“So you’re busy, then?” Dad asked—probably to change the subject and keep the peace. Blake was frowning at me. Did he disapprove of my sarcasm? Surely he didn’t think I was serious about taxidermying the zoo’s inhabitants?

“Very busy,” I said. “The cupboard is nearly bare.” I swept my arm in a dramatic half circle to indicate how very large the storage end of the barn was, and then fixed my gaze on the pitifully small pile of finished metalwork in one corner.

“Oh, dear,” Dad said, shaking his head in sympathy.

“And I’m scheduled to do that really big craft show over the Labor Day weekend,” I said. “Only three weeks away. What with all the distractions I’ve had this summer, I haven’t had nearly as much time to work as I thought I would.”

“Hmph!” Blake snorted. “Does young Michael know you consider your wedding and honeymoon distractions?”

I ignored him.

“We won’t bother you, then,” Dad said. “But can we use your shed?”

“Which one?” I asked. “And for what?” The three-acre property Michael and I had bought contained not only an enormous Victorian house and a two-story barn but also a bumper crop of small sheds and outbuildings in various states of disintegration.

“Any one you’re not using,” Dad said. “Don’t you want us to tell you about our project?”

He sounded eager. I suspected the tale would be an interminable one.

“Later,” I said. “Pick a shed as far from the house as possible.” If both Dad and Dr. Blake were involved, they almost certainly wanted the shed for some project related to birds or animals from the small local zoo that Blake had recently bought. “Downwind, if that’s likely to be a problem. And I’m not doing any midnight feedings.”

“Oh, of course not,” Dad said. “Thanks!”

Blake nodded his thanks and dashed off without speaking. Dad lingered.

“Something else?” I asked.

“He doesn’t mean to be insulting,” Dad said.

“No, but he manages it quite brilliantly.”

“It would help if you’d show an interest in some of his projects,” Dad said.

“There’s a difference between showing an interest and letting him take over my life,” I said. “Like those orphaned wolverine cubs he tried to foist off on me.”

“Wolverines are really quite sweet at that age.”

“And require feeding every hour with an eyedropper,” I said. “No thanks. I’m letting you use one of the sheds—try to convince him that’s a sign of profound interest in whatever you two are doing.”

Dad shook his head and followed Dr. Blake.

I picked up the iron rod and stuck it back in the forge.

It had barely begun to redden when my brother Rob ambled into the forge holding a leash.

“Hey, Meg,” he said. “Mind if I borrow Spike?”

“I don’t mind if you take him off our hands permanently,” I said. Technically Spike, an eight-and-a-half-pound furball with delusions of Rottweilerhood, belonged to my mother-in-law, but Michael and I had had custody ever since her allergist recommended a trial separation. We’d grown used to having him around, but I still cherished the forlorn hope that someone else would grow profoundly attached to Spike and insist on adopting him. So far, Rob was the only possible candidate, and Rob wasn’t responsible enough to be trusted with a pet rock.