Page 14 of Last Rites

“Oh?” I slid my hand a bit higher on his leg, relishing the hitch in his breath as I got closer to his groin. “What else have I done to make you uneasy?”

A young woman in a stew-splattered apron arrived tableside. Kit jumped at the surprise of her approach, but I was ready with a smile and our drink order.

As the server left, Kit eyed me skeptically. “Ale? Are you sure?”

“Very sure.” I bobbed my head. “This is a night for celebration. You don't celebrate over water.”

“Yes, well, you don't throw up water on my rugs or shoes, either.” He caught my wandering hand and pinned it to his thigh. “Try not to get carried away.”

We sat in amiable quiet until the serving girl returned with two pints of foamy ale. I scooped mine up in both hands and took a hearty swig while Kit pondered his, staring hard into the swell of bubbles.

The lute player returned to play a slow song without words. It gave the sometimes-rowdy tavern a peaceful ambiance that put Kit more at ease. The muddled expression he'd been wearing since we stepped onto the dance floor shifted nearer to joy. I loved the sight of the clouds clearing from his eyes, like he could see the same light ahead that I did.

“It’s finally almost over,” he said, seemingly to himself. “My whole life, and I never thought I’d get to this point.”

After a thoughtful pause, he tugged one of my hands free from my flagon to twine his fingers with mine on the tabletop. I tipped my head to look at him as he finally, wonderfully, smiled.

“Thank you for convincing me to come back here. It’ll all be worth it tomorrow.”

I bent in and pecked a kiss on his cheek, then raised my ale for another drink. “I can’t wait to leave all of this behind and go home to Forstford,” I said.

Kit squinted at me. “Forstford?”

He didn't know about the decisions I'd made in Eastcliff, arranging more ideal futures for Warren, Sayla, and myself. I'd wagered on a life with Kit even after he left me behind. I was still counting on it.

“Assuming you want me there,” I said slowly.

Kit frowned. “Well, of course, but⁠—”

“Oh, thank gods!” I exclaimed, slumping on the rough wooden seat. “Because I gave the farm to Sayla and Warren as a wedding gift, and I’d have nowhere else to go.”

“When did you do that?”

“On my way out,” I replied. “I practically threw the deed at them when I told them I was taking the horse. Warren was surprised, but happy, I think. And Sayla can raise her children there. Mother will help.”

Kit’s eyes brightened with his smile as I carried on.

“And Forstford is your home. You have the house and the smithy there. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I’ll figure something out.”

Reaching over with his free hand, Kit stroked the backs of his knuckles across my cheek, and suddenly I was the one blushing. “You wouldn’t have to do anything but keep me company,” he murmured.

I turned toward his touch, chasing it with a rueful sigh. “I don't think you’d be proud of a layabout husband, Kit.”

He opened his hand to cup my face. The women behind us were almost certainly staring again, but he paid them no mind.

“You don't have to lay about. You could keep the house, cook, maybe plant a garden.”

My squint earned a rumble of a laugh.

“No, you don’t need to be relegated to the house. You have more to offer than that.” He leaned in a little closer. “I told you already, you should open a bakery.”

He’d suggested as much back in Eastcliff, trying to cheer me up when the weight of responsibility for the farm was crushing me. And I told Sayla that was what I wanted, too. The idea of it still felt almost too whimsical. Walking away from the farm life that had been laid out for me since birth had been challenging enough. I wasn’t sure if I had really grappled with it yet, how dramatically my life had changed since I met Kit. How much it could continue to do so. It was liberating, invigorating, and more than a bit intimidating.

As much as I’d dreamed about venturing outside of Eastcliff, doing something with my life beyond steering a horse and plow down row after furrowed row, with the door finally opened to me, I hesitated to step through it. I was eager to leave Ashpoint now. Eager to marry Kit and be a good husband to him. Not a layabout or hapless homemaker.

Maybe I should be a baker.

The serving girl bustled by to ask what we wanted to eat. There were only a few options, and that night they were beef stew with bread or a potato hash. We both picked the stew, then settled together. I put aside my flirtation and opted for cozy comfort instead, leaning on Kit’s arm and letting my mind wander to a place and time in the increasingly near future.