His handwriting was not as graceful as Aunt Mae’s, but it would have to do. He reached for his teacup. It was empty, and he frowned into it. His throat was as dry as the parchment that drank his ink. Sighing, he hefted the teapot, but even that was empty. He stood and stretched, back popping from long hours hunched over the desk. As much as he grumbled about his work, it had allowed them to buy the house on the edge of town. The house had a nice garden, and it was far enough away to be private but also not far enough from town to be a hassle. Kit liked the house, and he liked the house because she liked it. She kept talking about children. He felt his face flush at the thought. He wasn’t even sure if they could have children. One thing at a time. First, they had to be properly married. She didn’t want a ring, of course. She had just about torn his head off at the idea. Foxes don’t wear rings! Foxes are free, and rings are a human sign of possession. Well, he figured a necklace should work.
