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“Or you could tell your mother you don’t want to be married,” Aisling cut in.
Brook held up both hands. “I promise, I will after this year. I’ve been avoiding it, but if I can just get back to Emberleigh—I can find something to do with my magic, or any employment, really, and beg off. But while I live under their roof…”
Aisling wrinkled up her nose. “I don’t know that…”
Although.
If Aisling told her family she was engaged to an Emberleigh elf of royal blood, they’d surely be impressed. Not so much by the blood but by the influence and money it could bring—potentially even more than Minala’s family. The idea gave Aisling a little thrill, though she immediately told herself it was petty and beneath her.
She looked Brook up and down. Those long legs in the fine leathers, those pretty hands, those eyes. She was bound to be a distraction anyhow. Might as well be a useful one.
Aisling nodded. “Yes. I agree. If I can tell my family about you, too.”
“Will they come to the dance?”
“They usually do. It’s a good place to find interested investors every year.”
“I’d love to meet them. Charm them, even. Parents love me,” Brook insisted. “And anyone else you want me to meet—anything you want me to do, really.”
“It’s mutually helpful,” Aisling admitted. “Let that be enough.”
“Anything else we do is no obligation, then? Just what we want? For example, another evening of wine and…?”
Aisling couldn’t help smiling. Something deep down inside her warned that this was a bad idea; that she liked Brook far too much to be false or secretive about her; that this would complicate something potentially beautiful.
But Brook made her feel good. Understood, wanted, smart, pretty. And even though it could only last for another week, Aisling wasn’t ready to give it up before then. So she wiped her hands on her apron and held one out to Brook over the counter.
Brook took it, squeezed, and then swept it up to her lips and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”
Aisling doubted that very much.
The day was so busy, with elves coming to and from the games and the business of the marriage pavilion, that Aisling quite lost track of time. In the afternoon, she started on her batch of dough to rise for the next morning and put the rest of her pies for the dinner rush into the oven. Thankfully she had her system down to muscle memory, or her mental distraction might’ve ended up burning more than a few orders. All she could think of was Brook’s odd, almost desperate question:
“Would you ever consent to a fake engagement, Aisling?”
It wasn’t an inconvenient idea in the least. But it settled oddly inside her belly as the day went on, a feeling of uncertainty, of trepidation. Aisling had allowed herself to get carried away by Brook’s practiced flirtation and pretty eyes. Of course, there would be a practical element to anything between them—and why shouldn’t there be? It was only for the rest of the market, anyhow. Aisling would be Brook’s flavor-of-the-summer, and Brook would be a welcome distraction. No denying that Aisling was far less stressed about her oven, her new custard cake recipe, even her family and whatever they were up to since Brook had come around and offered a change of pace.
With all these justifications in mind, Aisling shut down her stall and set up the ingredients to make two batches of cakes for tomorrow.
Brook appeared at the usual hour, but this time she had no bottle of wine. She helped Aisling close up and then said, “I wonder, since you weren’t planning on going to any of the dances, if you might need a gown or suit?”
Aisling flushed. She hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh. The cultural dances are formal, aren’t they?”
“They’re for everyone, though, so only the real stuffy elves get too formal. But if you’re interested in a little finery for the occasion, I know the most wonderful tailor.”
Aisling tried not to agree too quickly. All of her resources went to the bakery and her oven development, and that had gone doubly for her parents when she was growing up. Finery was a rare indulgence. “Oh. Well, I suppose I could…”
Brook shot her a sideways grin, as if she understood. “It’d be cost-free. Rowan is a cousin of some kind or other, and she’s the best at the market.”
“You have a cousin who’s a tailor?”
“Not all royal-blooded elves are wastrels, Ash, I told you.”
Aisling chuckled. “I can afford a little something.”
“Please, let me.” Brook tucked Aisling’s arm into her own, turning down the path toward the clothing and gift stalls. “I’d love to spoil you a little, as hard as you work.”
“You don’t have to.”
