Violet remembered, after a second, to say, “Your aunt’s journals, yes -- one moment --” but could not recall how to move. The shelves and packages and valentine-cards leaned in avidly, eavesdropping.

Valentine winced again. “I really am sorry about tracking in mud.”

“It’ll dry. Here --” He shook himself into motion. Found the parcel, ready for pick-up, neatly tied: Amelia Argent’s rose varietals were an award-winning legend, and she kept notes so meticulous that Oxford scholars came by, on occasion, to have hushed and serious discussions about cross-breeding and hybridization. “That ought to be enough for the next few months, unless she’s got royal botanists again.”

Valentine’s mouth quirked. “You make them sound like an infestation.”

“A disruption. They wander around looking at flowers in shop windows and end up blocking the lanes.” He decided this was unjust, added, “At least they also buy writing-paper.”

“Writing. Yes.” Valentine gazed at him, as Violet came around the counter. A pillar of tall sunshine, dressed up in unobtrusively expensive dark blue and grey, his eyes held a question, an interest. “I thought someone older owned the stationer’s. Or ... I suppose I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t think about it.”

Violet tried not to feel too small, too plain, too ordinary, under that scrutiny. His own brown hair, brown eyes, not at all sun-kissed winter-pale skin. Shortness. Bits of green and pink pulp under his nails. “You can hardly be expected to know anything about Hartswell.”

“Because I’ve not been here, is that what you mean?”

It was, but Violet felt guilty in the wake of his own irritation. Captain Argent had answered without rancor, with simple understanding: yes, that indeed made sense, of course the village felt so.

He now felt irritated about feeling guilty, which was not at all a pleasant sensation. “You’ve been a bit busy. Commanding a ship in Her Majesty’s Navy and all. We do understand.”

When he held out the parcel, Valentine reached to take it. Their fingers, ungloved, brushed.

The touch was only a touch. Skin to skin. Straightforward. A startlement.

An intimacy. The light chill in Valentine’s hand, from the cold. The long callused strength of those fingers. The sensation skimming along Violet’s own fingers, sensitive after hours spent in water and pulp and vats, because of course that must be it, that must be why the shiver.

Valentine made an abrupt movement, fumbled journals to the other arm, caught Violet’s hand. Made a dismayed sound. “Are you injured? Your fingers --”

Violet, who had not had anyone fuss over him in at least a decade, much less the man he’d not-entirely-decided to dislike, blinked at those wide blue eyes, the sudden concern; and could say nothing.

“This red ...” Valentine cradled Violet’s hand in his. “No, wait, that’s not ...”

“Oh. It’s dye.” He could see why the captain might have thought otherwise; the line did look as if a slice had opened along the side of his index finger. He did not know why Valentine had seemed so worried. “I was working on some valentine-cards, and red is popular. It’ll come off with scrubbing.”

Valentine exhaled. Then seemed to recall that he was still holding Violet’s hand, and let go, hastily. “My apologies. That was ... rather dramatic of me. I’m sorry -- er -- I don’t know your name. Mr Merriman, given the shop sign?”

“I suppose,” Violet said. His hand felt unaccountably abandoned. “The shop was my father’s, first. Though it’s only me, now. Violet Merriman, Hartswell’s stationer, paper-maker, book-binder if it isn’t anything antique or fancy.”

“Some of those journals look decidedly fancy.”

“And you’re Captain Valentine Argent.”

Valentine shifted weight, at that; hesitated. “Just Valentine. Val. To friends. If you’d like.”

“Why on earth do you think we’re -- never mind.” Something about the rank? The name? Some flash of pain, or regret? Something that made Valentine Argent, darling of Hartswell and heir to the Manor, uncomfortable? “Was that parcel all you needed?”

“I thought it was,” Valentine said, “but I’m beginning to think I should need more. Does everyone in Hartswell feel as you do? That I’ve been -- neglectful?”

“Oh. Oh, no -- no, most of the village finds you an object of fascination, I promise!” And now he’d inadvertently laid a hand upon Valentine's arm, amid the protest.

He had not meant to do so, but it’d been an instinct. A gesture. Because something in those sea-dawn eyes had been off-balance, and that’d tipped the world off-balance too, scattering Violet’s assumptions. “You’re beautifully mysterious and charming and rich in prize-money and some sort of national hero after the adventure with the pirates. Everyone’s hoping you’re here to stay, to settle down with a local eligible young lady or gentleman, and of course they’d all be thrilled to have you.”

Valentine’s mouth did the wry pretty sideways quirk again. “Would they?”

“Ask anyone. Well, nearly. Mrs Hunt would prefer you not interfere with her very hopeful plans for her daughter and Squire Randall’s niece, so please don’t flirt with Maria Hunt if you can help it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I have thought of something else I need, though.”

“Oh -- anything for yourself, if you’re staying some time? Writing-journals, papers, cards?” Violet had no idea why his mouth added, “Valentine-cards, perhaps, for the flirtations?”

Valentine sighed. Adjusted the parcel. His hair was so blond, long enough to fall over his coat-collar, quicksilver and moonlight against the frame of the shop and the shelves. “Perhaps I should simply go.”

“No,” Violet managed to say. “My apologies. It was not a good joke. What did you need?”

“I was hoping,” Val suggested, adjusting the parcel again, though it did not appear to be in danger of falling, “that you might be willing to have tea or coffee with me, and tell me more about Hartswell?”