Page 99 of Nine-Tenths

"Colin…" When I don't interrupt, she goes on: "You left your token in the kitchen. I polished it for you." She retrieves the pin from the front pocket of her overalls.

My blazer isn’t on the chair, where I left it last night. I wonder if it will reappear in the closet next to all of those new shirts. This is not a habit I want to get into. I don't like the idea of making people clean up after me.

Oh, god, is some poor housekeeper going to have to put away the lube and change the sheets on the bed Dav and I thoroughly befouled?Mortifying.

"You should get a necklace, like me," Martha says, as I'm trying to decide the least stupid place to put the pin on my tee-shirt. She pulls a delicate golden chain out from under her own shirt and shows me the cameo-style pendant adorned with the laurels, rose, maple leaves, and flames. "It was grannie's."

"She's too young to wear it," Sarah says, watching my internal panic rising. "But she saw the necklace in mom’s wedding photos and fell in love."

"And I'm really careful!" Martha says. "Even when I take it outside?"

"Ha! That’s a big fat no." Sarah holds out her hand. Martha sighs, unclasps the necklace, and pools it in her mother's palm.

If Martha is too young, then Nathaniel is, too. But when I glance over, Sarah oh-so-casually lays her right hand on the table, showing off a golden bangle.

A wash of raw dread shivers up my spine. When I look at Dav, his expression is introspective. Is he plotting jewelry for me? He'd mentioned a signet ring. It could easily be a leather cuff. Or a dog collar.

Shit.

Yesterday, I had thought it would be nice, knowing that there’s nothing and no one who could get between Dav and I for the rest of my life. That this was it. Endgame.

But this is the result.

Branded jewelry, and five generations of indentured servitude, casually dressed up like a cute little family having breakfast together. And this wouldbeit—me, Dav, Sarah, the kids, whatever other servants were close enough to us to be afforded this casual relationship—forever.

"Don’t you like porridge?" Martha asks, breaking into my panic. "We made the maple syrup with my class. Did we do it wrong?"

"No, it's fine," I reassure her, and shove a glob in my face.

It'sallfine.

I'll make sure of it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

When the vineyard caretaker Luiz Mendoza calls me "Master Levesque", I just say, "Colin's fine," and remind myself of Rule Four. This isn't exactly the kind of hard work I thought relationships would be, but I’m already in for the pound; might as well be in for the penny.

And Dav, joyful under the August sunshine, he shines like a new penny, too. He watches proudly as Luiz and I chat hectolitres and acreages, aphids and natural pest deterrents, and the virtues of grafting. We yap long enough that Luiz tuts and waggles a finger at Dav.

"Master Tudor, your nose."

"I'm fine," Dav says, childish petulance creeping into his tone. "Dragons don't get skin cancer."

"But a red nose will not be appealing to your young man." He winks at me. "Help me, Mast—Colin. He's a bad influence on the children."

The playful banter is endearing, and puts some of my worries about Dav’s attitude toward the human beings his ‘owns’ to rest. This man, decades his junior, mother-hens Dav. And Dav is okay with it.

"There’s nothing sexy about blisters," I play along.

"Dash it, I'll get the bloody hat!" Dav throws his hands in the air.

He turns toward a chicken coop that's hidden from view of the back patio by the natural rolling curve of the land—nothing in Niagara is everflat—and before he can get a few steps, Luiz adds: "Since you're headed that way, take the feed with you, boss."

Dav spins on his heel, and eyes up a massive sack leaning against the end of a privacy hedge.

"That's too heavy—" I protest.

"Draconic strength," he reminds me, hefting it effortlessly onto his shoulder, and, okay,yes,more of this please.