I can think of worse professions than a clockmaker.

Cat comes down a few minutes later, wearing a white muslin dress. This one's skirt is fuller than her others, and lace edges the neckline and capped sleeves. She's removed the handkerchief she wears while organizing the shop, and her hair is down, with the front pieces held back with a comb.

She drapes a sage-green shawl around her shoulders, looking self-conscious when she realizes she has my attention. "Do I look all right?"

"You look beautiful."

She flushes, her cheeks turning pink. "I mean, do I look appropriate for a country dinner party?"

"Certainly. But will you be warm enough?"

Cat pulls back the shawl and frowns at her short sleeves. "I think I'll be all right. I was hoping to wear my summer options a while longer."

I smile a little. "Just how many dresses did you have Benjamin ship over?"

She meets my eyes. "A few."

"That's not really an answer."

"It should be, if you knew me."

Because I do know her, I laugh. Though Cat lives eighty-five percent of her life in trousers and lightweight leather armor, she loves beautiful things. In fact, she has so many gowns, Ambrose, Atticus, and I helped haul another wardrobe into her room in the guild dormitory just last month.

I touch her arm as she passes me. "What about me? Do I look all right?"

Her eyes sweep over me, catching on the chain of my watch that peeks out from my waistcoat pocket. She steps forward, nudging back my jacket lapel to run her finger along it. "This is a nice addition to your clockmaker wardrobe."

Intrigued by her nearness, I smile. "Thank you."

"You look nice." Reluctantly, she pulls her eyes from the chain to my face. "You always look nice."

"A compliment, bluebird? Are we allowed to exchange those now?"

She frowns, her brain working behind her eyes. "We should go."

"It wouldn't do for a clockmaker and his wife to be late," I say solemnly, teasing a smile from her again.

We step into the evening sunshine. The air already carries a chill, promising the night is going to be brisk.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the first frost came tonight." I adjust my jacket. "Are you sure you don't want to change into something warmer before we go?"

"I'm fine."

We begin down the street, following the creek, and I lean in close. "May I hold your hand, Mrs. Cunningham?"

"Ward," she corrects. "And no."

"For appearances," I protest. "What sweet newlywed couple wouldn't hold hands as they walked through this charming town while the sunset turned the dry autumn grass to gold?"

She rolls her eyes. "You're such a fop."

"I am not," I laugh.

"You are."

"You like me anyway."

She shakes her head like she disagrees, but she offers her hand.

I gladly take it, sliding my palm along hers and then lacing our fingers together. I watch her draw her bottom lip between her teeth and quickly release it, pretending to be unaffected.

As we walk, I lift our clasped hands to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. "Is your heart racing, bluebird?"

"No."

"Mine is."

She whips her head toward me, scowling like she won't let herself believe it. "Don't confuse the situation. This isn't real—it's a job. And just as a hunter may not enter a romantic relationship with his or her client, a master hunter must not enter one with his or her apprentice. It's in the guidebook ."

I nod solemnly. "But what if they're married?"

Exasperated, she says, "I'm going to lose my job."

"My father isn't going to fire his daughter-in-law, especially when she's his trainer." I chuckle at the thought. "Besides, full-fledged hunters may enter into romantic relationships with each other, so if you're worried about it, we'll simply wait to break the news of our marriage to the guild until after my apprenticeship is complete."

"Felix!" Cat exclaims, pulling her hand away and dropping her voice. "We're not staying married."

"We'll see, bluebird." I take her hand again, tucking it in the crook of my elbow. "No reason to worry over it now. If we're not careful, our new neighbors will think we're having a lover's quarrel."

"Sometimes you are the most obnoxious man," she mutters.

"If you're going to whisper sweet nothings, you should come closer."

She scoffs, but I see the smile tugging at her lips. I pat her hand, enjoying walking with her on my arm, and continue down the quaint street, warmly greeting people as we pass them.

They watch us with indulgent smiles, several looking curiously at the mantle clock I carry under my arm.

Arnold and Bernice live near the outskirts of town, along a lane lined with fenced pastures, orchards, and a pumpkin patch.

As is the way in Braunwin, apple trees surround the Dahlheimer's house. The branches are ladened with blush-red fruit that appears to be nearly ripe. Dozens of apples have already fallen, tempting deer and, in a roundabout way, dragons.

"Hello!" a woman calls when she sees us, raising her hand in greeting. She's pretty and plump, probably around my age, with blonde hair braided into a bun. Her cheeks are rosy from the cool air, and she wears an apron over her long skirt. "You must be the new clockmaker."

She carries a brown-haired baby on her hip, and a young blonde girl runs behind her skirts.

"I'm Heidi," the woman says when she reaches us. She smiles at the baby and then the little girl. "And this is Mia and Eliza."

"Hello." I wave at the shy girl. "I'm Felix, and this is my wife, Catriona."

"What a beautiful name," Heidi says to Cat. "Come inside. It's getting chilly out here."

Eliza takes her mother's hand, peering over her shoulder at us like she's not sure she likes us walking behind her.

The house could be called a small manor—larger than a cottage but with small, intimate rooms filled with generations of collections. Each is a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture, knickknacks, pillows, books, and plants. Quilts, needlework samplers, and framed paintings hang on the walls, covering the aging wallpaper.

