Page 25 of The Last Casterglass

Seph was justfinishing up in her workshop when there was a quick, light knock at the door.

“Yes?” she called, switching off the lathe and lowering her safety goggles.

Oliver poked his head around the door and her heart did a funny little leap. They hadn’t spoken alone together since the orchard yesterday, but things had felt a bit easier all the same. He’d smiled at her at supper last night, and afterwards he’d dried the dishes while Olivia washed up and she’d wiped the table and, all in all, it had felt fairly companionable, even if they hadn’t said much.

But what did he want now?

“Hi,” he said, and Seph realised she was staring.

“Hi.”

“May I come in?”

The question, asked so politely, reminded her of how she’d freaked out just a few days before, and she cringed inwardly.

“Yes, of course you can.” She wiped her dusty hands on her work apron as Oliver stepped into her workshop. “How…how are you?”

“Good. How are you?”

“Good.”

He nodded and they both stood there silently for a moment before Oliver shot her a wry grin. “Wow, we really are starting over, aren’t we?”

A burst of nervous laughter escaped her like gunfire as Seph nodded, a bit frantically. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

He glanced around the workshop, his obvious curiosity making Seph want to both preen and squirm. “This is so cool,” he said. “How did you get into woodworking in the first place?”

“John Braithwaite showed me.”

“Althea’s fiancé?”

“Yes, I used to help out on his farm, when I was younger. He did some woodworking himself, and when I was about fifteen or so he showed me how. I was hooked.”

“That was kind of him.”

“Yes, it really was.” John had been tirelessly kind, Seph reflected, even if she hadn’t always acknowledged it. He’d given her jobs when she’d needed something to do, and a mug of strong, sweet tea and a slab of cake when he must have sensed that she’d felt lonely or out of sorts. They’d never talked about feelings—Seph didn’t think she could have stood it if John had tried—but he’d always been there, even when he’d been going through his own trials, with his wife having left him and then returning only when she had terminal cancer and needed care. John had nursed her until she had died, and Seph had stopped coming around for a while, because she hadn’t wanted to be a burden, but when it had all been over, John had welcomed her back and she’d felt guilty, for staying away. Maybe he could have used a friend. Maybe everyone could.

“So,” Oliver said, bringing her thoughts back to the present, “I need your help.”

“You do?”

“Althea said you know this place better than anyone.”

“I suppose so,” Seph replied after a moment. “Except for my parents, perhaps. My father was born here, after all.”

“Yes, but they seem a bit…distracted sometimes.” Oliver gave her another one of those wry smiles that made her heart stupidly flutter.

“Too true,” she agreed.

“And Althea thought your knowledge would be a tiny bit more up to date,” he continued, “so…I wanted to ask, do you know where you might find a cider press?”

“A cider press?” Seph raised her eyebrows. “Does this have something to do with the orchard?”

“Well, hypothetically, I suppose. Althea’s quite keen to make the orchard a going concern, and so I was hoping that part of the attraction could be cider making.” He shrugged, spreading his hands. “All these artisanal type classes seem to be taking off…cider making, sourdough bread starting, foraging for hedge trimmings…”

Seph let out a laugh. “That’s your salad sorted, then,” she said, and Oliver somehow managed to grin and grimace at the same time, making her laugh again. Were they having proper banter, she wondered, or evenflirting? It felt miraculous—and also a little bit alarming. “A cider press,” she repeated, turning away in case she was blushing too hard. “I’m not sure, but I think I might know where one is. At least, where one could be. We could look, anyway.”

“Wonderful,” Oliver replied, his tone heartfelt. “Are you free now? Otherwise, I can come back…?”