Page 26 of The Last Casterglass
“I’m free now.” Seph slipped off her apron and hung it on a peg. As she tucked her curls behind her ears, she wished she’d worn something a bit more flattering—but what? And for woodworking? She was turning into such a ninny. “I was just finishing up yet another planter,” she continued, “and frankly I’m getting a bit tired of those, so…”
“Do you sell your own sculptures?” Oliver asked. “I mean, artistic pieces, and not just planters and things?”
Seph tensed, wondering if he was going to bring up her whole overreaction to him seeingOut of the Wild, and then she shook her head. “No, I don’t. I don’t have many, and in any case, they feel too private.” Her tone had started to turn terse, and she tried to moderate it. “For that kind of public viewing, anyway. I just make them for me.”
Even though she’d tamed her tone, Oliver winced. “I really was an unforgivable snoop, coming in here the other day. I’m sorry.”
“Notunforgivable,” she replied, and he gave her a quick smile.
“Thank you for that. And thank you for making that sculpture. I know I wasn’t supposed to see it, but it really was incredible. I hope you know that.”
Now she was definitely blushing. “It was just something I thought of,” she half-mumbled. “I don’t know that it’s very good.”
“It’s amazing,” Oliver stated firmly. “I’m sure you could make a name for yourself, as a proper artist, if you wanted to.” Then, perhaps sensing her embarrassment at so many fulsome compliments, he continued, “Now let’s see if we can find this cider press.”
They stepped out into the empty courtyard, under a crisp blue sky. No one was about, for which Seph was grateful. As hard as she was trying to be different, she didn’t think she could have borne one of her siblings’ speculative looks just then, not when things were just starting to get on an even keel with Oliver.
“We should look in one of the storage barns,” she told him. “They’re past the stables here, on the other side of the drive.”
“Lead on, MacDuff,” Oliver returned grandly, and smiling a little, Seph did.
The storage barns were enormous, made of stone with roofs that had been falling in, but which Althea had had repaired in the last year—yet another one of the important projects she’d quietly arranged, without much fuss. They stored all manner of things—broken-down garden equipment, furniture from the castle that no longer had a place, piles of bricks or roof tiles, stacks of rotting lumber, and various ancient antiques, both junk and treasures. The last time Seph had been in there she’d spied an Edwardian croquet set and a set of child’s toy hoops from the Victorian age.
“We should have brought a torch,” she remarked as she opened one of the large doors with a rusty-sounding creak. Inside furniture was stacked every which way, piled almost all the way to the ceiling high above, lost in the gloom.
“I have a torch on my phone if it gets too dark,” Oliver said as he stepped into the musty darkness to stand next to her. “Goodness. This looks like the Room of Requirement inHarry Potter.” This made Seph smile, and he glanced at her, a rather knowing gleam in his eye. “What?”
“Only that you look a bit like Harry Potter. Grown up, I mean.”
“I have been told that before,” he admitted, and she added quickly, “It’s meant to be a compliment.”
“Is it? Well, I’ll take it, then. Now.” He looked around, his hands planted on his hips. “Where do we start?”
“Good question.” He was standing close enough so his shoulder was almost brushing hers, and she could smell the woodsy scent of his aftershave. It tickled her nostrils, making her want to sneeze. Or maybe that was all the dust. In any case, she felt all strangely tingly inside.
“I guess just go bit by bit?” Oliver suggested as he peered into the barn. “Is that a rocking horse?”
“There’s a lot of strange stuff in here,” Seph told him. “And up in the attic, as well. My parents never threw anything anyway.”
“Neither did their ancestors, it seems, judging by some of this stuff. This looks Georgian.” He pointed to a chamber pot perched precariously on top of a chair. “It could go to a museum. Or be sold for a goodly sum.”
“My father has sold bits and pieces, to finance this place,” Seph replied. “Although a lot of these things are knock-offs, apparently, and not worth much. One of my great-grandfathers, I can’t remember which, was something of a collector—of junk.”
Oliver shook his head slowly. “I can’t imagine having so much history.”
Seph stepped into the darkness, running her hand along an elaborately carved table leg from the Victorian period, like nothing you’d see today. She could not imagine carving such a thing, yet she admired the obvious expertise. “There must be a lot of history at Pembury Farm?” she ventured.
“Not like this. Not anywhere close. And in any case, it’s not really mine.”
“But you’re related to the family? The earl?”
Oliver grimaced. “I wish I’d never mentioned that earl. The title died out over a hundred years ago. Stupid, really, but like you, I have a tendency to say whatever pops into my head.” He gave her a smile that managed to be both shy and knowing, and Seph wasn’t sure how to respond to this gentle sort of teasing. Her instinct was still to prickle, and yet…she wasn’t. She was smiling.
“The things that pop into your head seem a lot nicer than the ones that pop into mine.”
“Sometimes,” he allowed, “but they can be remarkably stupid. I got called on by a teacher once, for daydreaming, and when she asked me if I knew the answer to her question—I didn’t even know what the questionwas—I ended up babbling about how interesting I found her class, and even worse, how much I liked herskirt.” He shook his head mournfully and Seph stifled a laugh. “She was sixty if she was a day, and I was in year eight. The other kids teased me about having a crush on her for a good year.”
“Still,” Seph said slowly as they wandered deeper into the shadowy barn, “I think I’d rather be seen as being too kind than too cruel.”