The Forge – Part 2: Quench

"It's not wrong," said Tessa. "It's the right thing, I think."

Noor pulled off her glove. Her bare hand rose to Tessa's face, warm from the fire. The kiss was slow and tasted of woodsmoke and cold apple. Tessa slid her arms around her and laughed softly against her mouth, and the forge's last embers glowed in the dark like a heartbeat.

"I haven't done this in two years," said Noor.

"I haven't done it in three."

"Then we will have to be very patient."

"I'm good at patience." Tessa smiled. "I'm learning to be."

They banked the fire, hung up the tongs and walked up the dark path hand in hand to Noor's farmhouse. The air was sharp with frost, and the stars glittered over the hills. The old kitchen was warm and low, with a woodstove burning and a kettle already steaming. They drank tea at the scarred table, then stood, then kissed again, long and deep, against the door.

"There's a bed upstairs," said Noor. "Under the eaves."

"Show me."

The room was snug and quiet, with a patchwork quilt and a window onto the orchard. They undressed slowly by lamplight, laughing at scorched sleeves and tangled bandanas, and under the quilt their love-making was gentle, thorough and warm, tempered by laughter, with the cold night kept firmly outside. Frost drew feathers on the glass.

In the morning, Tessa came down to find Noor at the kitchen table, hammering a tiny piece of hot iron in the lee of a small portable forge.

"What are you making?"

"A hook for your coat." Noor held it up. It was a tiny, perfect leaf. "So you have somewhere to hang it. When you come back."

Tessa took it, turned it in her palm, felt the warm weight of it.

"I'm not going back," she said.

"Not at all?"

"I'm going to learn to make furniture out of iron." She smiled. "Do you take apprentices?"

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