Page 7 of For the Love of the Quest

Thomasin Shaw had never specified when exactly they would be embarking, though. She hoped they wouldn’t delay for too long. Edith reached for where she had hung her satchel on the bedpost. Even if they were only to be here for a night, she wanted to unpack.She would never be able to sleep in a room that didn’t feel properly hers. There was nothing that a few homey finishing touches couldn’t fix.

A single shelf hung on the wall above the chest of drawers. On the slightly slanted surface, she laid her collection of Arthurian texts, her shoulder twinging as she reached up. Her back would probably be sore forever from the effort of carrying the tomes all this way. But it was worth it. The scent of tea and buttered pastries clung to them. Her grandmother had been a terribly messy eater, despite Edith’s constant attempts to preserve the delicate pages. Now, she was glad for the smell.

Edith hadn’t brought much clothing. Sacrifices had needed to be made in order to fit all the books. But she had commissioned a custom adventuring outfit from the seamstress. She folded the garments carefully and placed them in the drawer. She couldn’t wait to wear them. They’d turned out beautifully and were more than worth the derisive judgment she had endured from the seamstress.

There was a collared cream tunic made from a thick but breathable linen. It had a flowing fit around her torso and arms. Wide cuffs, adorned with magenta and gold buttons, cinched the sleeves at her wrists. To pair with the top, there was a high-waisted skirt in deep green that fell to just above her ankles. Modest, but movable. Especially since her brand-new leather boots would cover the rest of her exposed skin. She arranged those by the door, laces undone and waiting, so she would be ready to go at a moment’s notice.

The rest of her supplies, an archaeology kit, and most importantly, the key to Arthur’s Stone, she kept tucked in her satchel. She didn’t want to risk forgetting the essentials. Not that her treasure-hunting garb and books weren’t essential. They were, of course, but she needed to do something to make herself feel a little bit less out of her depth. Seeing the proof of her preparedness calmed her.

At least until someone knocked on the door and then swung it open before she even had the chance to respond. Thomasin stepped into the room like she owned it. Which she did, Edith supposed. The woman was even more striking now than when she had been all cloaked in shadows and candlelight. The late evening sun streaming in through the window suited her. It brought out the green flecks in her hazel eyes and the warmth of her golden skin. The whole ensemble of knives and leather was fascinating in the sunlight.

Thomasin’s eyes drifted around the room. “You’ve made yourself right at home.” It might have been a disparaging comment, but her tone landed closer to fond amusement.

“You know what they say about idle hands.” Edith smiled and moved aside to give Thomasin room to enter the small chamber.

Her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “No, what do they say?”

“Oh, idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” Edith said.

Thomasin seemed to ponder that as she stepped toward the shelf. “Devil’s workshop, huh?”

“That’s what they say.” Edith shrugged, watching as Thomasin traced a finger over the spines of her books. Her curls, unbrushed and wild, hung almost to her waist. Edith resisted the bizarre urge to run her fingers through them and untangle the knots.

“What do you suppose he makes in this workshop?”

Edith weighed her response in case this was somehow a serious inquiry, until Thomasin glanced at her over her shoulder, a smile curving the corner of her lip.

“Probably … porcelain dolls or—”

“Porcelain dolls?” Thomasin laughed, the sound rough and musical. “What’s wrong with porcelain dolls?”

Edith scrunched her nose. “I find them really creepy. Their soulless eyes and tiny little noses.”

Thomasin pulledThe History of the Kings of Britainfrom the shelf and sidestepped Edith to plop onto the bed. She leaned against the headboard and stretched her legs out in front of her. “I kind of always wanted one, though. Only wooden dolls for me, I’m afraid.”

“How about we trade? I have a whole room of dolls stashed away so that I don’t have to look at them.” Edith laughed. “After this, you can have them all, and I’ll gladly take the innocent wooden ones off your hands.”

“Is that an invitation to your castle? I’ve never received an offer from such a fine lady before,” Thomasin teased.

Edith knew her words were in jest, but she couldn’t help the blush that heated her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “It’s a manor, not a castle. But yes, you’re invited.”

Thomasin’s eyes softened, an emotion flicking across her face. It was replaced by that sharp humor before Edith could identify it. “Where exactly are you from, Edith?”

“Springwood Manor, outside of Northampton,” Edith replied, images of summers spent roaming the grounds with her siblings, and winters curled by the fire with her grandmother filling her mind.

Thomasin nodded, then her eyes dipped to the book in her hands. Edith perched on the stool near the foot of the bed and watched Thomasin flip through the pages. “That’s one of the very first accounts of Camelot and King Arthur,” Edith said, her heart rate ticking up in excitement as it always did when she got to talk about this subject.

“I haven’t read a book in … ages,” Thomasin said without looking up from the page.

“What do you like to read?”

Thomasin looked startled by this question, and her eyes flicked up to meet Edith’s. “You’ll make fun of me.”

“I will not!”

“No, no, you will.” Thomasin laughed. “Besides, I have a reputation to uphold.”

Edith laid a palm against her heart. “I’ll not tell a soul, I promise.”