“That is why I am taking so long,” she explained, her gaze not upon the objects in question, but rather upon Val. “A person only has one wish each year, and it is best to not make it in haste . . . And it is an important year,” she murmured, tacking that latter part on as an afterthought of sorts. When he saw the way her mouth tightened in the corners, and the troubled glint that dimmed the brightness in her eyes, he knew her words were anything but an afterthought.

That the talk of her Season and the future awaiting her haunted this moment.

Val held her eyes with his. “Take your time then, Myrtle,” he said softly, willing her to understand what he was really saying to her in this moment. “You do not rush it.” She deserved to find someone who would treat her like the treasure she was. “And if you don’t,” he murmured, “then eventually you will find”—who—“what you have been searching for.”

Myrtle’s lips trembled, and for a moment he tensed, fearing she was about to cry, and just the thought of it sent a shooting pain straight through his heart.

“Do you think?” she asked, her voice filled with hope the likes of which he couldn’t remember feeling.

“I do.” The lie came easily. She could travel the globe as the brother she spoke of did and never find a mortal man deserving of her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and then sitting more upright on her bench, Myrtle drew a breath in, composing herself. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward and blew out the flames, leaving a cloud of smoke and the tinge of sulfur upon the air, and ultimately snuffing out the intimate moment they’d shared.

For which Val was grateful.

He didn’t want to think about her having her first London Season, or about her having her spirit crushed by the discovery that those men in London were even less than she expected them to be.

Or worse—his thoughts darkened—marrying one of those lesser-than-her men.

“Well?” he growled, his tone sharper than he intended, but as much as he could help it. “Get on with it.”

Myrtle reached over and rapped him lightly on the top of his hand. “Be patient. You can have the first slice,” she said like soothing a child.

Which was undoubtedly how he was acting in that moment. And he was grateful a moment later when she shot a finger up and said, “Plates and forks,” before racing off. For the thought of her marrying and going off to some other household different from this one, away from his, so that he’d never again see her, left him . . . strangely bereft. And it left him wanting to gnash his teeth like an angry dragon eager to burn down the man who came and scooped her up and carried her away.