He glanced around but saw no shapes or shadows.
He focused back on Flax. “Flint went off with Lucas and left you here?” Robin narrowed his eyes. “Did Lucas ask you stay with me? Wait, no, he said you don’t listen to him. You’re just here to be contrary? Well, you might as well be useful. Which of these do you like… if ravens see color.” He’d have to ask. “Pretty much all the Greysmiths deserve something at this point. I could do scarves but I don’t have to make them simple since I can take my time.”
There were patterns in a cabinet in the storeroom, usually handwritten in spidery, hard-to-read handwriting. But Robin could generally figure out a pattern from looking at a finished piece. Flora had some elaborate work with her things upstairs, capelets as well as scarves. Some were old-fashioned, but Robin could update the patterns, or use brighter, synthetic colors.
He was not going to attempt to crochet any lacy shawls. He could, but he wasn’t good enough to do it quickly or without paying close attention. And it had been years since he’d tried and he would make mistakes.
Anyway, neither Persephone nor her mother were lacy shawl people.
Or… He hesitated at the thought, looking up to the ceiling as if he could see through it to Flora’s room.
Or, he could simply give them any pieces of Flora’s he thought they would like. Or Marise’s, or Bessie’s, for that matter. Rixon or Connor might like one of the woven scarves from René’s things. René had favored subtle patterns and muted colors.
They’d all done incredible work. People should see it and appreciate it before the fabric eventually fell apart with age.
“Oh.” The soft echo went from table to table, to the sewing machines and unused looms and spinning wheels. “That will hurt. But they’d like that, don’t you think?”
He asked the air, and didn’t realize how tense he’d been for the silence until the workroom door he’d come in swung open a bit wider on its own.
The practical side of Robin, the part his grandfather and oddly, probably Lucas, would approve of, also thought that any unique pieces in good condition were technically vintage Blessing-Redferne originals, and could be sold as such.
Extra income meant more rest for him. His family would like that too.
But it would hurt.
Robin would have stayed there, staring at the floor with stinging eyes, if Flax hadn’t let out a long, grunting croak that was not unlike a comically crude belch.
Robin looked up.
Flax, still on the spinning wheel, hopped up and down, then had to flap his wings to keep his balance.
“It’s no more than you deserve,” Robin told him without sympathy, but tossed his head to push away all of thoughts of selling his family’s personal work for a while longer. “Have you eaten anything?” He considered the raven critically. “Come on, then. I’ll make you an egg.”
Of course, once in the kitchen, Flax at the desk pecking at a poached egg on a small plate, it occurred to Robin that he ought to think about dinner now if he wanted any sort of planned meal for tonight. Leftovers were fine for lunch, but he should set up something else if he could.
He still had the figs, and some artichoke to use. For that, he started some puff pastry then left it to chill. He absently let Flax out the door so Flax could do whatever it was Flax did outside, while Robin’s mind was occupied with cooking plans. Appetizers for dinner was perhaps not the most nutritious, but the puffs took work to make and Robin wanted them. They would do.
Anyway, he’d probably be asleep by nine o’clock. He didn’t need a big dinner.
He wondered when the Greysmiths ate and if Connor was doing the cooking or if Mallory had nudged him out of the kitchen. Maybe they’d have a buffet with everyone in the extended family bringing dishes meant to be eaten all throughout the day and night, sort of like the revels, but friendlier. There would be liquor, certainly. Wine was traditional but other spirits were forever popular at holidays. Mallory would make her cake… several of them, if she was feeding everyone.
Lucas might be drinking, which was an amusing and mesmerizing thought; Lucas full of food and good cheer and some sort of alcohol, surrounded by people who loved him and treated him well. His posture would soften. He might smile more.
It was better that he’d gone. Not that he’d offered to stay. Not that Robin would have considered asking him. Like with everything else, what would Robin have to offer to make Lucas want to be here and not with his loved ones?
Kissing sprang to mind.
Robin stopped in the middle of the kitchen, his face and then the rest of him slowly growing hotter.
“Okay, yes, we could have done some more kissing,” Robin admitted, and then jumped at eruption of sound from both levels of the house, as if several people were stomping their feet and banging on the walls.
“Oh, I see,” he snapped at the ancestors currently creating the ruckus, his hands on his cheeks. “I knew you were pervs. Is that what last night was about?”
He was not going to think about spirits cheering for the partial resolution of Robin’s at least a decade-long romantic drama of pathetic and often-denied yearning. That rough music had not been a protest; that would have been upstairs and loud enough for Robin to hear too. No, that had been a display for Lucas.
Robin crossed his arms. “But I get silence this morning?”
The noise stopped.
