He exhaled dramatically and drained his teacup before setting it down. “Well then. You’ll be pleased to know that before I was afflicted with this verbal curse that makes me ever more determined to thwart your plans at every turn, I was investigating resources for the project.”
Mariselle’s interest immediately sharpened. “Oh?”
“I accessed the family vault at Rowanwood House,” he said, voice even lower now. “There’s a reasonable supply of lumyrite crystals that could potentially be used for our restoration efforts.”
“How many?” she asked, leaning forward eagerly.
“Not nearly enough for a complete reconstruction, of course, but I noticed something interesting when we went in search of the dream core. The primary pavilion framework appears to contain most—possibly all—of the original lumyrite. Dulled with age and neglect, yes, but not destroyed.”
“So we may not need to source a large amount?” Her voice lifted with cautious hope.
Evryn gave a noncommittal shrug. “Perhaps none at all. Which, upon further thought, isn’t that surprising. Lumyrite is remarkably resilient, after all. The crystals themselves have remained sound while the metal supports that hold them have collapsed in several places. I think perhaps the lumyrite itself requires reshaping and reconnection rather than wholesale replacement.”
A genuine smile curved Mariselle’s lips. “That would simplify matters considerably.”
“It would still require considerable skill,” Evryn added. “The lumyrite shaping itself is easy enough for me, but repairing the foundational framework that houses the lumyrite presents a more complex challenge. And then there is still the matter of the lumyrite network embedded in the ground beneath the pavilion. We’ve yet to determine whether those underground veins remain intact.”
“All the more reason for us to get started as soon as possible. I propose we meet at the cottage tonight.”
“If you absolutely insist, my most treasured—rutabaga of passion, turnip of desire, your eyes like fire—” He clamped his mouth shut, face reddening once more.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Mariselle said sweetly, just as motion caught her eye beyond Evryn’s shoulder. She looked past him toward the private alcove and saw Iris’s shoulders shaking with what appeared to be suppressed laughter, one hand to her mouth and her quill abandoned, though her notebook still lay open before her.
Panic flooded Mariselle like ice water in her veins. Could Iris possibly have … No, that was silly. She was far too distant from their table to have overheard anything. Even the elderly ladies sitting right beside them had misinterpreted the dreadful lines of poetry as charming declarations of young love, clearly hearing nothing of importance. Reassured, Mariselle reached for her teacup and lifted it to her lips, confident their secret remained secure.
Chapter Fourteen
The moment Evrynstepped up to the front door of Windsong Cottage that night, he felt the headache that had been threatening all day settle firmly behind his eyes. The wretched poetry book’s enchantment had faded somewhat, but still erupted at unpredictable intervals, particularly when his emotions ran high. And high they ran indeed at the prospect of another evening spent indulging Mariselle’s impossible fantasy.
“Each heartbeat croons your name aloud, like a lovesick goat bleating far too pr—stop!” he hissed to himself as he reached for the door. He pushed it open with perhaps more force than necessary, and the sight that greeted him stopped him short.
Mariselle and another young woman—her cousin Petunia, if he recalled correctly—sat cross-legged on the rug in the sitting area, surrounded by a veritable sea of documents. Both had discarded their footwear, and Mariselle had somehow managed to arrange her skirts in a manner that would have caused any etiquette teacher to faint dead away. Evryn was reminded suddenly—and most oddly—of Rosavyn and her complete disregard for decorum and societal expectations.
Neither lady appeared to notice his entrance at first, absorbed as they were in a large architectural diagram of the dream core spread between themlike an intricate map. Mariselle pointed to something while Petunia nodded, her auburn head bent close to her cousin’s.
“… didn’t realize initially that each lumyrite crystal will contain its own individual enchantment. Each will essentially become a separate piece of dream architecture. Collectively, they form the complete dreamscape.”
“I see.” Petunia tilted her head at an angle. “And the etched patterns …”
“For the wards. I must still do extensive reading on that part, as I’ve never?—”
“What,” Evryn interrupted loudly, “is she doing here?”
Both women’s heads snapped up in unison, expressions shifting from startled to defensive in the space of a heartbeat. Petunia straightened, folding her arms across her chest. “Lord Rowanwood,” she said coolly, making no move to rise from her undignified position on the floor. “Late, I see. My cousin did warn me that you have little respect for time.”
“Well, your cousin didnotwarn me that we’d have company this evening,” Evryn countered, turning his pointed gaze on Mariselle as he crossed to the large central table and dropped his riding gloves on the surface. “Is my understanding incorrect that this entire undertaking was meant to remain secret? Or is that requirement only applicable to me?”
“Petunia is entirely trustworthy,” Mariselle replied, turning back to the document. “And more importantly, her magic is essential to Dreamland’s operation.”
“Of course it is,” Evryn muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Another delusional Brightcrest with convenient magical abilities. How fortunate.”
“As if I’m going to leave my dear cousin alone in your presence, Rowanwood,” Petunia said.
“What about me?” Evryn retorted. “You don’t thinkI’mthe one in danger here, forced to endure her company unguarded?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mariselle muttered, casually flicking her hand toward an armchair and sending a small cushion flying across the room at him.
Evryn ducked, narrowly avoiding the projectile. “You see?” he exclaimed. “I’m at risk of bodily harm!” He adopted a dramatically earnest tone. “Please, oh please, Lady Petunia, I implore you to chaperone your lunatic of a cousin every night in order to?—”
