Chapter 3 The candidate parade

Miri pov

"You are in so much trouble," said Persephone.

I glared at the sourdough starter, which was bubbling contentedly in her ceramic crock on my kitchen table. The morning light filtered through my lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the worn wooden floorboards. I'd been awake since dawn, reviewing my files on every eligible woman in Bramblewood and three surrounding villages.

"I am not in trouble. I am simply facing an unusual professional challenge."

Unusual professional challenge. Persephone's bubbles seemed to arrange themselves into something distinctly sceptical. You shook hands with a fae. You made a promise. Do you know what happens to people who break promises to the fae?

"I'm not going to break the promise. I'm going to find him a wife. It's what I do."

He's handsome.

"He's insufferable."

He's mysterious.

"He's a client."

His eyes do that smouldering thing.

I set down my pen with more force than strictly necessary. "Whose side are you on?"

Persephone, being a sourdough starter, did not have a face with which to convey her opinion. But she managed it anyway.

I had spent the past three days in a flurry of activity. Word had spread, as word always did in Bramblewood, and a steady stream of interested parties had made their way to my cottage door. The fae blacksmith was seeking a wife. The fae blacksmith was mysterious and brooding and, according to the baker's daughter who had glimpsed him through the smithy window, "built like a lumber pile but with better shoulders." The eligible women of the region were, to put it mildly, intrigued.

I had narrowed the candidates down to three.

First, there was Lily Potterson, a cheerful potter with steady hands and a laugh that could charm birds out of trees. She was practical, hardworking, and had mentioned that she'd always found the fae "fascinating, in a theoretical sense." She was also the only woman on my list who had specifically requested a husband who wouldn't "hover." Fae, with their love of bargains and their general emotional reserve, were not known for hovering.

Second, there was Marigold Weaver, a weaver—yes, the name was a coincidence, or perhaps destiny—who had been widowed young and was looking for a second chance at love. She was gentle, patient, and had a gift for calming fractious animals. I'd seen her soothe a spooked horse with nothing more than a quiet word and a hand on its neck. If anyone could handle a hellhound puppy with a taste for ironmongery, it was Marigold.

Third, there was Delphine Ashworth, a newcomer to Bramblewood who had arrived from the northern territories with very little explanation and a great deal of poise. She was elegant, well-spoken, and had a quiet intensity that suggested hidden depths. She was also, according to the brief conversation I'd managed with her in the market, "open to unconventional arrangements."

Three candidates. Three chances to find Roran his wife and preserve my perfect record.

What could possibly go wrong?

---

The first meeting was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, in the village green as was tradition. I'd arranged a small table with tea and biscuits, a vase of late-blooming asters, and careful instructions for both parties. Casual setting. Low pressure. Just two people meeting on a lovely autumn afternoon, with no expectations beyond pleasant conversation.

Lily Potterson arrived precisely on time, wearing a blue dress that matched her eyes and carrying a small pottery vase she'd made as a gesture of goodwill. She was smiling. She was prepared. She was everything a candidate should be.

Roran arrived precisely on time as well, which was the only thing that went right.

Cinder came with him.

"He wouldn't stay at the forge," Roran said, in a tone that suggested he and the hellhound had already had several heated discussions about this. "He chewed through the door."

"I only have the one door," I said faintly, watching as Cinder spotted Lily's vase and bounded toward it with the unbridled enthusiasm of a creature who had never been told no in his life.

"Pretty!" Lily exclaimed, reaching down to pet him. "What a lovely—"

Cinder sneezed.

A small jet of flame shot from his nostrils and set the asters on fire.

---

"I'm so sorry," I said, forty-five minutes later, after the flames had been extinguished, Lily had been escorted home with profuse apologies, and the remains of the tea table had been discreetly removed. "That has never happened before."

"You've never had a client with a hellhound before."

"That's true. I'll speak to Marigold about—"

"She's afraid of iron," Roran interrupted.

I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Marigold Weaver. She's allergic to iron. She breaks out in hives if she touches it. I checked."

"Of course you checked." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "How did you check?"

"I asked around. The same way you asked around about me, I imagine." His expression was unreadable, but there was a glint in his eyes that might have been amusement. "We both have our methods, Matchmaker."

"Fine. Fine. Delphine, then. She's—"

"Delphine Ashworth is an agent of the Winter Court, sent to monitor my binding." His voice was flat now, all trace of humour gone. "She's not interested in marriage. She's interested in making sure I fail."

The silence stretched between us, broken only by Cinder's contented chewing as he worked on what remained of the tea table.

"So," I said finally, "you're telling me that my three carefully selected candidates are, respectively, flammable, allergic, and actively hoping for your downfall."

"That appears to be the situation, yes."

I looked at the fae blacksmith—at the ember eyes and the set jaw and the shoulders that really were rather impressively built—and I felt something twist in my chest that I very firmly identified as professional frustration.

"Right," I said. "New plan."

Because Miri Thistlewick did not lose candidates. Miri Thistlewick did not break her perfect record. And Miri Thistlewick absolutely, categorically, would not fall in love with a client who was rapidly becoming the most infuriating person she had ever met.

Definitely not.