Ye’re just hoping there’ll be a repeat of the last time ye came after hours to use the lathe, eh?
Frowning, Ember tamped down that stupid thought and stepped toward the big front doors. She was not hoping Max would surprise her, kiss her to within an inch of an orgasm, then sneak away, thankyeverramuch. In fact, she’d even walked around the perimeter of the building first to ensure there were no lights on in his office before she decided to use the heavy machinery.
With a grunt, she managed to get the main door open on her own, glad to see Lawrence hadn’t locked it, having known she’d be by that evening. She’d promised to lock up when she was finished, but for now, she had the entire machine shop to herself.
After lighting the gas lamps, she stepped onto the main floor and inhaled deeply. This wasn’t her special place, but she couldn’t deny that the tang of the oil and the big machines reminded her of happier times, back when Papa would bring her here daily to watch the men work. She was happier upstairs in the engraving studio, where the real art—magic—happened, but that couldn’t happen without what went on down here.
Here on the machine floor is where the plaques were pounded and the receivers were poured and the metal is turned. This was where the burly men build the canvases upon which the devoted artists upstairs could work their magic.
And it never failed to lift her spirits.
Alright, lassie. Ye can do this.
She had the metal in her bag which needed to be turned into heels; she had the scraps of silk from the dressmaker’s shop; and she was prepared to make another set of shoes.
She was ready to create a new future, since she’d botched her first choice at a future with Max.
It took her a little while to get going, but soon she was standing over the lathe, wearing the heavy apron father had always insisted on. She didn’t wear gloves of course because they were dangerous when it came to turning metal. But her hands were callused enough it didn’t matter, and she liked being able to really feel the imperfections in what would become a new heel.
This machine was older than some of the ones used in the big factories near Edinburgh, but she liked it didn’t have to run on steam power alone. Standing here, in front of it, felt as if she were transported to a simpler time. The lathe was loud, but it seemed to block out the rest of the world, and that was soothing in a way. She concentrated on her breathing and on the shape of the metal in front of her, and tried to forget how heartsick she was.
It almost worked.
It seemed like, much too soon, the heel was done. She was in such a peaceful state of mind, Ember almost pushed it further, peeling off another few layers of metal just to prolong this escape from reality, but she made herself stop. One day, she’d experiment with thinner heels, but not today.
Besides, women would look ridiculous toddling around on outrageously tiny heels. They’d catch in the cobblestones, and the ladies would be falling over left and right. Not a good look for business, that.
With a sigh, Ember took her foot off the pump and allowed the lathe to spin slower. The tool bit had done all of the work, but as the spindle slowed, she used a lightly held gouge to check for imperfections.
There were none. She sighed. It was perfect.
She wiped the gouge she’d been using against her apron, then flicked off a few remaining metal splinters and patted it against her opposite palm, watching the heel spin to a stop.
There.
Done.
She tried to feel proud, feel fulfilled. She’d taken the first step toward her new future…so why did she feel so hollow inside?
Because it’s not the future ye want. Not anymore.
Behind her, in the empty silence of the machine shop, someone cleared his throat.
It wasn’t a good moment.
Ember jerked, releasing a little scream, then whirled around, the metal gouge held high as a weapon.
Was she planning on stabbing whoever had interrupted her?
Maybe.
Luckily, Max—because it was Max—realized her intent and stumbled backward, away from her, even as her brain was processing who he was and the fact that—aye, overactive self-preservation instinct—he had a right to be there.
“Whoa!” he called out, as if she were a horse. “Easy there, girl. Lass.”
The gouge still held above her head, Ember froze, breathing heavily. “Did ye just call me a lass?”
His hands were up, palms out, as if to protect himself, but he didn’t move. “Um…yes? Is that alright?”
“Do ye talk to yer horses like that?”
“What?” He shook his head. “Ember, you’re not a horse.”
“I ken that. Do ye ken that?” She was making no sense, and knew it, which was even more embarrassing. “Dinnae talk to me as if I’m a horse.”
“Look, Ember, you almost attacked me with a metal stick-tool thing. I just…reacted.”
Slowly, she lowered her arm. “This is a gouge. I use it to check the metal after it’s been turned on the lathe.”
“Well, from here, it looks like a thick blunt instrument you were planning on braining me with.”
“Och, nay.” She rolled her shoulders and pretended nonchalance as she patted the gouge against her opposite palm again. “This is a stabbin’ tool. For stabbin’.”
“Thank you for clarifying,” he intoned somberly. “I feel much safer now.”
Despite the ache in her chest, her smile flashed at his dry wit.
What are ye doing? He broke yer heart, remember?
But…did he? Or did she break her own heart with that stupid misunderstanding?
Her smile faded. “Are ye here working, Mr. DeVille? I hope I didnae disturb ye again.”
When she’d called him by his last name—on purpose—he’d winced, but she thought she saw a flicker of something warm and telling in those pale brown eyes when she’d reminded him of their last encounter here in the machine shop.
“Actually…”
