“Needs fixing. I’ll take care of it this week for you. I don’t often get to work with metal.”

Her eyes were alight with pleasure at a new task. It was one of her most appealing characteristics. She’d told Madeleine about how overwhelmed she’d been when she’d come to live on land. Every challenge had seemed insurmountable, and there was so much to learn. “But I’ve always been good at doing things,” she’d said casually, “and I like to do them better than anybody else, so I worked it all out.”

Madeleine had thought of how Hæra had felt her up in that alley, which was clearly the first time she’d ever done that. Yes, Hæra could work things out beautifully. The throb of recollection had taken over Madeleine, as it did now, and it was only getting worse…

Or better, that heavy ache, that…

She had to think about something else immediately. Hæra had mentioned working with metal. A memory of Madeleine’s mythological studies surfaced in her mind. She glanced at the front door, which presumably had the same bolts and locks as the back one. The metal was black and thick, rough in places, and rubbed shiny in the spots where people had touched it over the years. “The bolts are iron, aren’t they?” she asked.

“Yes. Well done,” Hæra said, in a way that would have been sarcastic coming from most people. Hæra, however, sounded genuinely pleased that Madeleine could identify a basic material substance. Probably because it had been yet another thing she’d had to learn, herself.

It was kind of adorable, and Madeleine’s chest warmed. She smiled in spite of herself. “I read that iron is dangerous to magical creatures. It hurts you if you touch it. That’s why people used to put horseshoes above their doors, to keep wicked fairies away.”

Hæra frowned at her right palm. Then she sniffed it. “Hmm. Come here.”

Madeleine came here, as if Hæra were a magnet and Madeleine herself an iron filing. Hæra held out her hand, palm forward, in front of Madeleine’s mouth. “Smell that.”

The meaty part of her palm did have a little scrape on it, along with a brown smudge. Madeleine bent her head. The tip of her nose brushed the flesh of Hæra’s palm, warm and roughened with work. It smelled sharp, metallic. A little dirty, but in the honest way of the earth, not of filth.

If she moved her head just a little more, Madeleine could nuzzle that palm with her lips, her whole face. She pressed her lips together against the urge—and the ache that spread through her body—and raised her head. “Smells like iron, all right,” she mumbled.