Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
Aphrodesiac Daughter
Nym Hexel
The workshop always held the quiet of a church in the hours after dusk. The only sounds were the whisper of fine-grit sandpaper on oak and the low hum of the old space heater. Wood dust hung in the air, caught in the dim light of a single bulb swaying gently from its cord. Arthur watched her work.
Willow’s pink head was bent in concentration, her hand moving in slow, steady circles across the chair’s arm. The muscles in her forearm flexed and relaxed with the rhythm. She was good. She had the patience for it, the respect for the grain. He felt a swell of pride, warm and paternal, before it cooled and settled into something else, something that lived in the basement of his heart and watched through the cracks in the floorboards.
“You’re putting a shine on it, not shaping it,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet.
She jumped, a little. He liked that. “Sorry. It just feels so smooth already.”
“It is smooth. You did the work. Now know when to stop.” He moved from his stool, the legs scraping against the concrete floor. He went to the small, cluttered sideboard where an electric kettle sat beside jars of stains and solvents. “Take a break. I made cider.”
“You and your cider.” She smiled, setting the sandpaper down and flexing her fingers. She wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving pale streaks on the denim.
He poured the steaming liquid from a thermos into a chipped ceramic mug. His back was to her. From his pocket, he withdrew a small, dark-glass vial. He uncorked it, tilted it. A single, heavy drop fell into the mug, spreading an almost imperceptible oily sheen across the surface. It smelled of ginger and cloves and something deeper, earthier, a note of rotten honey. He stirred it once with his finger, wiped his finger on his apron.
“Here.” He turned and handed it to her. “Warm you up.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She took it in both hands, bringing it to her face. She inhaled the steam, her eyes closing. She took a long, deep sip. “Mmm. Strong. What’s the secret? Brandy?”
“Something like that,” he murmured, watching her throat work as she swallowed. He returned to his stool, picking up a chisel and a block of cherrywood, but his eyes never left her.
Willow settled onto a low bench, cradling the mug. The initial warmth was lovely, spreading from her belly out to her limbs. She took another drink. Then another. The workshop seemed to soften at the edges, the shadows in the corners deepening, the light around the single bulb growing a hazy, golden halo. The familiar scents of sawdust and beeswax suddenly seemed richer, more potent. She could smell the pine resin in a far corner, the leather of the old apron hanging on a nail, the faint, clean sweat on her own skin.