Heidi leads us into a parlor. A fire crackles behind a screen, and a pot of apple peel and sweet spices simmers on the hearth, scenting the space.

Arnold stands, scooping up Eliza when she runs to him, his smile wide. To us, he says, "Welcome to our home."

"It's lovely." Cat smiles as she looks around the room. "Thank you for inviting us."

"It's been in my family for five generations," he says proudly.

"We've brought a gift." I offer the mantle clock, surprised they don't have one. They certainly have everything else. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"What a fine clock." Arnold looks genuinely delighted. With his free hand, he shuffles a few vases and a framed painting on the mantle and then gestures for me to set the clock in the space he's cleared.

"Such a nice addition," he says. "Thank you, Felix. Now, let me introduce you to everyone."

Everyone is only three other people—two men and a matronly woman. The men stand, acknowledging Cat.

"You've already met Heidi," Arnold begins and then motions to the woman in the rocking chair by the fire. Her graying blonde hair is in a severe bun, and she frowns as she sets her needlework in her lap. "This is my mother."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dahlheimer." Cat admires the fabric in her hoop. "Is it your needlework I spotted on the walls as we entered the house?"

"Many of the pieces are mine, yes."

"The detail you put into them is extraordinary."

"Do you enjoy needlework, dear?" the woman asks, softened by the praise.

"I never learned, I'm afraid. I had little patience for it as a child, and now I regret my lack of perseverance."

"No?" Mrs. Dahlheimer looks horrified. "I'll teach you. You must visit me a few times a week."

Intrigued, Cat says, "Truly?"

The woman glances at Arnold before she leans closer to Cat and lowers her voice. "You can bring me sweets as payment."

Arnold looks vexed. "Mother, you know the doctor said?—"

"Hush," Mrs. Dahlheimer interrupts without even looking at her son and continues, "I'm partial to those cherry cordials Werner sells. Bring me some, won't you?"

Cat laughs, giving Arnold an apologetic look. "I will."

Arnold looks heavenward and then turns to a man standing in front of the settee. He's around thirty, with a slight paunch and a content look. "This is my son-in-law, Carl."

I step forward, shaking the man's hand. "Good to meet you."

"Carl and Heidi tend our orchard," Arnold adds.

"We grow the finest apples in the province," Carl brags, grinning. "Come back next week, and I'll send you home with a bushel."

Cat laughs like it's a joke. "What would we do with a bushel of apples?"

"Make apple butter," Heidi says.

"And apple pie," Carl adds. "Not to mention strudels, applesauce, and scones."

Not about to be left out, Mrs. Dahlheimer says, "And apple cider."

"I…" Cat clasps her hands at her waist. "I'm afraid I don't know how to make any of those things."

This shocks our hosts, and the room falls quiet. Heidi recovers first, smiling warmly. "Well then, we'll have to show you all that, too."

Cat turns to me, the confident hunter looking a little lost. I raise my brows, silently reminding her she's Mrs. Ward right now, and Mrs. Ward has plenty of time to learn those things.

She nods, acknowledging my encouragement. "I would like that."

With that settled, the last member of the group steps forward. He's been silent so far, bemused by the conversation. He's young, probably twenty-two at the oldest, with dark, trim hair, a smoothly shaven face, and dark brown, watchful eyes. "I'm Luther."

"You must be Annika's fiancé," I say.

"I am."

"Are you from Braunwin?" Cat asks. Her tone is friendly, but her eyes are wary. She doesn't trust the young man, likely because of what happened to her sister.

"I'm from Hellenford. I work as a secretary for the local magistrate."

"How did you meet Annika?" she asks.

"The occasion for our meeting was rather solemn, I'm sad to say."

"Luther was sent to write the report after Thomas's death." Arnold sets Eliza down. "Why don't you go into the kitchen with your grandmother? She might need your help."

Properly distracted, the little girl hurries out of the room.

"Thomas was the constable, correct?" I ask when Eliza is gone.

"He was," Arnold says solemnly. "Please, sit. There's no reason to stand."

"And the other attacks?" Cat takes a place next to me on the settee and looks at Luther. "Did you write reports for them as well?"

"I did. Meeting Annika was the one bright spot in a series of sober visits."

"Where is Annika?" Cat asks.

"In the kitchen with Mother," Heidi answers.

Cat glances toward the door. "I should offer to help…"

"No, no," Arnold protests. "You're our guest."

She nods, looking relieved, likely because she wouldn't be any more help than I would be.

"Does anyone know why there have been so many wolf attacks this year?" I ask, watching the group.

The room goes silent for a moment too long.

"Prey must be scarce," Arnold finally answers, uncomfortable.

"Johann doesn't seem to think it's the work of wolves," Cat gently presses.

Arnold waves the suggestion away. "Oh, Johann and his theories?—"

"The Alliance doesn't think it's wolves either," Heidi quietly interrupts. The baby is asleep, resting her head against her mother's shoulder. Heidi strokes the child's hair, looking worried. "What do they think it is, Luther?"

Our eyes travel to the young man, who looks uncomfortable with the attention. "I cannot say what the council in Valette has decided. We sent our information, as required, but they don't share the results with us."

"But your boss, the magistrate in Hellenford," Carl prods. "What does he think killed our neighbors—our friends?"

Luther clears his throat, highly uncomfortable. "From the evidence I gathered…he thinks it was a werewolf."