Chapter 2 The impossible condition

Miri pov

I took my time gathering my scattered belongings.

I'd been doing this work for nearly a decade, since I was sixteen years old and realised that my knack for seeing heart-threads was more than just a quirky form of intuition. I knew how to handle difficult clients.

Difficult clients, however, were usually nervous brides or overbearing mothers. They were not ancient fae blacksmiths who radiated annoyance like a forge radiated heat.

I stood up, brushed off my skirt, and retrieved Persephone with as much dignity as I could muster. She was, predictably, furious.

The nerve, she seemed to bubble, which might have been my imagination but probably wasn't. The absolute audacity. Did you see his face? Like he'd stepped in something unpleasant. You are not unpleasant. You are a delight.

"I'm fine, thank you for asking," I said to the starter, tucking her gently back into the basket. I looked up—quite far up—at the fae. "You require my services. Lovely. Usually, people begin that conversation with an apology for knocking me over, followed by an introduction, followed by a polite inquiry about my rates and availability. But I'm adaptable. Let's start with your name."

Something flickered in those ember eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or annoyance at being corrected. With the fae, it was hard to tell.

"Roran," he said, after a pause long enough to make his reluctance abundantly clear. "Son of the Iron Court. Master smith of Bramblewood, bound by oath and contract for a term of no less than seven years."

"Well, Roran Son of the Iron Court," I said, "I'm Miri Thistlewick, daughter of absolutely no court whatsoever, and I've been a matchmaker in this village for nine years. I have a perfect record. I charge three silver moons per successful match, payable upon the signing of the marriage contract. I do not work with clients who refuse to meet my candidates, I do not tolerate rudeness to my candidates, and I absolutely do not accept contracts that interfere with my professional judgment. If any of those terms are unacceptable, I recommend the matchmaker in Oakhaven. She's very good with difficult cases."

I smiled. It was my professional smile, the one I'd perfected over years of soothing ruffled feathers and calming territorial mothers-in-law. It said: I am perfectly reasonable, and also completely immovable.

Roran looked at me for a long moment.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't a warm laugh. It was the sound of stones grinding together, of old iron gates swinging open after years of disuse. But it was, unmistakably, a laugh.

"You'll do," he said.

Before I could ask what exactly I'd do for, he turned and began walking toward the smithy, clearly expecting me to follow. I stood there for a moment, torn between professional curiosity and the very strong urge to go home and change out of my damp skirt. Curiosity won. It usually did.

The smithy sat at the edge of the village, where the cobblestones gave way to packed earth and the buildings thinned out to make room for the forge's smoke. It was a solid stone building, older than most of Bramblewood, with a roof that had been patched so many times it looked like a quilt made of shingles. The forge itself burned in the centre of the main room, its glow painting the walls in shifting shades of orange and amber.

And in the corner, chewing on what appeared to be a very unfortunate horseshoe, was a puppy.

"Hello," I breathed, all professional composure momentarily forgotten. "Who is this?"

The puppy looked up. Its fur was the colour of charcoal, its eyes were a luminous amber, and when it wagged its tail, tiny sparks scattered across the stone floor like fireflies.

"That," said Roran, with the long-suffering tone of someone who had explained this many times, "is a hellhound. He is not a pet. He is a working animal. His name is Cinder, he is three months old, and he has already destroyed four aprons, seven pairs of tongs, and a delivery of iron ore that I am still attempting to explain to my supplier."

Cinder, hearing his name, abandoned the horseshoe and bounded over to investigate me. He was approximately the size of a small barrel, with paws that suggested he would one day be approximately the size of a small cart. When he reached me, he sat down with a thump, tilted his head, and let out a small, hopeful sound that was somewhere between a yip and the crackle of a newly lit fire.

"Oh, you absolute menace," I said, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. His fur was warm, almost hot, like a sun-baked stone. "You're magnificent."

Cinder's tail thumped against the floor, sending up another shower of sparks. Roran made a sound that might have been exasperation and might have been something else entirely.

"He likes you," the fae said, and there was a strange note in his voice. Wariness, perhaps. Or resignation. "He doesn't like anyone."

"Well, I'm very likeable," I said, giving Cinder one last scratch before straightening up. "Now. You said you required my services. I assume you're looking for a match, which is, I have to say, somewhat surprising. The fae don't usually bother with mortal matchmakers. Something about our methods being 'quaint' and our understanding of contract law being 'adorably primitive.'"

Roran's jaw tightened. "The fae do not. I do."

"Why?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy as forge smoke. For a long moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he turned away, moving toward the anvil with the deliberate, controlled movements of someone who was used to holding back immense strength.

"I am bound by a promise," he said, his back to me. "A fae promise, sworn on my name and my craft. I must find a mortal wife within three moons. If I fail..." He picked up the ruined horseshoe Cinder had been chewing, turning it over in his hands. The metal glowed faintly where his fingers touched it. "If I fail, the consequences will be significant."

"What kind of consequences?"

"The kind that make a seven-year binding to a village smithy look like a holiday." He set the horseshoe down with more force than necessary. "I cannot speak the details. The promise forbids it. What I can tell you is that I need a wife, I need her quickly, and I have been told—repeatedly, and with an enthusiasm I find somewhat excessive—that you are the only matchmaker in the region who can accomplish the impossible."

I should have said no. I could feel it, that little prickle at the back of my neck that usually meant I was about to step in something complicated. Fae promises were not to be trifled with. Fae clients even less so.

But he'd said impossible. And I had a perfect record to maintain.

"Three moons," I said slowly. "That's tight, but not unreasonable. I'll need to know your preferences—age, temperament, magical affinity if that matters to you, feelings about children, feelings about hellhound puppies who eat shoes—"

"There is one more condition."

Of course there was.

"The promise," Roran said, and now he did turn to face me, his ember eyes burning brighter than before, "includes a binding clause. A protection, if you will. To ensure that the matchmaker—that you—remains focused on the task."

"What kind of clause?"

He met my gaze, and I felt the weight of it like a physical thing, pressing against my chest.

"You must not fall in love with me yourself."

The laugh that burst out of me was entirely genuine and deeply unprofessional. "I'm sorry," I managed, pressing a hand to my chest. "You're worried that I—Miri Thistlewick, professional matchmaker, woman who has successfully ignored the romantic overtures of three separate village bachelors, a visiting duke, and one extremely persistent goose—am going to fall in love with you? The man who knocked me into a puddle and didn't even help me up?"

"I didn't say I was worried," Roran said, and there was something almost like dry humour in his voice. "I said it was a condition."

"Fine. Accepted. I will absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not fall in love with you." I extended my hand, professional smile firmly in place. "Do we shake on it, or does fae contract law require something more elaborate? Blood? Fire? A small symbolic sacrifice?"

He looked at my hand. Then, slowly, he reached out and took it.

His grip was warm—no, hot—and rough with calluses, and something about the contact sent a shiver up my arm that I firmly attributed to the temperature difference.

"Just your word," he said. "That's enough."