Petunia looked up at him. “We’re taking Dreamland very seriously.”
“Clearly,” he said, voice a little rough. “I cannot wait to see what the wig has to say about my fashion choices.”
“Oh, it loathes your boots,” Petunia informed him. “But it might forgive you if you bow deeply enough and recite a limerick about its tragic past as a garden hedge.”
Mariselle made a strangled noise into her sleeve. She was practically rolling on the floor now.
Evryn tore his gaze away, directing it firmly at the far wall. He cleared his throat and tugged slightly at the collar of his riding gear. Perhaps he ought to have stayed home. Mariselle’s presence was proving far more tempting than he’d anticipated.
Petunia squinted up at him as she lowered the plate of jam tarts to the floor beside her. “What brings you here, Rowanwood? Tired of being adored on all sides, were you? Did you come in search of someone to insult you properly?”
Evryn raised a brow. “Naturally. I knew I could rely on Windsong Cottage for the warmest barbs.”
“We reserve our finest scorn for our favorites.”
“I’m honored, truly.” He cast a glance at the papers, sketches, and half-empty teacups strewn across the floor. “I thought perhaps you might require help. Some charming, insightful genius to lend his talents to the cause.”
Petunia snorted. “Ah, yes, because what this operation truly lacks is ego.”
Mariselle, who had finally stopped laughing, pushed herself upright with a fond shake of her head. “Since you’re here, Rowanwood” —ah, he wasRowanwoodonce again, notEvryn— “you may as well be useful. I believe we need to do some reorganization. We’ve managed to scatter papers and scrolls and diagrams and notebooks everywhere.”
“We thrive in creative catastrophe,” Petunia said breezily, brushing crumbs from her lap. “It’s where all the best ideas live.”
“Well, I can certainly be of assistance,” Evryn said. Especially if it meant unintentionally (intentionally) brushing Mariselle’s hand with his while they accidentally (intentionally) reached for the same book.
“Oh!” Mariselle exclaimed. “We discovered something rather interesting earlier. I accidentally knocked down one of Lady Eugenia’s journals from the top shelf, and while leafing through it before replacing it, I noticed margin notes written in a hand entirely different from her own.”
“Am I supposed to know who Lady Eugenia is?” Evryn enquired.
“Yes!” Mariselle looked faintly annoyed. “I’m quite sure I told you. She was the botanist who lived here before my grandfather ended up with this cottage. But that’s beside the point. The margin notes were written by my grandmother. She signed her initials beneath all of them.”
“Yourgrandmother? Why would she be writing in a botanist’s journal?”
“It seems she took an interest in Lady Eugenia’s research. But again, Evryn, you appear to be missing the point.”
Evrynagain. He was delightfully distracted by this fact. “And the point is …”
“She spent time here. Long enough to peruse the journals. Long enough to take an interest and make notes.”
Evryn frowned. “I suppose thatmightbe considered … interesting.”
“Exactly,” Mariselle said as she turned back to the papers scattered before her and began gathering them. “I intend to ask her about it when I next see her. And the teacups with the names painted on the sides.”
After that, time passed in pleasant disorder. They gathered and stacked books, sorted diagrams, collected the wide variety of self-inking quills that had somehow migrated to the most curious and unlikely corners of the cottage, and debated whether to do anything about the fact that the rug now bore permanent impressions from the patterns on the dream core. And all the while, Evryn did his best to remain within a scandalously close radius of Mariselle—though her cousin, whether by accident or sheer diabolical instinct, had an exasperating knack for inserting herself directly between them at every opportunity.
Eventually, Petunia groaned and flopped back against the edge of the sofa. “Alas,” she said, “I must depart.”
Mariselle looked up from where she was sorting notebooks and documents into two separate piles: those relating to dream architecture and those that involved warding. “Already?”
“I told you about the gossip birds, did I not?” Petunia said, pushing herself up from the floor. “They’ve taken to starting up their nonsense at almost precisely midnight every night. Their squawking wakes half the house, and then Mother storms into my room in a fury and leans out the window to shriek back at them.” She sighed. “It goes without saying that I need to be safely tucked into bed before this pleasant nightly occurrence.”
“Oh, I was hoping to continue working on the wards tonight,” Mariselle said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.
“Lady Petunia can take your carriage now, and I can escort you home later,” Evryn offered smoothly. “If you’d like to stay here longer, that is.”
“The two of you on one pegasus?” Petunia raised an eyebrow. “I think not, Rowanwood.”
Evryn, watching Mariselle from the corner of his eye, noticed the way her eyes widened slightly and her lips pressed together. She bent over her books as though they had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. Ah. She hadn’t told Petunia they’d already shared a saddle.
