book, paging through the large, worn volume in search of something particular.
“What can you tell me about this?” He showed her the page.
The midwife’s eyes widened only a fraction, but her heart leapt and shuddered in her chest as she studied the diagram. “You are an alchemist,” she murmured.
He chuckled. “Not yet,” he admitted. “But I have done much reading and much studying, and still I seek more. Yours is a world I wish to know. Intimately.” His gray eyes fixed on her. “I would like for you to teach me. You will be paid handsomely, and I assure you, I am a quick study.”
“I should focus on caring for your wife and your child-to-be,” she said, taking a step back. “I don’t know anything about alchemy, my lord; I’m sorry.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” encouraged the duke, still holding the book open. “I’m sure you have much to teach. I am willing to learn. It is a blissful union of opportunities.”
“I thank you for your interest, but I should go,” said the midwife, bobbing a little curtsey and turning for the door.
“Wait, please—”
“Thank you, my lord, but I—”
The midwife heard the shift of the air as something came hurtling toward her. Instinctively, she turned back and brought the staff over her face in an upward slash, as swiftly and effortlessly as if it were a part of her own body. A crack of energy erupted from it and deflected the flying object, shattering it into pieces. The midwife looked down; it had been a teacup. Not a dagger, not an arrow, but a simple china teacup, now broken on the floor. She looked at the duke, who was still holding the book, his eyes bright and fixed rapturously on her staff.
“Just a midwife,” he echoed. “Of course.”
She narrowed her gaze, willing her thundering heart to slow. “I am no alchemist,” she repeated firmly.
“No,” he said, with a smile of something like relief. “But you are much more than a midwife. Please.” He took a step toward her. “Teach me. I want to learn.”
“And if I refuse you?”
His smile did not falter, but his eyes were cold and bright. “I can be very charming. Persuasive, even.”
The midwife did not like those words, but she feared being driven from the city as she had from other cities in the past. She was wary of the look in his eye. “What will the duchess say of someone like me, teaching someone like you?” she asked in a low voice.
The duke gave a boyish shrug. “She is with child. There is only one thing in her mind now, and that is the birth. When the child is born, we will worry what she thinks. For now, we won’t tell her. Do we have a deal?” He extended one hand to her.
“I don’t know much,” protested the midwife meekly one last time.
“Anything at all would be a great help to me,” he assured.
With a slow exhalation, she reluctantly clasped the duke’s hand.
“Excellent. Oh, wonderful. What is your name, midwife?” he asked, beaming as they shook hands.
“Corvina, my lord,” she answered, knowing the cause was lost.
“Please, when we are at our studies, you must call me Dante,” amended the Duke gallantly, letting go of her hand. “So. Corvina, then. I should have guessed. A raven’s name, to match your fine, dark skin.” The duke closed his book thoughtfully and smiled at her as happily as any schoolboy. “And your clever mind, as well. They pick locks, you know—ravens do. And they can use stones to open nuts. Excellent problem solvers. As I hope you shall be to me, Corvina.” He moved around the work table and glanced back at her. “Please, do not look so cornered. I don’t intend to tame a wild thing.” She stared back at him, but his smile was steady. “I simply wish to learn from you as much as you’ll teach me. In friendship and all respect, I assure you.”
The midwife lowered her head. “Of course,” she replied, though she could not quell the uneasiness in her stomach. “In friendship and all respect.”
*