November 1st, 1891 - Grimstone Residence
Elias Grimstone

Elias was just shrugging on his coat in the hall on his way out, when a knock sounded – and, when he pulled the door open, it wasn’t to anyone he’d been expecting. Well, not expecting today, at any rate – and, although they had been writing still, Elias had begun to suppose that his invitation, meant sincerely, had been left to fall by the wayside for one reason or another. He had been a little disappointed, maybe, but hadn’t been going to hold it against her.

So this was a delightful surprise, and somehow even more welcome than he’d imagined – the bemused smile stretched across his face into genuine warmth at finding Daffodil Potts here at last in person. In one hand, she had a basket of plants – Merlin bless her, she really was going to take him up on the task of planting new things, wasn’t she? – and in the other, more perplexingly, a bouquet of red flowers. No time to question it yet; she might have come by perfectly empty handed and he would have still been as pleased.

“Close enough for me,” Elias agreed, letting all his plans for the day go out the door without regret. “And at least one of us even had the decency to knock,” he joked wryly, thinking of his much less graceful visit to her garden. “So where to, Miss Potts –” he asked, because he couldn’t keep her standing on the top doorstep with all that in her arms (and he certainly hoped she planned to stay for more than a moment), “– inside or out?”

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Elias merely shook his head easily at her first question; he had only been going out for errands, and his errands could certainly wait, and he was sure his smile said at much. In any case, he stepped back to pull the door wider open for her to come up into the house, casually shrugging his coat back off and hanging it back up on the coatstand. Which was about when she handed him the bouquet of flowers.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, eyes widening. Elias had supposed those were for her next delivery today, and she was just stopping by on her way there, not that she had brought them for him. The garden plants made sense, of course, they had talked about that – but these, he thought, burying his face in their fresh scent, were quite the surprise. “Well, thank you,” he said, returning a little laugh at anyone having given him flowers – he fancied Miss Potts was the first, and he felt a little bad for not having anything for her – and grinning still in bemused appreciation, “I’ll have to put them in the workshop, I think, so I get to see enough of them while they’re in full bloom.”

For the moment, though, he led her into the house itself and the much-less-used sitting room, gesturing that she ought to put the basket down anywhere – he wasn’t precious about a little bit of soil on the floor, though he supposed his maid-of-all-work who came in the mornings to do the dusting would have a little more to say on that – before he summoned a few things in from the kitchen, including an empty pitcher to use for a vase. “Though I truly don’t know how I’m going to repay you for any of this,” Elias said eventually, as he set down a plate of tea and biscuits between them, only partially teasing. “You’re very kind.” He did feel a little bad, looking at all she’d brought by just to humour him – that she had even bothered with this, after she hadn’t even been feeling well for so long. Still, he cast her a smile, finally able to survey her a little better once he had stopped pottering about and sat down. She looked well enough now, at least, which was a relief.

---

She had asked about broommaking in their letters, and had even seem interested the first time they’d met, but every time she did Elias was still a little surprised by it. But it was impossible to think it insincere or ascribe it to mere politeness, not when Miss Potts was here right in front of him, tone earnest and eyes alight.

Besides, he talked about broommaking often enough in his life to usually discern between genuine interest and sincere exasperation with him. “What’s there to forgive?” Elias countered pointedly, with a wide smile. “The garden and the workshop it is,” he said, with a wave of his hand to say they could do one and then the other in whichever order she pleased, since they were both adjoined to the house, “– you can putter anywhere you like, Miss Potts. Stay all day.” (He was only half-teasing.) She was a Ravenclaw, then. It made perfect sense.

“Though I was wondering, a little, why anyone who says they haven’t flown since first year could be so interested in brooms.” She’d been doing some reading already, she said, and she seemed eager to take a look around – if it weren’t all curiosity, and she didn’t already have her flowers, he’d have almost thought she were looking for an apprenticeship. “But Ravenclaw – I suppose that explains it.”

---

Promise not to laugh was a rather damning challenge, for once the words were said – and the way she was flushing in premature embarrassment – it was already difficult to keep a straight face.

All the same, Elias tried his level best, but very soon he was – silently – chuckling, his face creased in delight and shoulders hunching from trying to stop himself letting the laugh out. The look, and the downside of an injury, reined him in enough that he would bite his lip to regain his composure, and by the time Miss Potts had finished her story Elias felt sure he was performing an admirable impression of someone entirely sympathetic, and no-more-than-appropriately-amused.

