A Little Night Muse(30)

                “I am not here to claim your human,” she said in the phae’s lyrical tongue. “We have no quarrel, you and                     I.”

                The dog seemed disinclined to believe her and did not move back                     when she approached. But from the other side of the house drifted the smell of                     something meaty, and after one more searching stare, Wolly trotted away.

                Adelyn followed the dog toward the sound of rattling pans in                     the kitchen. There was a woman’s touch on the house, obvious in the                     ruffle-topped gingham curtains framing the windows and the throw pillows that                     matched the couch in the parlor, but no recent sign of a female presence. Hence                     the dust, the towering pile of books on only one side of the couch, and the                     tools scattered on the dining table. Not to mention the pall of loneliness.

                She paused at the dining table to look over belt buckles in                     various stages of creation. The one centered in front of the lone chair had been                     etched and stamped. Empty settings showed where insets of some sort would                     go.

                A dish of stones sat nearby, and she stirred her finger through                     the selection. Nothing precious, just an opal, some chunks of coral and                     turquoise, a handful of tumbled jaspers, but the stones were lovingly polished                     and a pleasure to touch.

                Josh stuck his head through the kitchen doorway. “Ready to                     eat?”

                “I was looking at your art.”

                He ducked his head a little. “Ain’t art.”

                She lifted one eyebrow. “What do you call it?”

                “Messing around.”

                She shook her head. “You put your touch on these. Simple—” He                     snorted and she gave him a hard look. “But strong. Straightforward and true.                     Quite lovely.”

                He straightened. “Definitely not me. Come on in here. We’ll eat                     at the counter where there’s an actual view.”

                She wondered why he was so dismissive of the joy he obviously                     found in and gave to the work. As a musetta, she was                     irked that he would deny himself. She followed him to the small kitchen that                     looked out over a stand of birch trees, banded black and white against the blue                     sky.