Seeker dressed quickly, not even trying to keep quiet. From the other room, Beautiful’s steady breaths told him she was feigning sleep—but he knew she was awake. He left without a word, pulling the door shut behind him.
Another long day at the mill waited for him. He grunted, shoving the handle forward. A faint orange stain showed on the wall—barely visible. The urge to smash his fist into it rose hard, but he forced it down. He kept pushing, heat simmering inside. Damn her. Why did she have to make everything so complicated?
She? What was Beautiful talking about? The stain surfaced again, mocking him from the stone wall. He curled his fist, but what good would it do? One swing and he’d only split his knuckles. And truth be told, he no longer cared what Beautiful would think.
Sweat streamed down his face, soaking his shirt. The labor brought no relief to the gnawing ache in his chest. Around and around—every bit of it was for her. Didn’t she see that?
Hours dragged by, his anger dulling to a heavy ache. Maybe he should go home at lunch, try to talk with her. No—he knew better. It would only make things worse.
“Seeker?” Beautiful’s voice floated from the doorway. “Are you in here?”
He stopped, let go of the handle, and turned toward her. “What do you need, Beautiful?”
“Oh, dreadful,” she whispered, tracing the handle with her finger. Then she turned, fixing her eyes on him. “I brought you lunch.”
“Fine,” he said flatly. “Leave it on the bench outside.”
She rose on her toes and brushed his lips with hers. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m eating with you. And we’re talking.”
She took his hand and pulled him to the bench outside. They sat, and she spread a handkerchief between them, setting out the food—a loaf of bread, a piece already torn away, a wedge of cheese, a few olives, and a single tomato.
She drew his clasp-knife from her bag and set to slicing the tomato.
“That’s mine,” he protested.
“Mine now,” she said.
When they’d finished eating, she reached into her handbag and pulled out his pipe, the pouch of tobacco, and the flint.
“Beautiful,” he growled, low in his throat.
“If you’re going to smoke, do it with me,” she said flatly. “No secrets. That’s all I care about, Seeker.”
He scoffed and snatched the pipe from her hand. Pinch by pinch, he packed the bowl, tamping it firm with his thumb. Clenching the stem between his teeth, he struck flint to steel until the tobacco caught. He drew smoke into his mouth, held it for a moment, then turned and blew it out, away from her.
If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought she was fascinated. At last, she said, “Let me try.”
He shrugged with a quick grin and passed it to her. “Don’t grab the bowl, Beautiful. You want to burn your fingers?”
She held it gingerly, drew the tiniest puff—and instantly burst into coughing, choking, gagging. “Nasty,” she sputtered, shoving it back at him, “You really should quit.”
He took it back, drew a slow, deliberate puff, then exhaled—this time right between them, not bothering to turn aside.
She waved the smoke away with a flick of her hand. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Your books need a case.”
“Yeah.”
“And we need a proper bed. And a table.”
“I know, Beautiful.”
“We’re getting them today. As soon as you finish work. Comfort showed me a shop yesterday.”
Seeker sat there puffing on his pipe, watching her. “If I had the money, Beautiful, I’d have bought it all already. You know that.”
She wrinkled her nose. “And I’m glad you didn’t.” The words ugly couch hovered unsaid between them.
“We’ll just have to wait. I don’t have the money, Beautiful.”
“Now listen, Seeker,” she said firmly, “I know you work hard. But I worked too.”
“But, Beautiful…” He hesitated, “That’s your money.”
“Yes, Seeker,” she replied, her eyes steady. “And it’s my home, too.”