He sighed, though. “Oh, but it’s a pity you still don’t,” he protested – gently, though, with no real force in it. A shame she couldn’t see some of the sights that were best from the air – whether it was other people’s gardens, or things further afield. “There’s just something about seeing the forest canopies from above –” Elias said, moving a hand as if he could describe the landscapes from above, and then he grinned at her, innocently. “Though I suppose upside-down in a tree would be a remarkable view too.”

He raised his hands in hasty surrender to acknowledge that he had had his own fair share of flying mishaps, so could hardly talk. “Still, you ought to have your sister coach you. That is – you are well again, I hope?” Miss Potts hadn’t explained what the matter had been in their letters, but something or other about her health had seemed amiss, and he wasn’t going to joke about overcoming old fears if she already had serious problems on her plate to be getting on with.

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“Perhaps that’s why you never took to flying, if sitting isn’t your cup of tea,” Elias mused, lightly teasing. At any rate – “I’d be glad to,” he said with a smile, to her workshop request. (He fancied neither of them were quite in their element, sitting indoors in company; rather, the workshop was his natural element as much as the garden must be hers. “Follow me.” In any case, he stood up and led her back round to the workshop door the outside way, rather than by the inside stairs – more proper, obviously, but also the better to drop off her basketful of plants in the garden on the way, not far off the pumpkin patch. (Which he could see from the workshop’s back window, as it happened.)

Propping open the front door with a wooden doorstop – Penny wasn’t working today, so all was still and quiet in there – Elias waved her into the workshop ahead of him, the space laid out simply enough to explore without needing a guided tour. A few finished models towards the front, varnished and hung upon hooks on the wall; the workbenches further back, woodworking tools, drawers, stools and stacked pots of varnish, a testing station and another mess of things left out from the last bit of work he’d done this morning. One of the stray cats Penny had forced him to take in would probably slink in sooner or later, now that someone was in. Much as Elias wanted to watch her reaction, there was a hum of self-consciousness in his head at what she would think. He wasn’t certain why it mattered, only – she had sounded so enthusiastic that he hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed in it. (And, well, brooms being his life’s work, people’s judgement did feel a little personal.)

“What do you think?” he asked carefully, glancing over at Miss Potts as he preoccupied himself setting up the pitcher of red carnations she’d brought on the back windowsill, where the faint autumn light spilled onto the worktable beneath it.

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“You don’t have to be delicate with it,” Elias added mildly – and a little belated, having gotten caught up in watching her polite, reserved reverence with something near amusement. (And maybe a little fondness.) But it was only a workshop, after all, where things went wrong twice as often as they went right – and he was a craftsman, not some genius artist or a grand architect. For all intents and purposes, it was an oversized, glorified garden shed in which he did a little woodworking.

But she had paused now, letting her hands drop from where she had been keeping stray strands of hair from falling in her face; she remained where she was, across the room from him. The workshop almost felt like an entirely different place.

“Oh?” Elias echoed at her pronouncement. It felt almost forward to ask it, as if he was fishing for something and not just curious. But he was sure Miss Potts was sincere with most everything she said, and he couldn’t bring himself to mind her wandering through his space, and there was a slow smile creeping in at the corner of his mouth in return, whatever she thought about him. “And what does all this say about me?” (With any luck, not just that he was a haphazard mess.)

---

He ambled back over to her again, on the pretence of seeing which sketch she was looking at; most of his attention, however, was still affixed to her. He tilted his head in confession at the quirk of her brow; grinned at untidiness and intelligence; felt suddenly aware of his hands as he neared her, enough that he picked up a brush and ran his thumb across the bristles of it, a little dried varnish still upon them.

And he didn’t know if he was imagining things where they weren’t, but – although she had likened here to Thistle’s workshop – Elias couldn’t help but feel that there was something of herself in her description, too. Value the small touches, everything in the details, liking to keep busy; he felt more understood in it than he had expected.

“No,” Elias said slowly, once he’d reached her side again. “No, you’re not, I think you have me in one.” He cast her a look – a warm look, because it felt, somehow, like he had known Miss Potts longer and better than he did. She had been kind enough; and it was hard not to feel pleased, for his workshop was the best of him, clearly what he was proudest of. But never mind that – her presence was so airy and bright and natural here that he wished he had some excuse to spin out this moment for a little longer.

“But best judge me on this and not the garden,” he added instead, with a crooked smile. “That still needs a little rescuing.”

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